Well, this morning, in between Emails from my mother imploring me to apply for better paying jobs (thanks Patti!), I received some follow-up hate mail from aforesaid hater, who I shall call Himmelfarb.  Given my newfound proclivity for engaging in screaming matches, I took this as a welcome opportunity to flex my admittedly awkward verbal attack muscles.  So I wrote back to Himmelfarb and we bickered, and it was beautiful.  Below is our exchange.  Happy Monday!

To the death, Himmelfarb

It is not A.hate mail B. A complicated riddle that will solve the world’s problem ,it is merely a series of jokes I find funny , Miss Post.Harvard.edu and p.s. lose the bow .

From: Me

To: Himmelfarb

Oooh, a little slow on the uptake, Himmelfarb. But then you seem a little slow all around–not to mention bitter. Instead of obsessing over me, you should probably go get yourself a writing tutor (someone to coach you on grammar, punctuation, and spelling). I’d help you out myself except I charge $225 an hour and make a point of not hanging out with assholes.

Xoxo

Sent from my Halefone

From: Me

OOPS! YOU HAVE ENGAGED WITH KATHLEEN HALE PAST YOUR “FIRST FIVE MINUTES FREE.” TO CONTINUE WITH YOUR CONVERSATION, PLEASE INSERT $20 INTO YOUR COMPUTER

This is Iris Greene (no you cannot see her face)

Kathleen Hale (KH): What do you think makes you a good stripper—aside from the fact that you are very attractive?  (Note to readers: Iris Greene is very attractive.)

Iris Greene (IG): I think I’m quite adept at asking questions to keep my customers talking.  I don’t think people ask them a lot of questions.  Clients need to vent most of the time.

KH: What’s the saddest story you’ve heard at work?

IG: This guy came in.  He was 21 and was in a wheelchair.  He couldn’t talk or really move his head.  His dad had brought him in.  He said he needed some fun..

KH: Do you have to pay taxes as a stripper?

IG: I’m supposed to.  (Laughs) It’s very…I can’t talk…like about…it that much.  You know because I’m not American.

KH: Is stripping dangerous?  I feel like that’s a common perception.  Along with the whole exploitation thing.

IG: As far as I can tell, the girls who work with me are there because they want to be, and because they need the money.  In terms of safety, what’s important to me is to know all the security guards by their first names.  And to be really nice with them. And to make sure nothing bad ever happens to me.

KH: What’s the most you’ve made in a week?

IG: 4 or 5 thousand dollars.

KH: Jesus.  What about the least?

IG: The least? Oh, negative. I lost two dollars once.

KH: How?

IG: You know how hair dressers rent chairs in a salons?  Well it’s the same at strip clubs.  You show up and you give the club $100.  It’s $20 a dance, so it takes 5 dances to pay back…then it’s $20 to DJ,  $10 to the house, $20 for taxi, so my overhead every night is $150.  So that night I made $148 including tips and whatever, and my overhead is $150, so I went home with less money than I showed up with.

KH: Can you tell me about secret stripper perfume?  That probably sounds crazy.  But I’ve only been to a strip club once, and the guy next to me got a lap dance, and the girl who was dancing on him smelled…so good.  Like, really good.  Like, this (KH smiles like baby with gas).

IG: The girl you’re talking about was probably ovulating.  When you’re ovulating you can make more money.  Like as a lesbian, I know this.  Like girls smell way sexier and hotter.

KH: Do you use a special perfume when you’re not ovulating?

IG:  Meh.  I used to put a lot of effort into my makeup regime, but a lot of the clubs in New York are so dark, like you can’t even see. Like you can’t even see anything. A lot of girls spray tan, so that they show up better in the dark, I don’t.  Like I said, smell is important, and I think spray tans smell like easy bake oven.

KH: You wrote a little bit about your beautification process after being on vacation for a while.  What’s the most important thing for a stripper aesthetically, like on a regular basis.

IG: You gotta be ready to put a little bit of concealer on your ass.  Butt pimples look like STDs.

KH:  (Laughs).  What’s the most common response when someone finds out you’re a stripper?

IG: Women tell me, “I always wanted to be a stripper.”  Like a lot—to the extent that I tend to be very private about what I do, because I don’t want some conversation I have to be the basis—or even part of the basis—for some girl becoming a stripper.

It’s not because I don’t want to be a stripper, or because I don’t think other people should be strippers, but I have a very unique approach to stripping.  I’m a lesbian for one thing, so the stuff with men, it’s never confusing for me.  It’s never painful.  I don’t get caught up, emotionally.  Some of the girls get attached or even kiss their clients, but my feelings never get hurt.  I can’t be responsible, even a little bit, for someone else choosing this vocation.  And I don’t want anyone’s boyfriend coming after me because his girlfriend talked to me once and decided she wanted my job.

Read more about Iris Greene’s adventures here.

