People, Places & Things

EFAYW: Embarrassing Fact About Yourself Wednesday

Wed, 05 Aug 2009 14:59:00 -0400

By Danielle Berg

EFAYW is cross-posted from my personal blog. (Almost) every Wednesday, I tell a story about something very embarrassing that I’ve done recently, or not so recently. Because I’m extremely unphotogenic, I prefer to post a story than a gratuitous photo of mysef, as many tumblrers do on Wendesdays. If you want to contribute your own EFAYW, send us an email: slowcenturymag@gmail.com. It would be nice to know I’m not alone in the making-a-fool-of-myself department.

In the summer of 2005, I received a letter with my college roommate-to-be’s name: Elizabeth Smith*. Because the University of Maryland paired roommates up by scholastic intelligence (we were both in the Scholors program) and focus (along with your major, you had to pick a focus; ours was Media & Society), I expected to have a lot in common with Elizabeth.

Quick aside - lest you think I’m bragging by pointing out that I was in the Scholars program, please note that this was only a step above regular. After Scholars there was Honors, and after that, Gemstone. Scholars kids, from what I remembered, were chosen for their “personality.” Gemstone kids were geniouses, and lived together near the dining hall. So when you saw people walk in and out of the building, you were able to say, “Yup, that kid’s a genious.” This system really took the guess work out of figuring out how much smarter people were than you.

In the middle of the day, I called Elizabeth. Her voice was high and soft. She reminded me of an old friend who spoke in whispers, and I liked Elizabeth right away. We were both journalism majors, both grew up in the suburbs (she in Maryland, me in Long Island) and had lots of things to talk about.

At some point in the conversation, Liz brought up a recent shopping trip. “I just got a pair of Tims I’ve been wanting to buy for the longest time. I’m in love,” she said. “Tims?” I asked. “Yeah, Timberlands. You like them?” “Oh…well,” I explained, “I think they’re alright. But where I live, we don’t wear them. I guess over here they’re for black people or something.”

It’s important to note that I grew up in a mostly white suburb, and that I was an ignorant moron. “We don’t wear them.” Jesus.

Elizabeth was quiet, for a little too long. “Liz, what…uh…nationality are you?” I asked. “Oh, I’m black,” she said. We were going to have an awful time. She was going to hate me and we’d be those roommates who never talk to each other, who complain to their friends about each other - for which she already had plenty of fodder: “My roommate’s a racist.”

“Well, I’m mixed,” she went on. “I’m black, Irish, Mexican and Native American.” At this, she still claims to this day that my reply was, “Oh, so you’ve got, like, a permanent tan. Cool.” But I’m pretty sure I wouldn’t have said something that ignorant.

We met in late August, as we moved in our things, and she quickly forgave me. She also played a large role in turning a sheltered Long Islander who called all Asian people Chinese into a fairly cultured individual.

I only stayed there, in Maryland, for a semester. I changed my major to psychology after my journalism professor told me I’d have to wake up each morning an hour early to read the paper cover to cover. Both of these things may have been huge mistakes, but there’s another embarrassing story behind that, which I’ll save for another day. Elizabeth and I had plenty of roommate issues during those four months, but me being a goddamn ignorant moron wasn’t one of them.

*Not her name. Although, if anyone’s identity should be protected in this story, it’s mine. What a freaking idiot.

"Much, Much More Than a Flea Market"

Wed, 29 Jul 2009 12:06:00 -0400

by Danielle Berg

Photo via fleabythesea.com.

This is cross-posted from my blog, old dan yeller. “The other night” was about three weeks ago, just so you know. I’ll be cross-posting a couple more posts, for now, just to get this site rolling a bit.

The other night, my boyfriend Matt, my friends Becky and Josh, and I went to a Brooklyn Cyclones game. Since I work two stops from Coney Island, I got there before them, and spent some time walking through the park. I’d been to the boardwalk, and to Surf Ave., but never in between.

Joe Sitt, the developer who bought up most of the central amusement area of Coney Island, belongs to the Syrian-Jewish community of New York (and New Jersey). Which means, in Syrian-Jewish tradition, he likely has handfuls of cousins with the same name, as first children are named for their paternal grandparents, second children are named for their maternal grandparents (unless they’re a different sex, in which case they’ll be named for the other paternal grandparent), and after that - I don’t know, I suppose they get creative. I wonder, as I walk past booths manned by teenagers and 40-year-olds joined together by their bright T-shirts and booming voices, whether any of the other Joe Sitts resent the bad rap of their cousin, the Joe Sitt; or whether, perhaps they are proud. Or whether, simply, they feel like the unimportant twin, leaving their slightly smaller houses, parked on the only lot they own.

After the game, we got some Nathan’s fries and walked to the beach. On the way, we passed the empty tents of the Flea by the Sea. Signs along the fence read, “Flea by the Sea: Much, Much More Than a Flea Market.” I stopped, and read it again. My first thought: That reads like a subhead you’d read in the magazine I work for. We’re very literal. Well, it looks like something I’d write for my magazine, which contains no masthead, no name to prove I work there, and no obligation, then, to attempt creativity. It’s awful. And probably the worst tag line I’ve ever read. My second thought: How is it more - nay, much, much more - than a flea market? Is it also an upscale bar/restaurant? A portal to another dimension? A strip joint? No, I’m pretty sure it’s just a flea market.

