Smart ass Education

I just stumbled upon this site, How to argue for smartasses.

Why oh why did I not know about you years ago? I would have gotten through so many more graduate school parties with considerably more fun and less coke.

Consider this your survival manual. Pure absolute genius.

However, the Marxist has often said this in his own little way, that most people don't really know what they are talking about and you are very smart.

But this I would have shrunk down to wallet size and carried around with me.

Ironically, I actually do know Latin. Honor society even!

Yes, I do deserve it. I just can't fucking afford it.

Women's magazines never cease to amaze me. I read them from time to time, as they are my mindless self indulgence. However, their reports on money in the difficult economy is disheartening and foolish.

I spent a couple of hours on Self magazine's website reading tips for how to get financially fit. Amazing.

"How I Finally Got Control of My Money" is a series of anecdotes from famous women regarding their personal finances.

Really Susan Cheever it wasn't until your 40s that you realized money did not come out of the faucet?

I loved the story about the woman, just letting herself go so she wouldn't be such a tightwad. Her grand total for her "crazy" year? $80,000, including to her defense, food and child care. That is more than twice what I make in a year. But I don't have a child.

So what does this mean? Why are we still encouraged to spend, spend, spend? A recent interior design magazine defending its decision to have a lavish spread on a luxury kitchen. I agree with its point that the magazine went to print after the economic crisis (even though its been pending for years and getting decidedly worse in the upcoming months) but then when answering the question of How can you run a story about a $50,000 kitchen, the response was being in these difficult economic times, you need something nice to cheer you up.

Okay, let's talk about the things I definitely need. I need air. That's free, so even though I live in smog ridden Los Angeles, I'm pretty much guaranteed to get it. I need water; even though my Brita just broke, I'll still drink my SaMo tap. I need food; it got a little lean the last few months, but farmer's markets and Trader Joe's abound. I need shelter; thank you rent control. I need a job because I need money, ostensibly for things I do not need such as a car, but I need transportation, cell phone, bills which I need to pay. I'm willing to say I need health insurance, thankfully I have a policy with my job.

You know, I'm pretty sure that no matter the magnitude of the financial crash, I will never need a $50,000 kitchen. Thank god I crossed that shit off my list. Now I have this extra $50,000 just lying around. Carelessly, I might add. Someone might trip over it.

Hmm, maybe I will use it to make up the difference in pay scale between me and my theoretical male co-worker, or use it to pay for anything medical that my insurance doesn't cover, oh yeah and a designer bag. I'm getting kinda depressed about my financial situation. What I make barely covers my lean expenses, credit card debt, and student loans. Actually, it doesn't cover it at all. I got a third job. Hmm, maybe I do need that $50,000 kitchen.

How is this helping me and the majority of women reading these magazines? Who fucking cares about Chloe? We can't speak French.

http://www.self.com/health/2009/01/financial-guide

Ah fuck it, let's just ban masturbation while we're at it

The single most amazing, multi-cultural experience of my life was going on Semester at Sea. However, it was not for obvious reasons, like going to Cuba, seeing the Taj Mahal, walking the Great Wall, or going on a safari. No. It was because I actually met the most culturally deprived people of my life. I grew up in the NYC metro area and now I live in California, so its safe to say, I have been incubating in an ethnically diverse, liberal place for over twenty years. However, on this voyage I met those people that you have never heard about, but may have some idea that they exist.

I mean, these are the people who vote for W. right? These are the people whose big social hub is church, and not that I am anti-religious, it just so happens that all the religious people I meet seem to have beliefs that exclude everyone else's beliefs. These are the people who have never met a gay man. These are the people who form NBK clubs (Never Been Kissed). These are the people who informed me of a college in Florida where the opposite sex is not allowed to touch each other. These are the people who scare the fuck out of me. Don't they scare the fuck out of you? Aren't you going to go to bed tonight and sleep just a little less with the knowledge that there are grown ass adults in college who make political decisions based on their parents' beliefs and don't get any, I mean, ANY, pootie? Maybe it's correlated. Do liberals really do it better? Or Marxists for that matter?

However, what really floored me was a conversation I had with a couple of these people, and my friend, a gay man who was also Irish-Catholic, Republican, and obviously confused. The topic, one of my faves, masturbation.

Of course, I'm a fan. What's not to love, about self-love? However, one of my fellow shipmates shot it down, citing the following two reasons why: 1. claimed of a sex education class that taught kindergarteners about fisting and 2. reports of a girl in his hometown who masturbated with a knife handle, cutting herself.

Pause for effect.

WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT?!