I had my first physical therapy session yesterday, where, in addition to making me hold ridiculous poses and having me rate my subsequent “sensation” on a scale of 0-10, my hyperactive rehab specialist, Elaine, provided me with this incredibly helpful diagram, based on my body’s unique needs:

Totally Unhelpful.

What I can glean according to the above guide is that step 1 involves putting a circle into my ass, just behind the metal rod, but below the belt, until enough time has passed and I can fill up “Ziplock times 2.” To me, the copious X’s reveal her willingness to kiss me. Notice how she also drew an ear.

Don’t get me wrong: I’ve committed myself fully to Elaine and am totally going to see her again, twice a week, for as long as it takes. At this point, given the fact that carpal tunnel surgery is not available for people under the age of 45 (THAT’S RIGHT I’M BRIGHT EYED AND BUSHY FACED, BITCHES), I’m sort of desperate for any kind of cure, no matter how much it resembles those TV sports commentators doing Tic-Tac-Toe’s and arrows all over a frozen play-by-play.   Sure, I’m slightly uneasy about a follow-up, especially as I have a tendency to pick out spookily slapdash doctors—like the time I went to go and get my teeth cleaned by this guy—but still, I’m hoping the next appointment is more informative.

In the meantime, while I am trying to better emulate the red-eared nudist in the above diagram, my coworkers have come up with various poses that I tend to assume and should here-on-in avoid. Behold. Learn something.

"The Backhanded 'Finger Her' Method." My favorite tactic for getting momentary bursts of attention from my office mates. A warning to copycats: while it might elicit the occasional charitable giggle or 'deeply disappointed' glance from your coworkers, BFHM should nevertheless be avoided at all costs, as it puts undue strain on the delicate carpal region.

"The Rage N' Hammer." The pros and cons are obvious. RNH is a great way to blow off steam, but tends to pinch your armpits, screwing up what Elaine might call "the delicate highway system of your body." Ultimately a popular yet dangerous approach that can break your leg or even your computer.

"The Show Off." How many times have I done this just to get an interested glance by that handsome man in the background? Too many. And it's why I suffer so.

"Unladylike No. 169." Learn from my mistakes, people; according to Elaine, this is what might be funking up my ulna region. It sucks how, after getting comfortable in a range of poses such as this one, it's hard to remember what it even means to sit appropriately in a skirt. My vice-boss, Adam, has started encouraging me with, 'Get your foot off the table, Hale. And for God's sake cover up those loafy thighs.' Good to remember, also, that the lady sitting next to you (see photo) might be unduly conservative and carrying a Remember Miss Manners! Rifle in her purse. ZAMMO!

Speaking of your subway system: it hasn’t always been easy.  Trying to get anywhere here sometimes feels like trying to push a rusty shopping cart with one funky wheel up a mountain while being pursued by snakes; it’s a frenzied claustrophobic feeling that makes you want to scream and hit things with sticks—especially on the R-train, a behemoth that rumbles along so jankily that four miles takes an hour and you’re perpetually falling over into some old woman’s lap.  But I’m starting to get used to it.  And after having visited The High Line and the polar bears, living in Queens and then Brooklyn, I think it’s time to talk more about my feelings toward you.

This isn’t exactly a love letter, believe me.

***

What is it about New York that makes you want to scream at people?  I have always been impatient and impulsive and a little bit crazy, but, until now, I have never shuffled behind people on a subway platform and started screaming in my head because they’re slower than me. Who knew that I was capable of ire like this—that so much temper could sit coiled in one tiny hurt locker?

Before moving here, I was effusive and sensitive, a walking fear grin.  I’d visit New York and see Midwestern tourists (MY BRETHREN!) and think, “THIS PLACE IS AWESOME RIGHT (albeit a little bit dirty)??  I’M SO GLAD YOU’RE ENJOYING THE STREET MUSICIANS—WOW YEAH THAT $20 CHARCOAL PORTRAIT LOOKS JUST LIKE YOU!”  Nowadays I watch them block approaching subway doors and feel even more claustrophobic than when I was stuck behind them on the stairs—because I know they’ll just giggle or stand there confused with their backpacks on backward until some skinny bitch with a dog on her arm tries to get off the train and sends them scattering with, “YO FATSOS, FUCKING MOVE.”

Out here, no one stops for anything.  The other day I saw an SUV almost slam a bicyclist—and when the cyclist gave a  palms out “WTF?” gesture , the driver screamed out the window to get the fuck out of her way because she was taking her daughter to acting class.  On the same day, I saw somebody walking while dressing a wound.

In New York, every single person is that person, who, after a four-hour-or-some bus ride—at the first faraway sighting of the final destination—stands with his or her back bent underneath those overhead jets, bags clutched, prepared to jump into the aisle so that they might get off the bus one second sooner.

***

In Wisconsin, no one honks their horn, not even in traffic, not ever—civility is mandatory, even in subzero weather—a fact of life that did not exactly prepare me for my first real New York City confrontation.

