My Borders Story

As soon as I got my work permit eight years ago, I went to Borders and asked for a job, because I thought it would be cool, and I thought I was cool, which made it a good fit.

So I came in with a friend, and a dude gave me an application, and I filled it up on the spot, still standing, because I was so excited, and I handed him the application, and that was it. I was very pleased with myself.

So pleased and so certain I got the job, that I wanted to celebrate in the Borders Cafe.

My friend was first. She ordered a latte.

The cafe girl put some coffee, added hot milk, put some puffy shit on top, and gave my friend her latte.

I was next. I ordered a cappuccino.

The cafe girl put some coffee, added a tiny bit of hot milk, and filled the rest of the cup with the puffy shit.

Now I was grabbing the cup and realizing I had a tiny little teaspoon of cappuccino in a large cup, so I said, "Hmm..."

And she said, "That's the way you make cappuccino."

And I said, "But there's nothing there."

And she said, "That's real cappuccino."

And the fucker behind me in line said to the cafe girl, "People don't know what real cappuccino looks like anymore."

And I didn't want to create a scene because I just applied to work there, but I also didn't want to spend $4 on a teaspoon of coffee and a bunch of fluff on top, even if it was sprinkled with chocolate powder. So my friend made a suggestion: Just get Cafe Girl to add some hot milk.

But Cafe Girl said, "Then that won't be a cappuccino--it will be latte."

So I said, "Okay, so I want a latte. It's the same price. Can't you just add some hot milk to my cup and call it a latte?"

And she said, "It doesn't work like that."

So she gave me a Borders Return Slip, where I had to put my name, address, and phone number. She then started looking through the trash because she threw away my credit card receipt, and she couldn't give me the refund without the receipt. And she couldn't find it just by sifting through the trash, so she emptied the trash can on the counter behind her and started looking through that mess until she found my receipt. So I signed the Return Slip, and I signed the Credit Card Refund Slip, and I bought a latte.

So now she took my cappuccino, and she opened the top, and she put the cup against the machine, and she pressed a button, and hot milk came out and filled my cup. Remember how Moses hit the rock with his magic stick to get the water out in the desert? Something like that.

And that's my Borders story.

Wait, there's a punchline.

I got a phone call later that day, telling me they read my application, and the only open position they had was in the cafe. I said I'd call them back.

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But just in case this story was a bit disappointing and you feel you've invested too much time for a story that ends with a cafe girl pushing a button, here's a book-related issue:

I read a review on Harper's about a book by Clare Pettitt, and all I could think was, "Really? Think she's compensating for something? Clare, no matter how many T's you've got in your name, you'll never have a penis."

Sometimes I wonder how normal people look at things.

Wait! You're telling me his middle name is Hussein? What Have We Done? (and other inauguration thougts)

Here I was, thinking I could make it through the whole thing without crying like a little girl lost in the forest, and suddenly Aretha Franklin comes on...

To everyone on TV who thought it was unseemly to boo Former President George W. Bush, let me just say, first of all, there's nothing in the world that could give me more pleasure than to write the words "Former President George W. Bush." Maybe writing these words while eating a Neapolitan Blue Bunny ice cream sandwich could be better. And secondly, Former President Bush, goodbye. And don't let the shoes hit you on your way out.

If I hear one more version of "At Last"...

I made quiche today for the first time. It is a new day.

And as it is a new day, I'm ditching my Michelle Kosinski fetish in favor of Ana Marie Cox. It's not you, Michelle, it's America.

Chris Matthews is insane. You heard it here first.

Yo Yo Ma in Hebrew means A Hooker's Infected Piercing. Fact.

Skip the poetry next time, people.

I lied about Yo Yo Ma.

Really? Eagle Nose Eric Cantor had to ruin everything? What a douchebag.

If I wanted to, I could have made a lot of jokes about Inaugural Balls. Like how David Gregory said the balls were beautiful. But I'm not going to, because we're in a recession.

Are we still in a recession, though? We are? Obama sucks! He's probably going to blame it on the other guy, Former President George W. Bush. I'm going downstairs to get an ice cream sandwich. And here we are, in heaven.

Okay. You want the truth? I still can't believe it. I still can't believe he's gone. Can't believe things are about to change. It's overwhelming, you know? I don't know what else to say. Obama is telling me to hope, so I hope.

Oh, and Congratulations, Everyone.

More Adventures in Toddlerhood

Thirteen months.

He's got a few teeth coming, and he makes a few steps when he feels like it, and he's really good looking, which brings honor to his family, and earlier today he was taking a nap next to me and all of a sudden, in his sleep, he said, "Baba," which made me cry a little.

The other day we watched Sesame Street. I realized who the big yellow bird looked like: Mrs. Madrigal from Tales of the City! Come on, don't tell me you don't see that!


We also watched Bob the Builder. Okay, I watched that one by myself. If you don't know anything about it, it's a show about a construction worker who talks to his tractor. There's a guy with a pumpkin stuck on his head, who talks with a Cockney accent. And there's a lesbian who lives in a tent. I think. And when they build stuff they shout, "Yes, We Can," because did you really expect a domestic terrorist pal around-er to come up with an original slogan?