I swear on a stack of Capital, this is what he said. He went on to say that he agreed with the Clinton administration for firing Surgeon General Joycelyn Elders for her pro-masturbation comments in the context of fighting the AIDS crisis. My friend, confused, agreed with this idiot. Even Ann Landers was pro-masturbation.

It was a rare point in my life that I was rendered speechless.

I'm bringing all this up because of a recent article in Z Magazine entitled "Abstinence-Only Sex Education". I was amazed to read the following: "Robert George, a member of the eminent President's Council on Bioethics, wants laws passed to outlaw masturbation . . ."

Oh Robert George, who are you and why am I not beating you up?

Consider the following:
In a book entitled The Clash of Orthodoxies: Law, Religion and Morality in Crisis, George expresses the sort of views about human sexuality that will keep the money of social conservatives flowing his way. He wrote: "The plain fact is that the genitals of men and women are reproductive organs all of the time -- even during periods of sterility." According to journalist Max Blumenthal, George advocates for state laws that criminalize adultery and fornication. He also calls for a curb on "sexual practices he views as immoral, including oral sex and masturbation (which he calls ‘bad' sex)" (Blumenthal, 2006)
http://www.mediatransparency.org/storyprinterfriendly.php?storyID=142

And there you have it. You just can't rationalize with people who utter nonsense.

Wait . . . so I utter nonsense? Crap!

Revolutionaries need stylists too

I remember listening to the radio and the host was making fun of Fidel Castro, how he always wears his military fatigues. The revolution is over, he quipped. Let's get that man in some Armani suits. I agree. But would Fidel be Fidel without his ever present green uniform?

Then I started thinking, have there ever been any stylish revolutionaries? Che Guevara, Gandhi, Ayatollah Ruhollah, Osama Bin Laden?

Hmm, I'm noticing a theme! I see beards are in! And military jackets! Yes, and draping fabrics, oh yes, revolutionary-chic!

The reason I bring it up is because the Marxist seems to be determined to wear badly fitting clothes, unmatched, threadbare polos and unkempt hair. Most recently, he has decided to grow a mustache. Perhaps I set back the revolution a couple of years by insisting on cutting his hair, plucking his eyebrows and wearing nice clothes. Sorrys.

This just in: poet-dommes stealing ink cartridges all over LA

Your printer is not safe. You are not safe. I will take your ink cartridge.

Marxy just called to ask if I had taken the ink cartridges out of his printer. I didn't, but I was really pissed that I didn't think of that and had done it. Because who would check to see if you actually had ink cartridges until the last minute when the paper was due an hour ago?

But I didn't take the ink. I don't know who did, since I just used that printer.

I did, however, piss in your Johnny Walker red.

Marxist moves out, we argue historical materialism

I'm baffled by the Marxist's inability to take things that are actually his, like his butt plugs and bong, but to instead take things of mine that were purchased before our politically correct partnership commenced such as my red bottle opener.

To be continued . . .

The Marxist to go to London

Ah, hell, I'm jealous. I want to go to London too, but for entirely different reasons.

He's going to the Historical Materialism Annual Conference instead.

Incest is best, put your Marxist to the test

In an earlier post, I mentioned that a couple of people said how much Marxy and I look alike. Isolated incident. (What truly haunts me is the man on Abbot Kinney who said we were old souls who had known each other a long time. I might believe in such things, but I knew he was full of shit. I love him dearly, but I shudder to think we're soulmates. That's too romantic for a Marxist.)

A. and I were often distressed about how our neighbors rarely spoke to us. Sometimes they downright ignored us, like on the single occasion I came home at the same time as the guys who lived downstairs, said, Hey! and was promptly ignored, followed by a quickly shut door.

But you know, they might be rich conservatives or something. Anyway, one day I saw another neighbor walking to his car as well, I said hello (why bother) and he said, Hey! I haven't seen you or your brother in awhile.

Excuse me? He thinks the Marxist is my brother!?

Well, now I can totally understand why my neighbors don't talk to us. Because they think we are incestuously enjoying rent-control right in their very apartment complex! Oh and also, they are all so fucking stupid to think we are related. I'm glad we never conversed.

The Marxist moves up north to discourse, I stay in LA to party

Given the recent amicable divide of our partnership, I suggest to Marxy that he go to Santa Cruz to be with his other revolutionary-heads to discourse and what not. He always laments that people here in general and in his department are not political enough, don't work on important things and are generally uninteresting. I feel his pain. It's so difficult to grow intellectually in one's community if you do not have adequate peers to bounce ideas off. I definitely miss my little poets group, that I'm trying to get back. However, I'm also pursuing different projects at this time. For one, I have been working quite steadily as my career as a pro-Domme and there are a lot of kinky parties to go to. LA is really quite the town for BDSM and the coolest parties I have ever been to in my life. LA parties are of a different order than all other parties, I think. Its for the best anyway. I feel uncomfortable with his friends' discoursing and he feels uncomfortable with my friends beating the crap out of each other.