It happened in the checkout line at K-Mart. Things had started off nicely enough with Gloria, the cashier—by which I mean I approached her with a typically forced and probably obnoxious (but at that point, knee jerk) Midwestern mojo: “I finally got a place!” I blurted to her, gesturing at the sheets and pillows on the conveyor belt, folding my exhausted face into a big, fake smile.

Gloria didn’t care.  She squinted at me, then started yelling about not pressing enter on the credit card slide thing before she told me to.  When I said it was not my fault, she called me a moron. I demanded to see her manager, and while other customers stood in line looking angry or bored, or embarrassed for me, she and I stomped over to her superior.  “Her highness is having a tantrum,” Gloria mumbled as we walked.  “Nice fake teeth,” I blurted.  I don’t know why I said this, as Gloria had nice teeth, but she quickly shot back, “Nice fake tits.”  I stood there for a moment, shocked, looking down at my egg-sized bosoms, feeling vaguely delighted.

***

Between the shouting there’s crying.  The New York Street Cry is apparently something people know about. Maybe there’s just never enough space at home—with all the roommates and  Ikea furniture—to get a proper wail in.

I indulged in a few street cries my first month here.  When my boyfriend was still considering moving to Qatar instead of to New York, I staggered into Union Square and spent $90 on beauty projects and then walked around bawling my eyes out, smelling like a perfume called “Lust.”

Midwestern tourists stopped and clucked softly at me, eyes agape—and at first I thought it was some kind of inherent ESP bond based on shared homelands.  But then I remembered that I was basically naked that day, wearing shorts that looked like black underpants and a crop top, and big sunglasses—“Lolita-esque,” said the friend who eventually rescued me. Given my sometimes prepubescent-looking body, these tourists probably thought that I was a child prostitute.

***

Don’t get me wrong—I’m as infatuated with this place in the same clichéd way of any twenty-something, though not necessarily in the clichéd way of poems and literature that try to tote the “bright lights big city” as something romantic; I love New York like you love an interesting or provocative friend who isn’t necessarily very nice and desperately needs to shower.  Ultimately, it isn’t the bright lights that get to me.  But I like how sometimes when the train whizzes by, garbage on the tracks catches fire.

And maybe, in a way, I like what New York is doing to me.  Because before settling in here, I could be passive to the point of infuriating.  Back when I first lived here, I remember walking through Chinatown to get a “manicure five dollar,” and when the manicurist asked me if I wanted my fingernails “rounded” or “square,” I responded unhelpfully, but earnestly, “WHATEVER’S EASIEST!”

At least now I know how to say what I want.  Whether it’s a free drink because the busboy threw away my meal before I was finished, or for someone to “go straight to hell” because they nearly football-tackled me trying to get off the train.

I guess in the end there’s something sort of great about fighting and weeping with strangers. Maybe there’s something romantic, even, about being on the warpath.  Because in New York, screaming in someone’s face can be a form of much needed connectivity—a release from the scuttling of crowds.

It’s like with Gloria and me: we raised our voices and said mean things; her voice wavered and my pulse raced.  And even though in the moment I couldn’t shake the embarrassed feeling of being one of those awful and entitled customers, in retrospect I think we probably both really needed someone to yell at.  My only regret is that we didn’t end the sparring session by crying together—our bodies coming together in a warm embrace as  K-Mart customers stumbled by unfeelingly.

***

My boyfriend lived in Minnesota for a while and says that Midwestern niceties are more fake, and that New York kindness, when it appears, is more sincere.  I think that out here, you’re just so hungry for what you can get that when you do get it, you’re that much more grateful.  And because of that there is something more beautiful about New York kindness, when it does appear.  With so many reference points for coldness, suspicion, and rage, simple niceties feel profound and charged with kinship.

Like, the other day I sat next to this woman, who warned me about rapists in the area and told me how, when her kids were younger and she had more energy, she’d sew them little pants.  And even though we eventually ran out of things to talk about—because it was the R train, which, as I’ve insinuated, shuffles along at the pace of a blind woolly mammoth—it was nice.  Or rather, she was nice, and because of that, I thought about her all day.

There’s other things I like: like those homeless women who are always yelling at my boyfriend for no reason to appreciate me more.  I like those crazy homeless women.

I like the Chinese grocer-woman near my apartment, who, the minute I step through the door, begins screaming about the greed of her competitors and about how her cilantro only costs 50 cents, and then gives me a jar of free salsa because, “YOU MAKING FROM SCRATCH SALSA, THAT STUPID, EVERY TIME YOU COME HERE I GIVE YOU A PRESENT, YOU REMEMBER!”

I like the irrelevance of traffic laws in New York—and how, when I’m riding my bike, I’m usually breaking many of them, but no one arrests me.  In Wisconsin, with nothing else happening really (except the regular ticketing of black people), sloppy biking would be grounds enough for sirens, a talking to, a written warning.  In New York, the other cyclists might be uppity, but the police officers have murderers to catch.