I wonder who the guy is that wrote that. Maybe Joe Sitt was doing his cousin, Joe Sitt, a favor by giving him some work. But if he paid someone to write that - and the copy on the website, “The treasure’s here, but it ain’t buried, honey” - he could have paid me to do a much better job. A much, much better job.

Detailed reviews of the flea market can be read here and here.

Why I Think Pot Should Still Be Illegal

Tue, 21 Apr 2009 10:14:00 -0400

By Adam Hunter

[Editor’s note: This came into my inbox post-email-checking hours, so it’s a day late.]

Yoooo, duuuude. It’s four-twenty, man. Fore-twen-tee. 420!!! Haha. You guys know what I’m talking about. Well, maybe not you losers. You don’t know what I’m talking about. Or maybe you think you know what I’m talking about, but what I’m talking about isn’t what you think I’m talking about. Even though I’m not actually talking, I’m writing. But you cool people know what I’m talkin about. What was I talking about?

Oh yeah. 420. Gathering together a few of your best buds, putting on some Phish, kickin back and chillin until someone says “I really feel like some White Castle,” and you say, “Yeah man, me too,” and then you drive there and it takes for-evvv-ver but then you eat some chicken rings dipped in honey mustard and you’re like, “Dude, who ever came up with a chicken ring?” And your friend is like, yo, “Check it, I can blow a smoke ring through a chicken ring!” And you’re like, “Awesome!”

Ah yes. 420. Like Christmas in April, except you burn trees instead of decorating them. And instead of Santa Claus, there’s Seth Rogen. He doesn’t come down your chimney, he smokes like one. Trust me, those jokes are wayyy funny if you’re high.

But some people want to spend 420 gettin all protesty. Seems they want 420 to be less about a secret club of burners gettin high, and more about petitioning the Federal government to legalize Mary Jane. What a buzzkill.

Why you all out protestin? Come on man. It’s 420. Spark it up. If you get busted by the cops, it’s because you’re being stupid. You stanked up your entire apartment building, and the neighbors called the cops? That’s your bad dude. Not everyone likes the smell of weed. If it was legal, you’d still be an asshole for making poor old Miss McGillicutty wear a clothespin on her nose.

You got busted while hotboxing on the Garden State Parkway? That’s your bad, dude. Fumbling with a lighter while doing 65 MPH? If pot was legal, you’d still be an idiot for driving while intoxicated.

You got busted while burning at a concert? Dude, cigarettes are banned at most concerts and public gatherings now. And there’s some 8 year old with their dad sitting next to you. If weed was legal, you’d still be an asshole for blowing smoke all over people who may not want it.

You think legalized weed would be a free-for-all fun-happy-land with weed at every corner drugstore? Guess what? The government would tax the shit the same as cigarettes, you’d probably be paying just as much as you do now. Grow a plant in your backyard? You could, but when was the last time you grew anything? What are you, Farmer John? You got a degree in botany? Face it dude, you killed that cactus your girlfriend bought you. You’d still be buying from other people.

We live in a country that’s slowly pushed cigarette smokers to the outside of everything. Legalized weed would put you right next to them. And you’d still be reprimanded for being high at work, high at your sister’s piano recital, high at school. Just because it’s legal doesn’t mean everyone’s gonna suddenly be okay with you ripping into a bag of Doritos, babbling about the hidden message in the Lord of the Rings movie and falling asleep at your desk. They’ll still think you’re an idiot.

Sure, there would never be a situation where you couldn’t get pot. But think about it. That means no more road trips to your friend at college in Vermont because it seems the whole Northeast has suddenly gone dry. No more of those moments when you’re meeting two guys from the Bronx at the rest stop on the New Jersey Turnpike, just because your local boys fell through. No more searching for that one nugget you swore you dropped somewhere behind your dresser two years ago. No more being that kid who shows up to the party, and makes a dozen friends just by uttering those four magic words, “Yo, I got some.”

Instead, you’ll have Edwin Schrint, band geek, showing up behind the Denny’s with a pack of Marlboro Ultra Danks, forcing you to find a new hangout spot to avoid him.

When the person who handed you your first joint said, “Everybody’s doing it,” they didn’t mean “Everybody.” They meant, “Everybody cool, everybody adventurous. Everybody fun and unconventional. Everybody interesting and daring.” They didn’t mean Mrs. Bitterman, the teacher who gave you an F for not showing the work on your math test.

Keep the potheads out of jail. Fine. But don’t suddenly say, “Pot is legal,” and open the door to everyone not cool enough to figure out how to smoke, discreetly and privately. Don’t take away the rituals (Febreeze, a wet towel, Pure Citrus Air Freshener) and the secrets that make burning such a unique bonding experience. And in a country where smoking-related illness costs millions of dollars, and millions of lives a year, don’t suddenly send the message, “Smoking is Ok because its legal.” Why open that can of worms?

I’ve been around enough people who smoke to know that there are some people who just shouldn’t smoke. Make it legal, and some of these space cases just may float out of the universe entirely.

So reduce the penalties if you want. Get rid of jail time. But don’t take away the one thing that makes pot cool. That’s just not… cool, man.