It was good though.

Marxy and I call it quits

I don't know where it all went wrong. Maybe it was his socialism with capitalistic tendencies, like the Chinese. Maybe it was my refusal to be nice to his political friends who would simultaneously objectify me and ignore me. Whatevs. Bygones.

The Norma Rae of BDSM

Now that I have no regular day job, I've been working more at my night job, however, the night job is run illegally.

I signed an independent contract. My taxes are filed as an independent contractor. Essentially this means that I will not pay taxes when I get paid, but later when I file. According to the IRS: The general rule is that an individual is an independent contractor if you, the person for whom the services are performed, have the right to control or direct only the result of the work and not the means and methods of accomplishing the result.

In terms of my dungeon, here are the answers to the questions the IRS asks to differentiate between independent contractors and employees:

1. Behavioral: Does the company control or have the right to control what the worker does and how the worker does his or her job? YES
2. Financial: Are the business aspects of the worker’s job controlled by the payer? (these include things like how worker is paid, whether expenses are reimbursed, who provides tools/supplies, etc.) YES
3. Type of Relationship: Are there written contracts or employee type benefits (i.e. pension plan, insurance, vacation pay, etc.)? Will the relationship continue and is the work performed a key aspect of the business? YES there are written contracts, no benefits, no the relationship will not continue, and yes the work performed a key aspect of the business.


In other words, I am being treated like an employee, but am supposed to be treated like an independent contractor. Being as such would mean that I could set my own hours, set my own rates, run my own advertisement and work wherever I please. This is not the reality. Oh no. The reality is that I have to work a certain shift, the rates are set by the house, I can run my own advertisement if the contact information is the e-mail address that does not get directly forwarded to me, but rather filtered through the owner and I am not allowed to session outside these walls. It also means I have no health benefits, sick pay or holidays. All my taxes will be taken out at the end. I can, however, deduct almost everything from clothes, make-up, internet, cell phone, office supplies, etc.

Here's the problem. The Marxist wants me to confront my boss about these illegal practices. He wants me to ask why she is treating us this way and wants to demand that she change it. He wants me to unionize the other women I work with to all fight against her illegal and unfair practices.

I try and tell him most of the other women there do not know about this and wouldn't be motivated to do anything about or they do care and they don't want to do anything about it. I don't want to lose the only income I have (besides the dole, hells yes!) and she has fired people over less. I tell him I'm not sure I want to be the Norma Rae of BDSM. She has operated this way for years, everyone in town knows about it and to my knowledge no one has done anything to stop her. Why do I have to be the one? I don't want to make other women lose their jobs.

He counters with, its not just about you and the other women who work there, its also about all the other women who got fired or didn't make as much as they could have or got slammed with taxes because of the way things are run.

I tell him, I'm just not that person. He tells me my inaction will cause him to stop supporting me until I get another day job, which to me sounds very unMarxistlike.

I get canned--the Marxist defends my honor

I got canned on a Wednesday afternoon the day after my birthday.

Amid all the other illegal things my boss does, he hasn't given me a pay stub in months which I need for obvious reasons.

Witness the following exchange:

Dear Boss

Okay, it's just imperative I have them this week so that I can file for unemployment

--Elizabeth


Boss's Response:

Instead of filing for unemployment why don’t you just go find a new job? The pay stubs will arrive tomorrow.


Marxy's Response:

Since the late nineteenth century, workers have agitated for unemployment insurance or better unemployment insurance, and it has been granted to varying degrees across the industrialized world. People who live by wages are usually only able to save enough money for short emergencies or for big purchases, e.g. moving or buying a car. When someone loses his or her job unexpectedly, he or she thus needs to find a new job very quickly. This person might, therefore, be inclined to take the first job that comes along, even if that job is not nearly as good as the lost. With unemployment insurance, workers can take a little time to find a job that is actually commensurate to their experience and capabilities. So it is not only good for the worker, but actually for the economy as a whole, since it allows for proper allocation of labor resources.

That, of course, applies during a time of general economic prosperity. In case you haven't noticed, the economy only barely recovered from the recession of 2001. Work has been harder and harder to find. To cut costs, employers have tended to offer only part-time jobs or jobs with little or no benefits. Good jobs are scarce and competition for them is brutal. That situation is only getting worse as the economy enters a recession, which seems more and more likely after the bursting of the housing bubble. Businesses are rearing up for a long period of slowdown



Is this the writer that will lead a revolution? I'm not sure.