***

So there it is, New York: I guess you’ve changed me.  It’s not true love, exactly.  It’s more of an arranged marriage—a growing familiarity and bond forged from struggles.  I’m slowly adjusting to everything from the screaming baristas to the constant motion—the never stoppingness.  These days, when the R train lurches under me I stay upright.

Hello again to my five billion readers.  I’ve been gone due to carpal tunnel, which, for the record, is little like crumpling aluminum foil between the tendons in your wrists and then sticking your arms in a microwave.

I’m not trying to sound brave or anything.  As an athlete this is by far the dorkiest injury I have ever sustained—worse, even, than my most embarrassing ski-vacation-injuries.  Including the time I skied into a tree and got my head stuck between the trunk and one of the branches, and then started breaking out into a rash from the pine needles while my family snapped photos and laughed and pulled roughly on my ankles.  Or the time when I was twelve and really wanted a goggle tan and secretly eschewed sunscreen and got second degree burns all over my face (read: swollen skin and large yellow blisters), and looked so absolutely terrible that my family made me wear a red bandana for the mountain-top-Christmas-photo, like a bandit.

Anyway I’m back now and have missed you all terribly.  Below I have provided some of my recent Yelp reviews to give you an idea of how I’ve spent my time off.*

Has Beans (.01 miles)

The coffee at this place was so potent that I nearly shit my pants upon finishing.  Luckily, it had a bathroom. 4/5 stars.

BAGELS (.01 miles)

There was no bathroom at this place, and I had to leave right in the middle of a particularly gripping chapter of The Hunger Games in order to change my pants.  2 stars.

South Bar (.01 miles)

Too much coffee lately (the air around me was starting to vibrate!) so I decided to start reading Catching Fire at a nearby bar—a place I know is cool because I once saw Jesse Eisenberg here holding a tambourine.  A little dark for my reading purposes, but also much emptier during the day, and especially during the morning hours.  It’s like I own the world.  5 stars

Black Horse Pub (.1 miles)

Apparently South Bar wasn’t actually open sometimes when I went there?  The assholes started yelling at me about using the back door “outside business hours” (read, 9AM), so I knocked down their rating from 5 to 0 stars.  Gotcha, bitches.

Anyway I went a little farther north to this place, the Black Horse Pub, and at first they left me alone, but after a few chapters of Mockingjay, the bartender, who was this totally nice guy at first, got all up in my nuts about actually ordering something.  Ugh.  At the same time, he had bright blue eyes and a face like George Clooney, if George Clooney were covered in tattoos and had his nose pierced like a bull, so I got a Bloody Mary, and it’s sooooo good!!!  FUCKING SPICY!  4 stars.

Black Horse Pub (.1 miles)

OMG EVERYONE NEDS 2 GO TO THIS PLAACCE, THE BARTENDR, EDWARD, THE 1 WIT TATTOOS IS SOOOOOOO NICE AND GIBS YOU ALL FREE DRINKS ALL DAY ALSO MOCKINGJAY SO GOD I MEAN SO GOOD LOL!!!1

Civil Wedding Officiants (9.4 miles)

Um, so Edward and I apparently went to this place?  I have a certificate of marriage from them and vaguely remember us going in and demanding to be “gay married toot sweet.” Also Edward’s last name is Butt, so now I’m Kathleen Butt.  The whole thing is pretty foggy but the handwriting on the certificate is clear and I don’t think anybody yelled at me for vomiting on the alter. 3 stars only because I probably wouldn’t have gotten married had I not been black out drunk.

NYC Divorce Lawyer (4.8 miles)

Something I didn’t know about Edward: he’s Canadian.  At first he said no way about going to see NYC Divorce Lawyer, because of citizenship, etc., but then I threatened to call immigration—which was probably a bitch move, since apparently the marriage was my idea.  Anyway now he says I’m no longer welcome at the Black Horse Pub—not even for a thimble of Bloody Mary.  A thimble.  His words.  On the bright side, annulments only cost $25!!!  5 stars

Black Horse Pub (.1 miles)

Don’t go here.  The service is literally horrible.

*The distances measure the distance between the reviewed establishment and my apartment.

I interviewed him immediately.

Kathleen Hale (KH): Tell me more about not getting stabbed with my own knife.

Sergeant Kermit (SK): Well, either a knife or a gun can be a problem if you’re not committed to using it.  You never show a weapon to threaten someone.  That’s where people make the mistake.  You only bring it to the party when you’re ready to dance.

If they are close enough to take it, they are within your cutting radius.  So it’s about adopting an offensive mindset, rather than a defensive one.  By thinking they can take it away, and how to prevent it, you aren’t thinking about how and when to cut. You’ve got to focus on what YOU are going to do to THEM.  A book that I HIGHLY recommend is The Gift of Fear.

If you’re interested in books on how to terminate with extreme prejudice, there are others I can recommend.

