Less Money, Mo' Problems

The other night I was in the East Village (I realize not everyone is familiar with Manhattan - but if you've ever seen "Rent," the East Village is the place where they make fun of you for having seen "Rent") As is my custom, I had about $3 in my pocket and, naturally, my bank had no branches in the area (I've eschewed Chase or Citibank in favor of "Latvian Savings," a dependable-but-unpopular Eastern European lending institution). Because of this lack of planning, it meant that I would have to go to a bodega and use one of their Brand-X ATMs for cash.

In general, bodegas are not the type of place you want to be accessing savings or attempting to transfer personal information (it's why I no longer keep my diary hidden in one). But the closest bodega added to the already-admirable level of shadiness by having the ATM mounted directly into the front of the store, right on the sidewalk. No security doors needed! No surveillance cameras required! To reassure me further, someone had actually carved the message "Don't Use" into the screen (I'm not making this up) Furthermore, there was a chalk body outline right beneath where I stood (Ok, that part is false).

So, knowing what I know about the increasing inevitability of identity theft, and having read news stories of ATMs being tampered with and/or being mob-controlled (seriously), I paused for about 4 seconds before taking out 80 bucks.

And I realized that using the bodega ATM is the financial equivalent of having unprotected sex with a prostitute. You go into it knowing it's not a good idea, but, damnit, you have needs - so you do it as quickly and cleanly as you can and hope that you beat the odds.

In an ironic twist worthy of Alanis Morissette (since I'm pretty sure it's not actually ironic), if you pick a real winner of an ATM, you'll not only get ripped off, but also catch some of the very same diseases you'd get from having unprotected sex with a prostitute! (I guess it'd be ironic if you were taking out the money in order to pay a prostitute...I'll have to reread her lyrics.)

It's Always the Year of the Rat!

Recently, a building across the street from our apartment was knocked down. And as a result, there's a herd of displaced rats constantly scurrying back and forth from their old demolished home to potential new homes on my side of the street. And, of course, it's pretty gross to see a pair of rats scampering on the sidewalk ahead of you - but I soon started to feel bad about my disgust. After all, if it were squirrels or chipmunks traipsing about, it'd be adorable! But rats get no love whatsoever - it's a despicable double-standard!

Sure, rats are dirty and eat garbage - but what animal doesn't? It's not like squirrels shower daily and shop at Whole Foods. (Actually, even in humans, those two traits don't coincide...ZING!) Besides, it's been centuries since a plague - just how long are we going to stay mad?

If we were completely honest with ourselves, we'd realize that there's one simple real reason we hate rats: the tail. Every "wild" animal that society tolerates has a cute tail. Squirrels? "Oh, big bushy tail! Give them some peanuts!" Chipmunks? "Awww, fuzzy little nubbin! Let's pet them!" Rats? "Ugh - rubbery, hairless whip. You distract it while I crush it with this cinder block!"

Still don't believe in the hypocrisy? Raccoons rifle through garbage, carry Rabies, keep nocturnal hours (like rapists), and are shifty-looking (what's with the mask, rapist?). But people love them! But give raccoons a giant rat tail and what have you got? A possum! (or "opossum," if you insist on being an asshole) And as we all know, a possum is just a rat that is big enough to maul you and eat your intestines while you're watching, still alive. (We all know this!)

It's clear that New York doesn't have a rat problem - it has a rat prejudice. Fortunately, we can solve this problem - and without any costly extermination or diversity training. All we need to do is eliminate those tails! Just cross-breed them with foxes or something equally bushy (This could really be Justin Guarini's chance to redeem himself!) Ten to fifteen years of that and we'll have a gaggle of adorable, cuddly "Roxes"(patent pending) running around the city! Instead of recoiling in disgust, tourists would be posing for pictures and letting them eat breadcrumbs out of their mouths! (The rat problem would be solved, but tourists would still be morons.)

Not-So-Good-Natured Ribbon

I was driving along the other day and the car in front of me had one of those magnetic ribbons on its trunk. Except that this ribbon wasn't declaring support for our troops, or calling for autism awareness or finding a cure for breast cancer or whatever. This one had a more important message - and that message, offset by a trail of little pawprint graphics, was simpley, "I Love Shih Tzus!" And I realize there's probably no such thing as justifiable vehicular manslaughter - but that should definitely be grounds.

It's not that I expect any kind of brillance from the back of a car (although I do make sure to adjust my ideology depending on what Calvin is pissing on). As a rule, anything you put back there (bumper stickers, college decals, those license plate holders) all scream of insecure, self-centered nonsense. You not only need random passerbys to know what you're all about, but you can also sum it up that succinctly. Shih Tzus! That's me! Fishing! I like fishing! Who's with me?!? There are even those who would say that my vanity plate ("HORSECOK") falls into that domain.

But in that sea of obnoxious, pointless adornments, the magnetic ribbon had a kind of odd nobility to it. They called attention to an issue and just reminded you of its existence. If you wanted our troops to go home, you spent a buck and slapped it on your car. And maybe while someone was stuck behind you at a toll booth, they'd think about it too. And of course, those ribbons aren't going to change the world - but at least they had their heart in the right place.

Using a bumper sticker to trumpet your extremely brave pro-Shih Tzu stance would be insipid enough. But coopting the ribbon to deliver that message takes a special breed of moron. It's like using the obituaries section to list the Honda Civic you have for sale.

It got me so mad that I immediately covered my rear windshield with a decal of Calvin pissing on a frivolous magnetic ribbon. Then again, if it's open season on magnetic ribbons, maybe I'll just get one that says that says "I hate your ribbon!" and be done with it.