Partners of Academics Don't Write

It’s time to mop the floor. It has been, at least months. We have no bucket and the mop sucks, but I can clean out the garbage can and use that.

He lies on the couch.

I sweep the floor throughout all the rooms from the back of the apartment to the front.

I ask him to get the laundry.

His head hurts.

I mop the wood floors, using what’s left of the cleaning fluid.

He picks up another magazine.

Dust! I need to dust, all the bookshelves are hairy, with cat hair and his intellectual Jew hair, all over his intellectual Marxist books.

He says he needs to bring books back to the library.

I have moved on to cleaning all the glass; all the mirrors, framed pictures, lamps, television.

He remarks how we rarely use the television.

I polish all the wooded furniture and the house smells of almond and lemon.

He falls asleep.

I get the laundry, putting some of it outside to finish drying, clean up dishes from lunch, make the bed and feed the cat.

He is awake.

I am awake.

He is picks up another book to thumb through and asks me if I’m hungry.

I’m not

He is, so he makes some Indian food and announces again he needs to go out and study.

He gets his things together in one small tote slung over a thin, academic shoulder. He turns,

Hey, how come you never write anymore?

Marxists love first class

The Marxist flew back east for a week, and one his favorite things to do, ironically, is to get bumped up to first class. As he says, he has no specific agenda, no deadlines, nothing pressing, so he doesn't mind flying a day later and being able to do so first class and with free ticket vouchers to boot.

Although I have never actually flown with him, he says that he is a terrified mess and apparently takes great liberty with the open bar to assuage his Marxist fears about . . . crashing? I'm not sure. Being scared of flying seems patently absurd to me which would be a definition of a mental disorder. To be fair, I have a fear of traveling myself. I fear that I will lash out at other passengers who apparently have never been on a plane before, have no concept of travel or how to politely interact with others.

He was so tickled by the first class transcontinental flight he scored, he actually took the menu home and posted it on the refrigerator. The Marxist told me for days afterward what he had eaten, meat, which had disgusted me greatly.

When I ask him about how he can justify the joy of being in first-class as a Marxist, when so many others suffer in coach, he pats my head and calls me a silly girl. Elizabeth, a revolution doesn't mean everyone will live the same and equally. It means that everyone will live better. I say, so what you're saying is, there should be a minimum for everyone? (Pat, pat.) No, we should do away with minimums. Marxy, I just don't understand your ways; you are thinking outside the box in a way I cannot comprehend at this time. I will revisit you later.

I rather like this fellow's story about how the better half lives.

The Marxist's favorite color

So it comes upon us that we are at the paint store. Painting one's shared apartment is the two year anniversary of going to Ikea to furnish said shared habitat.

I had been dreaming of muted metallic paint--neutrality with spark, I thought. I had also been researching low or no VOC paint. VOC stands for volatile organic compound which off-gasses from most paint. There are many everyday products that off gas such as plastics, mattresses, press board, pretty much every thing in your house which leads many people to believe that indoor air pollution is worse than outdoor air pollution. I spent hours talking to the Marxist about these things, and though he usually does not listen to my rantings, apparently he became rather convinced that all this was a good idea.

When we go to the paint store, he is not terribly won over by the faint metallic gold paint, especially when we learn that it cannot be made into no-VOC paint. I haggle with the salesperson, an overly made up lady who seems rather unconvinced it is part of her job description to help me, ironically, her name tag reads "Angel." The Marxist amused himself by flipping through the paint cards. I go over to see what he is up to, hardly recognizing him without a book in his Marxist paw. He says, Let's paint the bedroom this color! I look down at the color swatch and see varying shades of lavender.

I can't believe I have made grown men cry and it has come down to this.

We strike a compromise, gold on the bottom and lavender on top. I just cannot stand the white walls anymore. However, Marxy finds out that I ordered paint not in low VOC and gets so upset, he walks home from the paint store in a Marxist huff, leaving me by myself to lug my gold and cream flocked upholstered chair up three flights of stairs. A feat I accomplish, because I am not my father's daughter for nothing.

I spend all weekend painting our room lavender and gold. When it is all done, it looks rather nice. The Marxist comes back from the cafe and comes into our lavender bedroom. He collapses in my chair and smiles in a way I had not seen since his post-surgery opiate induced euphoria. He giggles like a little boy, "I am so happy!" I think he burbles, he continues, "Look how happy this color is! Don't you think that everyone would love this color? Everyone should have this color in their bedroom, it would make them so happy!"

He believes the dollar will fall, the revolution will come and lavender will make everyone feel good.