KH: Have you ever thought of writing a how-to-guide for naïve-young-professionals who have recently transplanted into semi-dangerous-city-life?

SK: You’re a perfect example of who I would want to write something like that for.  It would be kind of An Angry Guy’s Guide To Self Defense For Good People In A Politically Correct World So Unhinged From Reality It Makes Him Want To Puke.  There needs to be a section on “It’s ok not to feel bad for stabbing a fucker in the liver.”

KH: Okay well here’s a question you might be able to answer: the other day, a guy came up to me at night on a deserted subway platform.  He was sweaty and weird-seeming.  He asked if I could call him a cab.  At the time, I stayed at a good distance and made it very clear that he was scaring me, hoping this would keep him away, but I still called him the cab…I have a feeling this wasn’t the best tactic.  What should I do if it ever happens again?

SK: Listen to me, Hale.  The thing that makes a Good Person a Good Person is their humanity. Of course, it doesn’t have to be universal.  Nobody would expect you to call a cab for Poppa Doc Duvalier or John Wayne Gacy.  That’s just stupid. So the guy appeared to be in some kind of distress, you hailed a cab for him, and kept your distance.  Sounds like if you wanted to help the guy that you did just fine.  The important thing is to not let him lure you somewhere you had no intention of going.  Also, beware if he persists in asking for assistance and tries to close the distance between you.  Then it’s time to consider driving a stiletto heeled shoe into his eyeball.

Of course, if you’re not vamping that day, a ballpoint pen will do.  Lots of people suggest using keys as a weapon, and they are better than nothing, but truth be told keys can’t reach any vital organs.  Also, if the asshole runs off screaming down the street with your keys stuck in a jagged hole in his face, how are you going to get into your apartment?

KH: That’s a really good point.  At what point do I call the police and/or stab a “sumbitch”?

SK: Always trust your gut instincts.  We have them for a reason. People get into trouble when they let morals, mores, or public perception in general overrule what their gut is telling them.  If it feels like a bad situation, let someone else be the Good Samaritan. If you think the guy really needs help, yet your gut is still telling you to get away, get away from him but call 911 and tell them you think someone might need medical attention, etc.  Bad guys prey on good intentions.  They will use guile and guilt to sucker someone in. So be an asshole if you need to.  Sometimes good people need to act like pricks in order to survive.  It’s called “accessing your internal badass.”

KH: I’ll definitely try and be more of a badass prick henceforth.  I actually just told my coworker about you and she has a question, would you mind?

SK: Give it to me, Hale.

KH: She says, “You’re a cop.  Can I call the cops on the Green Peace guys?  Because I could call the cops on the homeless guys if they wouldn’t stop hassling me and were like blocking the street and getting aggressive, and I fucking hate the Green Peace Guys.”

SK: Friend of Hale, listen to me: It’s up to the cops to determine if a law is being broken, not you. If you think something is wrong, or you’re being harassed, call the fuzz.

KH: Good point.  I guess that’s all for now, but definitely get in touch if there’s anything else you think I should know.

SK:  Ok by me.  In the mean time, here are some videos I think are cool:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=xB7iz1HTh9U

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=S32QFUTR9bc

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nAonJxLvH80

If you have questions of your own, you can email Kermit at pirateepd@gmail.com.  Read more of his advice here.

Dear Kate Spencer,

I need to tell you an embarrassing secret: a few days ago a man pressed his boner against me on the subway—and despite having read your awesome and inspiring blog post, I didn’t slap him.

The man was shorter than me so the boner was on my leg, which made the whole thing reminiscent of an erstwhile Bar Mitzvah—the year that all the boys were shorter than me, and everyone was starting to experiment with “grinding.”  The only difference was that back then I was happily encouraging boners, bewitched as I was by their apparent existence.  This more recent time, on the subway, I was simply standing there, sweaty and claustrophobic, wishing I had more guts (or magical powers, or a giant hamster ball to roll around in).

My lack of response (while embarrassing in the sense of its naiveté and stillness—especially when I consider how I would have responded WITH A ROAR if I had witnessed this boner happening to someone else) is somewhat typical of me; when uncomfortable, I tend to literally sprint away from what’s bothering me—and when trapped on a subway, it makes sense that I would go bug-eyed like a terrified rabbit and hold still, hoping for invisibility.

This survival tactic was surely ingrained in me by something other than my mother, who during my childhood regularly raised her voice to everyone from mean middle school teachers to slow McDonalds employees, and once chased a pedophile out of our yard with a golf club (long story).  If my mother had seen this man turn his pelvis toward me, she would have wasted no time asking him to move; she would have torn the boner off.

But I was on the S train during rush hour, and I kept making excuses to myself about the crowded subway car; everyone was squashed shoulder to shoulder, so I tried not to think about it when the guy behind me happened to be pressed lap-first against my hip. One of the adolescent boys to my right was wearing a sling (some people have real problems, right?) and kept yelling at his much taller friend in this shrill and self-conscious way. I focused on that.