We went to a public library in Baltimore County (I know... the sacrifices I make...), where they have this place you can run around

and go on a boat ride

and listen to stories

and press buttons
and pick bananas

and hug other babies.
You see this cute little number below? His mother used his name in every sentence. Is that what normal parents do?

What? You really want to experience a part of my day? Imagine yourself sitting in a kitchen. Behind you is the dryer. Second load. MSNBC is in the living room, because what if there's breaking news? And between you and the TV is a little baby that talks a lot. Make yourselves comfortable.

Context

Just to stay on the subject because the war/operation continues and because I have things on my mind. I'll get back to posting baby toddler videos soon, I promise.

I found the picture below and I just saw two dead men, probably about my age. And because I was born with a functioning heart, I felt bad. Then I read the caption, and I took another look at the picture, and automatically I thought, "They got what they deserved."

How quickly we turn from empathy to apathy. Even glee.

And I'm sorry for putting up this horrible picture. But after you look or turn away from this image, realize that when we talk about war or operations or whatever they decide to call this thing, we're talking about people with dislocated limbs and burned faces. We're talking about the horror we ignore when instead we deal with who's right and who's wrong.

Our stupid opinions.

And we can see dead bodies and say, "They had it coming," but that's just our all too human brain shielding our souls from the horror of this picture, stopping us from seeing the horrors of our own inaction. How easy it is, when given a comfortable context, to know horror exists and simply not care.

I'm just dealing with my own demons here. Don't worry about it. And as promised...

Next time on this corner of the internet, a video of a cute and innocent baby who really tries to talk and understand the world. A baby who will one day see this picture and ask me to explain.

Confused and All

I wouldn't have used the word Confused in the title of this blog if I were certain about things. This whole situation is confusing. I can ignore it to a point, take the easy way out and express limited outrage, then go about my day. But that wouldn't be fair. Now, I'm not under any illusion that what I say matters to anyone but myself, but for the sake of my own soul, my own cherished principals and moral world view, isn't it time I wrote about the war in Israel and in Gaza?

But it's complicated. Even using the term War means I'm taking a side. Because how can it be called a war when one side loses hundreds of people and the other loses four? How can it be called a war when one side has incredible missiles shooting off fighter jets while the other side shoots primitive rockets?

And ignoring terminology, how do I feel about it? Truth is I hear about the Hamas leader killed by Israeli missiles, and I can't feel sorry for him, because he called for suicide attacks on Israelis.

But what does that mean?

I pride myself on being a pacifist, and not just a pacifist, but an informed one, because I was in the Israeli military for three years and have earned the right to lose faith in the military and in the Israeli government. I saw death and destruction and people losing the best years of their lives for goals that could have been achieved with diplomacy years earlier. Israeli soldiers died in Lebanon for no reason. Israeli soldiers died in the West Bank and in Gaza to stop Hamas, only to watch it from a distance gain even more power when American citizens elected an idiot who insisted on Palestinian elections when conditions on the ground favored a hard-line, anti-Israeli government. And I watched strike and retaliatory strike, where civilians on both sides died in the streets and in their homes for no reason.

But I hear about the Hamas leader, and I hope he rots in hell, because my cherished pacifism can take a break for a while. And I hear about this guy's wives who died with him in the attack, and I think, Well, they knew what they were getting into. And I hear about his dead children, and I think, Isn't that a shame... Isn't war a horrible thing...

And I realize--I'm not really a pacifist. Just another fraud who had been led to believe that some people need to die, and some people don't, but die anyway, because that's the way the world is.

More to the point, because I might as well get there. I don't believe the Israeli government cares about its soldiers. I don't believe the Israeli government cares that my 7-year-old niece's school bus takes an alternative route to avoid Hamas rockets. I don't believe the Israeli government cares that the traumas of Israeli children mean another generation of hopeless dreams of peace.

Because we do this shit in Israel when we're in kindergarten. We sing songs of peace and wave the flags of all nations, and smile because we believe in our tiny selves. But we grow up to a situation that makes us think the outcome is out of our hands.

And don't get me wrong. I put more emphasis on criticizing Israel but--and I'll avoid the who's more wrong here--the world will be a better place when Hamas dismantles and its leaders descend into the hell kept for those who sacrifice the lives of the helpless among them.

And I wanted to get to the point, but now it seems like I'll just continue going in circles.

Because there's so much there.

Sure, it's tragic to see Gaza destroyed and people lying in pools of blood. But it's tragic to see Israelis die, and the difference shouldn't be about the numbers of casualties.

It's tragic to imagine my niece even thinking about the possibility of a fucking rockets hitting her school bus, but it's also tragic to imagine a generation after generation of Palestinian kids who are born to little hope and grow up to none.

And the most fucked up thing about it is that even if I manage the impossible task of being objective about it all, if on the one hand I see the that pain of four Israeli families is just as horrible as that of four hundred Palestinian families, because numbers are meaningless when you mourn a loved one; and if I see on the other hand that my niece's trauma is just as tragic as that of a Palestinian girl born into an endless war, and if I see all of these children, Israeli and Palestinian children who think their generations will fix it all, only to grow up realizing they're all just meaningless pawns in God's joke... Well, even if I see all that I still know nothing.

There's a war going on. Or maybe there isn't.

People die. Some of them deserve it. Or maybe they don't.

There will be peace in our lifetime. Or maybe there won't.