Graduate student rant

You know I have really tried to make it work with these no-talent ass clowns, but I'm so through with these socially inept gossipy bastards, I need to cleanse. Here are all the characters that have been plaguing my life for the past 3 quarters plus summer:

Neurotica--I really liked you. I thought you were cool and dressed well. I was impressed that you wore make-up. We had a lot of common interests, shopping, shoes, boys. I kinda liked your rocker boyfriend, but then when I found out he didn't like me--I was a little miffed, but whatevs, right? Imagine my surprise when you actually let his scant opinion of me, influence yours! Mind control? I was amazed at your inability to do most normal things, like break up with loser boyfriends and chose advisors that will actually help you. You would obsess over every possible decision and expect my sympathy when your big breasted sister tried to give your her out-grown bras. I mean this is life. Maybe I was too hard on you about trying to break up with this loser, but I got a little worried when you told me you had to sell your clothes to buy food. That loser you live with is a waiter; if he doesn't cover rent, do you think he could at least take the dead food from the kitchen?

Tattoo Jane--I really liked you too. I know you were cool and had a hot, let me say it again, hot, boyfriend. He is Armenian and he is a sexy sexy beast. We went drinking a few times and always to your side of town. You never came to ours. I mean we like your side, but our side has stuff going on too. My bf thought your tattoos were cool, but you told him you always kept them covered because you didn't want people in the academic community to judge you. Um, what? You had two full sleeves. Who were you kidding? If you didn't want people to judge you for not having tattoos, then why did you get them? And also, if you plan on having a career in academia, do you really think it is realistic to cover your arms for the rest of your life? But even this didn't bother me. It was the fact that you never came to my side of town always on the excuse of needing to see "Jimmy." I think I called you up and said I haven't seen you in months, come to this art show and your response was "I'm hanging out with Jimmy . . . I haven't seen him in like a week." I've never met him. If "Jimmy" was code for your boyfriend's penis, I would have been more understanding. I would definitely want to hang out with Jimmy. There was no reason we could not all hang out with Jimmy together. I would even buy him a drink.

Jersey--Being from Jersey also, I thought we would understand each other and we did, but something about you was really off. I couldn't quite put my finger on it, but felt I was vindicated after you broke up with your girlfriend in Russia (everyone raise your hand who didn't see that coming) and started nailing undergrads. Not that I wouldn't want to nail undergrads. Actually, I wouldn't, they're slightly more stupid and more insidious than grad students.

X--You were so well connected and depressed it was like hanging out with any of my ex-boyfriends. You were also an ex-graduate student, or not really on the attendance list as it were. I tried to help you out of your depression by calling you to come out or over for dinner made to your dietary specifications. I even offered to put you on my health insurance so you could get your meds and then maybe you would stop being so depressed and finish your paper for that class you took like three years ago. It all came crumbling down when I told you that you had no chance with my best friend. And what you were surprised by this information? Dude, you have no job, you are overweight, you are generally cranky, you dropped out of school, you live alone in an apt. with no furniture, your parents support you and you are bald. The latter is not so much a deal breaker, it's just another obvious reason why you have no chance. Also you are 37 and you have nothing to show for it.



Tee-toller--I never had any specific problems with you, not that I ever really want to hang out with you, but you always seem to be around. It's just that you can't hold your liquor for shit and it's not that I have to drink to go out, but you seem to have to, but you can't. I'm really in awe at your inability to hold your liquor. You take one drink and you're three sheets to the wind. If you wanna drink, do it home alone where I don't have to spend my evening making sure some assmunch doesn't date rape you; if you wanna come out with me, don't drink.

Mr. Boring--You were pretty nice to me, but I was also pretty amazed that you managed to tell me a 20 minute long story about your bike skidding to a stop. I was so amazed at your boringness and the fact that you would stare at my chest the whole time. I think my breasts are pretty cute, but let's face it, when I wear a low cut shirt, I'm revealing more of a flat expanse of chest and not cleavage. Maybe you think my flat expanse is sexy. I just wish you would touch my boobs then, or not look at them. At least coping a feel would have been interesting. I was also amazed at how boring your friends were. They were actually watching Howard Zinn read on C-SPAN 2. Then they talked about the other night when they all got reaaaaaaaaaaalllllllllllyyyyyyyyyy wasted. Really? Like didn't anything cool happen? No? Nothing funny? Did someone piss on your couch? Did you all have an orgy? Did you play Truth or Dare? Did you do anything other than drink?!?!?! Then who the fuck cares and why are you still talking about it three days later.