“I want you to get hurt—you don’t know what life is until you’re riding a subway with a broken arm.”

“I broke my”—

“That was fifth grade.  It doesn’t count.”

When I was their age, a man had come up to me at Blockbuster Video, and while still holding onto his five-year-old son, had pressed his free hand against my butt.  I hadn’t done anything then, either—had took too long wondering if it had really happened—but I was old enough now to respond appropriately, right?

Then again, maybe I was jumping to conclusions; maybe this thing behind me was an accidental boner, I reasoned, and maybe now the ordinary-looking owner was simply trying to hide it against my leg? —Because otherwise the adolescent boys would see?  It was the lesser of two evils?

In addition, what if it wasn’t even a boner?  I found myself trying to remember what an uninvited-boner-through-pants even felt like (like when you’re fifteen and think it will be awesome to sit on some guy’s lap in a crowded carpool and then SURPRISE, YOU’RE STUCK IN THE BONER MOBILE UNTIL ASHLEY’S HOUSE).  As much as people like to joke about bananas in pockets, boners are probably a hard thing to misinterpret (is that a dildo in your zipper?) but still…

If I yelled at him at this point, maybe he’d be embarrassed or angry.

But what if he was like…laughing?

And it went on like this for the remaining 6 minutes to Grand Central; I would consider turning to scream at him, and would be held back by the thought of his incredibly normal face folding into a genuinely baffled expression.  Was there a way I could put it more politely, I wondered? —“Excuse me, I know it’s very crowded, but I can feel your penis.” I thought maybe I was wrong, and I knew I should be furious but I wanted to be polite—and the dueling notions were so strong and opposite inside me that in the end I stayed put.

“Did you know that in China, it’s like so crowded that it’s like this but there’s like even a person on the subway whose job it is to cram more people in,” peeped the boy with the broken arm.

His friend raised his eyebrows.  “Wait, have you been to”—

“Don’t you think you would have noticed if I went to China? —It’s called hearing things, man.  In China it’s like this crowded only worse.  It’s like unhealthy.”

“Well I guess as long as there’s not too much…dying.”

I hung onto this last remark thinking, “Yes…as long as there’s not too much dying, one boner is not a big deal…some people have real problems…etc.”

My coworker warned me that my boner story would be boring unless I actually liked the boner, or did something about it, like hit the guy.  And I guess what I’m wondering, Kate, is if you agree?  That women are so often silent during these crimes is certainly not news. And the guilt—the stupid, unwarranted guilt that left me wondering if I was somehow to blame—is also an old story, maddeningly old. But what feels like news to me is that I felt that guilt. Me, the girl in gender studies class who wrote papers on feminism and heteronormativity, and once yelled at a boy over some kind of Foucauldian disagreement, despite having no clue what Foucault had actually meant.  Me, a woman who gives money to Planned Parenthood and who has helped more than one friend through sexual assault.  What was all that education good for, and what good are my politics, if I can’t take on one puny boner? What good is finding my voice if I haven’t figured out how to use it?

I’m hoping that after enough time in the city I’ll be going ninja on all the perverts—channel my mother a little (for the record, my mother begged me not to publish anything about the boner, lest perverts read it, track me down, and follow me onto the subway in the hopes of a bit of consequence-free boner pressing).  But for now, I’m still struck by my silence.

Sincerely,

Kathleen

PS: A hilarious Sheriff’s Deputy has since given me some tips on how to handle myself next time.

I love Mormons.  I am strongly considering relocating to Salt Lake City to convert, begin rock climbing with other Mormons, and corral some kind of husband(s) (JK MORMONS ARE MONOGAMOUS).  But I’m not kidding about wanting to be Mormon.

Up until recently, I knew shamefully little about the Latter-day Saints (LDS).  But then on Monday, I finagled an invite to the LDS Fourth-of-July Barbecue (bbq).  Based on my experience, I’ve come up with a list of things that all of you should consider before you go on with your life not being Mormon.

1.)  Mormons know how to party. I’m not even kidding—between the volleyball net, croquet court, and giant bin of caffeine-free sodas, these people could have gone all night.  Even the Elders (male, Mormon missionaries (female missionaries are called Sisters)) were playing soccer in their black pants and white shirts—their neckties and nametags flapping in the wind.  Finally around midnight I had to put my foot down and drag my ride home off the trampoline (“Just one more flip!” she pleaded).

2.)  Mormons don’t drink coffee or alcohol, or smoke cigarettes, because they believe that addictions of any kind give you less freedom. This kind of independence worked well for me on Independence Day; most of my July 4^th bbq memories revolve around trying to finagle a designated driver to take that ever-present-obstinate-drunk-character home—but at this one, nobody even vomited on my red white and blue outfit.