The Dreamer--I get it, you are so not together and can be funny and cute and you're really working that well. It's like, Hmm, I don't know , should I go to class or pick flowers? You are such a free spirit. It's not like you haven't planned out your life from jr. high or talk to your mother every night. Oh look your mom is calling you now. She wants to know how the towels she bought you are working out. Your bathroom was delish, so very zen like.

Anyway, I could go on, but these are the main culprits that annoyed me. Fuck grad students, I'm hanging out with Dommes instead.

Stages of Graduate School Parties

Stage One:
Get awesomely dressed up, listen to Blondie on the way, make a stunning entrance--everyone turns, stares and ignores you. You spend the rest of the evening next to the vegetable dip not speaking to the 40something first year student. You get moderately drunk and notice with moderate awe that you are the only female to be wearing make-up. At the end, you severely judge everyone left as they launch into play by plays of apparently every show of the Fall season including Next Top Model and Project Runway. You haven't had cable in five years.

Stage Two:
Get somewhat dressed up, listen to the radio on the way, make an entrance and proceed to get as drunk as possible. Attempt conversation. You get stuck by the chips and talk to a stiff girl from the Midwest and talk about beer. You run away and find no one else to talk to and try to coax the cat out from under a bed or out from a closet. You're not exactly sure of its location.

Stage Three:
Get really drunk before you go, complain on the way there how much you hate these parties, enter and promptly find the guacamole where you proceed to drink even more. Still finding no one to talk to you, you wander the fruit garden and admire the lemon, guava and avocado trees and long for a garden of your own. You are shit faced. You are a 12 on the Richter scale of drunk, light and lines cease to make sense. Nothing is blurry, but everything is tilted. You find out that some graduate students are engaged in a marriage secret to the female's parents. You drunkenly bellow, C'mere! I want to have a talking to you and straighten this thing out. Now, what in tarnation is going on here? Are you getting any money out of this? Isn't she going to have to tell her parents eventually? Are you in a functionally gay relationship? Every few seconds mutter, that is some bullshit. Punch the Marxist in the arm and say, you better never do that to me even if I am a shiksa! In some small, not yet drunk part of your mind, you realize, you must leave before causing a serious problem.

Stage Four
Get dressed in a skirt because you got killer legs anyway, listen to M.I.A. on the way there because she's really rad, enter, and do blow in the bathroom on someone's iPhone. Attempt to engage in conversation. Again. Again. Nustle up by the Marxist as he is surrounded by The Intellectual, and The Older Poet. Frown. Crinkle brow. Leave to find The Younger Poet who ignores you, trying to pick up a fairly attractive blonde who is not receptive to his no skills mac. Decide to leave because its all boring and wander around the neighborhood until the Marxist finds you and coaxes you back inside telling you what he always tells you, the conversation he was having could have only been had by a select few people in the world and he was it, and if other people are having a conversation, just jump in and ask them to explain what the hell they are talking about, and usually they don't know. Decide you are fucked up enough to call up the girl who annoyed you at the last party, tell her she's an asshole, do more blow, then fall asleep on the couch until its time to leave.


Stage Five:
Get really pissed that you are no longer allowed at graduate school parties and the Marxist is going without you.

Defending Dirty Dancing to a Dirty Marxist

We were in a cafe of course and somehow got onto the topic of John Swayze. Look, I don't care what you think, Marxy, but Dirty Dancing was a great movie. A. laments, why does every girl I date love that movie and want to watch it with me?

And so I began into a rather long rant of why Dirty Dancing is an outstanding movie and why a Marxist like him should take note of the class struggle in a Catskill mountain resort in the 60s.

Before I begin, I should note that having watched this movie almost every week when I was a child, I could recite it line by line and once even owned the soundtrack--both soundtracks.

The movie couldn't be set up more perfectly than it's opening line, a line that should be remembered like Tolstoy's: "That was the summer of 1963 - when everybody called me Baby, and it didn't occur to me to mind. That was before President Kennedy was shot, before the Beatles came, when I couldn't wait to join the Peace Corps, and I thought I'd never find a guy as great as my dad. That was the summer we went to Kellerman's."

It was the summer before rebellion, before a modern age that presidents could be shot on television, before rock'n'roll, before a nice upper-middle class girl could think of anything better to help the world than joining the Peace Corps and when she is still in love with her father.

Enter an upper-middle class family; dad is a doctor, mom is a housewife; older sister is smart and younger sister is pretty. Frances or "Baby" is concerned with underdeveloped nations and wants to help the world by going into the Peace Corps. Lisa is concerned with finding her beige iridescent lipstick. Both fall prey to various matchmaking schemes by both family and owner of resort; Baby to the grandson of the owner, Neil, a pompous, ineffectual nerd and Robby a waiter saving money to go to med school. Both recognized as stellar choices; both total boneheads, but Robby proves to be a real bastard, impregnating the star dancer and leaving her high and dry.


Enter "bad boy" Johnny, who doesn't seem to really have any vices other than wearing tank tops and pants, perpetually in black throughout the film. There is some hint that he was involved with the "bungalow bunnies" in past seasons and the owner tells him to keep his hands off. Penny, the star dancer gets preggers by Robby and ends up tragically not being in the big show.

I think this movie appeals to women for a few different reasons. First, good ole sibling rivalry. Baby and Lisa enter their summer as virgins and sisters who don't particularly like each other. They constantly bicker is safe, 60s appropriate banter: "Butt out, Baby" "Oh Lisa's going to decorate [the world]."

But the main reason, is that the quintessential smart girl gets the bad boy. However, it is also a movie about deceiving appearances. Baby turns out to be a very sexy, rebellious woman and Johnny isn't the bad ass that everyone wants him to be--he tries to help Penny when she becomes pregnant and offers what little is left of his salary to cover her illegal abortion. Later he tries to thank Baby's father for what he did for Penny and tell him that Baby is a wonderful woman who turned out just the way he wanted. It should also be noted that he does not tell him that Robbie is the one who actually got Penny pregnant. You get the feeling that Baby doesn't lead a particularly rebellious life--she never lies to her parents, she's going to college etc. Baby sees no other way to save this young girl's life other than ask her father for money for an illegal abortion, then when it becomes botched she goes to her father in the middle of night for his assistance to save Penny's life and knowing he would not alert the authorities. All the dance kids stand around while Penny is bleeding not being able to call for a doctor. They all have slightly numb expressions, like this is just the way it is. Johnny attempts a whole-hearted thanks to the doctor, who brushes him off, wrongly thinking that he was the one who impregnated this poor butchered girl. The father forbids Baby to have anything to so with those people again.

But Baby isn't in the corner yet. She goes to Johnny's studio to unpack the night's events. First Johnny is distinctly embarrassed by the small, dirty space he inhabits and tries to clean it up saying, sorry, I'm sure you have a better room. Baby replies, louder than she has to, "No, it's a great room." Then, they have a discussion about what each one thinks about the other. She attempts to apologize for her father's behavior. Johnny knows what she is talking about, but is a gentlemen, and says, No, the way he was with Penny was great. (For all his inconsistencies, he does have a great bedside manner.) But Baby insists, "No, the way he was with you." Again, Johnny brushes it off saying, "No, I mean the way he saved her. I mean, I... I could never do anything like that. That was somethin'. The reason people treat me like I'm nothin' is 'cause I'm nothin'.
Baby reacts: "You, you're everything!"
"I never met someone like you, someone's lost, you find them, someone's bleeding--" "Yeah I go get my Daddy, that's really brave. Like you said."
"That took a lot of guts to go to him. You are not scared of anything."
"Me? I'm scared of everything. I'm scared of what I saw, I'm scared of what I did, of who I am, and most of all I'm scared of walking out of this room and never feeling the rest of my whole life the way I feel when I'm with you."

Both these underdog characters fall in love with each other not because of they mythologized personalities but because of who they really are; Johnny is not the rebellious bad ass nor is Baby the scared little girl who listens to Mommy and Daddy. They both have a hard time coming to terms about who they really are; Johnny thinks that he is pathetic because he couldn't do anything to help Penny and was helpless until Baby came on vacation. Baby thinks she's still Daddy's girl because she repeatedly went to him for help.

Why the Marxist should like this movie is because of the obvious class struggle in this often made fun of chronicle of Catskills resort life. It is the family's first real vacation in years pointing to the doctor's hard work building his practice and clientèle. The owner greets the family, "If it weren't for this man, I would be standing here dead." The family looks somewhat proud and used to hearing such comments.

Johnny challenges Robbie, "just lay your pickle on everybody's plate college boy and leave the hard stuff to me." He says this already knowing that Robbie got Penny pregnant, however, the audience does not. We are led to think that he implies Robbie is just a pretty play boy who dicks around, but Johnny is the real panther in the sack. Later, this would mean that Robbie sleeps around, but the "hard stuff" is helping a woman fixing the problem of an unwanted pregnancy in 1960s. It is also a pretty witty line, and all Robbie can talk about is lame ass novels like Fountainhead.