3.)  Mormons are funny. When our ride came, the girl who had invited me, Alaina, patiently reminded me that there would be no drinking—that yes, Mormons are even sober for “special occasions” like July 4—after which point our driver, who I’d just met, turned around and deadpanned, “Who says I’m sober?” then turned the keys in the ignition.

4.)  Mormons network like wow. Not only can they go virtually anywhere in the world, attend the local LDS church, and be brought to the bosom of a whole new group of friends, but Mormon people got the hook-up.  While I was there, I explained my current living situation in Connecticut (I NEED AN NYC APARTMENT, PEOPLE), and got three contacts from one couple.  They have since followed up with two emails, complete with a forwarded LDS apartment mailing list.  If I had been Mormon, I feel like there would have been even more of this; a lot of the parents at the party attributed their sons’ and daughters’ internships or current work situations to various Mormon contacts across the country; 74 out of 75 people at the party were employed.

5.)  Mormons are actually the most attractive people. Maybe it’s their aversion to martinis and party drugs, but every person I met on Monday was fresh-faced and fit, with shiny, healthy hair—I’m talking tan skin and big eyes and rock climbers’ bodies.  The combination of these physical attributes and the fact of widespread virginity (most of the 20’s-somethings there were unmarried) also meant that the bbq was rife with sexual tension, and playful PDA.

For the record, I was totally exempt from this kind of attention—unless you count the only unemployed, unattractive Mormon, who was sort of following me around, and kept barking things like, “soooo, have you seen the city yet—like really seen it?”  Probably the more eligible guys backed off because I’m not Mormon (though maybe if I repented for what’s happened so far (lots of sexing!) and decided to get baptized (I’M CONSIDERING IT, YOU SEXY ANIMALS)…but I digress).  On the other hand, Alaina—who I’d met only four days prior (and instantly fallen in love with because of her easy laugh and open-mindedness (and probably also due to the fact that SHE WAS GORGEOUS))—was being pursued by like, five different guys.  They’d offer her gifts of watermelon and baked beans, then sit down and listen intently to whatever she was saying, then refer back to something specific she had said either in a curious or laudatory way (as I write this, I realize I am describing a conversation—but let me tell you that I had literally never seen anything like this before; people who have learned to flirt without social lubricants or any expectation of sex are phenomenal conversationalists).

And this is the last thing I’m going to say about it (to avoid losing control and buying a one-way ticket to Salt Lake), but many Mormons wear this awesome, sexy special underwear, called a garment (and there are no good pictures so I’m going to describe it here: it’s basically bike shorts that hit slightly above the knee, made out of a white, shiny spandex blend (angel material), with a matching cap-sleeved, scoop-necked top).

Please, for me, for just a second, (and Alaina, I think you should stop reading at this point) imagine two sexy, healthy, emotionally fulfilled Mormon virgins removing each other’s garments (BAM).

ME: Gus, how are you feeling, big guy?

[GUS rolls onto his gigantic table of a back and shimmies in the sun]

ME: Better?

[GUS turns and shows me his butt]

ME:  Gus. Please. You’re sending me mixed signals.

***

Last time Gus, (AKA, the “very lonely polar bear”) got upset, he started swimming the backstroke and wouldn’t stop.  That was 1994, and the Central Park Zoo responded to his troubling behavior with a $25,000 therapy plan.

Now, everyone is watching Gus for similar signs of depression; Gus is bereaved—Ida, his roommate of 24 years, was euthanized over a month ago.  But despite Gus’s solitude, one of the large informational signs outside his enclosure still reads, “Getting to know our bears.”

When I went to see Gus, that sign was creating some confusion; all the kids were pressing their faces against the glass, wanting to know where Ida was.

“Where’s the other polar bear, though,” they whined, looking disappointedly at Gus, who was, admittedly, a pretty boring spectacle that day—splayed out on his stomach, his giant head cradled in his paws.  He was even covering his eyes.

“Oooh, look at how dangerous he is,” a mother crooned down at her stroller, trying to distract an antsy toddler from the lack of activity.  “He smelled us, he’s gonna eat us for dinner!”

The toddler wasn’t buying it. “But where’s the other…”

“They had to kill the other polar bear,” I said—realizing quickly (albeit, too late) that this was the wrong thing to say to crowd of strangers, most of whom were under the age of seven.  The mothers around me tightened their grips on their strollers and child-leashes, flashing dirty looks.  One covered her son’s ears. This is what she is afraid of when she sees crazy people on the train, I thought. That they’ll say stuff like this to her kids.

“I didn’t put that right,” I blurted.  “I meant euthanasia.”  I turned to one mother, who looked very kind, like she might understand.  “You know how it is”—but they were all already starting to disperse.

“Well that was weird,” I said to Gus, thumping on the glass, which was too thick to transfer sound.  I cupped my hands around my mouth and shouted, “Can you believe all the publicity about your sadness?”

I’d come to Central Park with a purpose. I wanted to understand what was going on with the animal world’s most famous depressive, but no one would talk to me about Gus, his $25,000 therapy plan, or his current condition (The Bronx Zoo, Central Park Zoo, Queens Zoo, Prospect Park Zoo, New York Aquarium, and various animal specialists all agreed: “No comment.”)

So I planned to get most of the story from Gus, himself.  Straight from the source.  I was skeptical about the idea of polar bear depression, but looking at Gus with his head in his paws made me feel maternal and frantic, desperate to ease his pain. I had the same feeling when I was about to leave for college and my eight-year-old brother started sobbing.  I started doing this crazy dance, trying to get him to laugh.

Maybe that’s why zoos have these therapy plans to begin with, I thought—not for the animals but to soothe the humans, assure us that something is being done. Maybe we can’t handle the guilt and love and powerlessness we feel when caged animals won’t look back at us.

***

Though he didn’t know the specifics of the case, Dr. Nicholas Dodman, Tufts University’s program director of animal behavior, was able to supplement my admittedly one-sided conversations with Gus.  For instance, Dodman told me that, given the way these types of things are usually handled, Gus has probably been put on Prozac.

“Mourning is really depression,” said Dodman, who has helped determine Prozac dosages for other depressed zoo animals.  He explained that sad animals don’t make for good tourist attractions; they pace endlessly or hide inside their artificial dens, and nobody has any fun.

“So how can you tell if an animal is sad?” I asked. I mean, don’t they just eat you if you look at them for too long in the wild?  How do we really even know how they’re supposed to act in captivity?—Is there a DSM for this kind of thing?

“They seem to lack luster, they become withdrawn,” Dodman said.  “They just generally mope around.”

Dodman also suggested that Gus’s depression could have been triggered not only by the loss of Ida, but by a lack of closure: Ida was whisked away before Gus could come to terms with her death.  “They must be allowed to kind of view the body,” he said, using the example of a stillborn foal.  “[The mare] needs some time to explore and seemingly convince herself that there’s no life in the dead foal.…Then they will eventually settle down and accept the inevitable.  But if you whisk the body away—if it dies and is immediately removed without giving her a chance to investigate it—she’ll become really quite distraught.

This made sense, in a way—but hauling Ida’s giant, lifeless body back into the Polar Bear den for Gus to sniff at also seemed like the kind of thing the Central Park Zoo might get criticized for if anyone find out.

“So can captive animals ever really be happy?”

“It depends on the state of your captivity.”  Dodman sighed.  “Even so it’s a bit like Hotel California.  It’s a good place to be but you can’t get out.  It’s like an open prison.”

***

ME: Gus I want to cuddle with you.

[GUS does that silent moan]

ME: I know.

***

I keep thinking about the way Gus kept lifting lifted big, heavy head last time I saw him—how he’d open his mouth with fluttering lips and wince, like he was about to yell for Ida but caught himself before the call came.  Last year, when I was living alone in an apartment on the side of a rural highway and the nearest airport was 2.5 hours away, the thought of anyone I’d ever loved could induce that same choked, non-noise.

Then again, as Sharon Dewar of the Lincoln Park Zoo pointed out to me, most of what we infer as animal emotion is mostly just our own, human feelings, projected onto animal behavior. It’s possible that Gus was simply catching a whiff of me and visualizing dinner—because he’s a big, dangerous animal, like all those moms kept insinuating to their kids—or maybe the Prozac was still kicking in. Given the 80-degree weather that day, it was hard to tell if Gus was actually depressed or simply overheated.

Still, I tended to agree with the man and woman who wandered up to me during Gus and my conversation.  “I don’t know the first thing about polar bears, but he looks sad,” said the man, scratching under his Yarmulke.  “God made him that fur thing to keep him warm in the like, Arctic circle.  He should be in Norway, I think.”

His wife sighed.  “Maybe he speaks Hebrew,” she offered, and the two of them started murmuring comforts I couldn’t understand.

Photo by James A. Powers

So obviously I was pretty intrigued when I heard that Florida is currently dealing with some kind of giant lizard plague.  The lizards are 7 feet long—and apparently everyone is so afraid of them that Scott Hardin, a coordinator at the Florida Fish and Wildlife Commission, issued some sort of Independence Day (the movie) promise, saying, “We plan to go after them aggressively to either try to eradicate them or suppress their numbers if they are determined to be established.”

(In lieu of going after one themselves, residents are supposed to report sightings to 888-IVE-GOT1.)

However, I was disappointed to learn that this lizard invasion is only deemed dangerous for the following reasons:

1.)  They are “alarming” to humans.

2.)  They have been known to be defensive once cornered.

Well.  Don’t corner them, then.

I mean, isn’t this a state that deals regularly with the blood hungry, prehistoric reptile beast (i.e., the crocodile)?  I feel like accepting the presence of one more ugly and potentially dangerous species is probably no skin off the Floridian teeth.  And actually, going after a certain kind of animal just because it doesn’t look cute on your patio probably makes you the monster.