While it is pretty obvious that most of the dancers come to their profession by lack of other options we only find out about Penny and Johnny. When Baby compliments Penny on her dancing, she brushes her aside, "Well, my mother kicked me out when I was sixteen and I've been dancing every since. It's all I ever wanted to do anyway." No, there was no college for Penny, it doesn't even appear she graduated from high school. This was the only thing she ever wanted to do because no other options presented themselves. Johnny tells a story of sitting in a cafe and someone comes in and offers a chance to become a dance instructor. He says "we were all sittin' around doing nothing" meaning they were all unemployed with no other options.

Johnny talks about his desire to do something else, but he wants to get into a union. He tells Baby his father called and Uncle Paulie can finally get him into a union. Baby is hopeful, "Well, what Union?"
"House painters Union 115 at your service," Johnny says with disgust. He has no real clear objective of what he wants to do with his life; he knows he does not want to be a dancer, but he also years for something more than being a house painter. Both jobs are for uneducated labor; the waitering jobs are for guys like Robbie. The owner goes to Harvard and Yale to find them; the dancers come from broken homes in lower socioeconomic divisions.

Finally, Baby has a showdown with her father, calling him on all his hypocritical bullshit. When Johnny gets accused of stealing, Baby knows it wasn't him because she spent the night with him. Unable to bear the thought of her lover being charged with a crime he didn't commit and getting fired, she tells the resort owner and her family over breakfast that she was sleeping with Johnny that night. That took some balls in 1963. Later Baby's father refuses to talk to her because she went against his wishes; she continued to see Johnny after her father forbade it and confessed to having premarital sex. Baby confronts him, telling him, "You told me you wanted me to help people, but you meant by being like you. I'm not proud of myself, but I'm part of this family and you can't keep shutting me out." She finally realizes her father's hypocrisy; that it wasn't enough that she helped a young girl's life from being over by obtaining her an illegal, albeit almost completely botched abortion, but also saved Johnny from being criminalized. (Incidentally her mentioning of seeing the Schumachers with several wallets alerts the staff to the real culprits; another deceiving appearance: Silvia and Sydney a nice little old couple who made a fortune stealing wallets in several states.) Baby also acknowledges that blood is thicker than water; she is not proud on herself that she lied to her family and embarrassed them over some bagels, but she never regrets her actions. She tells her father, "I'm sorry I let you down, Daddy, but you let me down too."

And now, as per usual, it's time for the Jew card. Baby Houseman, Robbie Gould, Max Kellerman, Silvia and Sydney Schumacher, Vivian and Moe Pressman, all the guests and owners are Jewish. This goes totally unmentioned in the film, accept for the mention of their last names. Now, let's go back to what should be the most quoted line of the movie: "You just lay your pickle on every body's plate college boy and leave the hard stuff to me."

The stocks are falling! The stocks are falling!

Ever since we got together, he's been telling me that the US economy is screwed, we'll all be in the toilet in a matter of years and this economic turmoil is the perfect breeding ground for revolution. To such musings, I usually reply, "You know, that new skirt I bought will go really well with my hot pink shirt."

However, more than usual, he has been giving me evidence of his musings. The housing bubble popped, rents are coming down, the dollar is falling, all his friends in the financial world pulled their money out of the US markets and continue sending their sons to Princeton for free, his cronies are flapping their arms all about, watching markets in China expand and likely kick our ass in more than just the near future 2008 Olympics, it seems like yesterday I was in Beijing fending off cheaply made hats with insignia stiched in colorful, albeit misshapen rings--but I digress.

I am no ostrich, but when he goes on these rants, I ask him to translate it into terms of student loans, i.e. will I have to pay those fuckers? Luckily he tells me no, the dollar will drop so low that it will make the actual amount of my loans low as well. He said that it is better to be a debtor when the economy falls, which incidentally is also good news for my father and every other person I know.

Point being, every time he logs into Facebook, therein lies more information about the failing economy, descending line graphs give him wood, he practically jacks off the Economist. Oh my Marxist Little, running around university, squacking, the stocks are falling! the stocks are falling!

Style Guide: Do I look like a Marxist?

In the last two weeks, two totally unrelated people have said that the Marxist and I look alike--so much alike that we could be related. The first was a slightly drunk girl at an art gallery opening, and the second a psychic guide type on Abbot Kinney on Venice. The latter revised his statement saying that we were old souls and had we have been together for a long time, that is, in the eternal plane. I certainly do not feel this way about the Marxist.

We begin deciphering our looks. We are both tall, slender, dark haired bespectacled bookish types. However, the Marxist, a gypsy Jew is much hairier than I am with much darker hair. I certainly can't stand when he wears blazers at the same time I wear blazers and he has been known to borrow my t-shirts.

In a parking lot, he concludes that he clearly hails from an upper-class Jewish society in Westchester, New York while I come from white trash in South Jersey. I then remind him he was born in Jersey.