Saturday, April 30, 2005

Ultimate Blogger

Some of us are having a little competition over here.

Anything to keep oneself entertained on those long, lonely evenings when pining for unavailable men. It certainly beats cleaning out the kitty litter.

Main



I wanna rock your body...

I went out with Carlos from Queens last night.

Carlos is the sole reason for my recent neuroses, being an attractive Puerto-Rican-Cuban-American whom flirted with me in Bon Giorno one evening, bought me many drinks, and after a couple of dates, screwed me senseless. The man is not a rammer. A rammer is one whom engages in rapid and futile thrusting for no apparent purpose, benefit or physical gain when in the sack. It's a theme which Carlos and I return to many times in the evening.

"So, like, the reason I didn't call you is because I was having all these problems with this chick I've been seeing for a year. Man, the chick is fucked up. You know she never had an orgasm through sex? Thirty years old and she never had a fucking orgasm! That's fucked up man. White girls. She was a rammer, I'm tellin' you."

My role for this evening has been designated as sympathetic listener and advice-giver to soothe Carlos' torn and tattered soul. All I can think throughout the many Margaritas we consume in a midtown Mexican bar is - Christ I want to fuck him. As we discuss the moral implications for the average White American girl's inability to gain pleasure through sex, my thoughts cannot help but dwell on what a sheer waste of good cock. I've heard that many women only achieve orgasm through oral sex or battery operated devices - it's a common male American complaint. Whether this is confined to the white race or not I really couldn't tell you. Carlos is convinced that it is.

"It's a fucking White American Princess thing. These girls are fucking repressed I'm telling you."

Having just come from the Strip Club where I met with Gaetano, the owner, for a little pep talk, the theme of American repression weighs heavy on my mind. In the strip club, the dancers are of varying ethnicities. The waitresses are predominantly White American. As a waitress, one must adorn a tiny black skirt and black lace up bodice which produces an impressive cleavage where previously, there was none. Gaetano, a solid Italian-American of around forty resembling Tony Soprano, smiles at me in a fatherly fashion.

"You erm, you do know what kinda club this is, right?"

I smile perkily and nod.

"And you don't have any problem with the, erm, outfits?"

I shake my head, and tell Gaetano that my twin sister is a pole dancer. Which is almost true. Had her boyfriend sufficient credit, and not gotten himself blacklisted on ebay for failing to produce payment for a home pole-dancing kit, she would have been. Gaetano beams.

The strip club operates like an immense family. The men are seemingly oblivious to the toned and top heavy dancers wandering around in sheer dresses, chatting easily and laughing before the customers arrive. There's an olde-worlde courtesy in their treatment of the women. Anyone who thinks strip clubs are degrading are wrong. When you enter a strip club as a woman, you are treated with the utmost respect. You have the power. The place relies on you. A strip club is not quite the sex industry, not quite the American diner. I've been to quite a few with drunken sailors from my time on boats. One of my favorites was a strip club in San José Costa Rica, where my then-boyfriend took me for a late-night meal one evening on the mistaken assumption it was a Casino bar. Amazing how much better a Cobb salad tastes when surrounded by whores and with tasselled nipples hovering above your Margarita.

Sex sex sex. It sells everything, it's all we think about, but in America, it seems to be one of those things everyone obsessively mulls over, yet noone admits to doing. Why is there so much stigma attached to looking at women's bodies in a tasteful setting over a couple of glasses of champagne, yet it's perfectly acceptable to ogle big-boobed Brenda on the subway home? Is sexual repression a racial attribute or a product of society? I went out with an Argentinian guy for a while when I lived in France. After a few weeks, said Argentinian revealed to me post-coitus that he was getting married in a few months to a Catholic who suffered immense pangs of guilt at the smallest hint of any sexual deviance, i.e. anything which wasn't the missionary position. Once I had stopped laughing long enough to knee him in the balls, I reflected how odd it is that in the 21st Century there are some women who just don't enjoy sex - and then others are condemned as 'Hos because they fuck with the same enjoyment as men and proudly display their bodies for all to see.

And me? Well, I'm hungover, nauseous and still not getting any. Hmph.

Main



Friday, April 29, 2005

Mimi Christ Superstar

I have decided that the spiritual void in my life cannot be filled by Marlboro Lights, endless Coronas, a hankering after my own personal Gael García Bernal and degrading jobs in the sex industry. Well, not entirely.

I must become a Christian.

My decision was spurred by the discovery that the Editor of the New York Times (divorced, rich, can overlook the non-virgin bride aspect) attends my friend's church, and that my shifts in the strip club will never fall on a Sunday, so perhaps a part-time commitment to the faith is enough to placate God, snag me a husband and save me from the fires of burning Hell. The other six days a week I'll devote my time to worshipping the deity Philip Morris and continue as per usual. Already I can feel the Heavens beginning to part and welcome me upwards into the folds of the Elect.

As well as endeavouring to become one with the Christian Right, I have decided to survive on a carbohydrate-rich diet in order to gain the necessary folds of excess skin to ensure my complete assimilation into the role of Miss Average American. I have supplemented my paltry 1800-2000 calorie a day intake with vast quantities of peanut butter, Twinkies, Ben & Jerries and Donuts.

I have also started watching Prime-Time TV.

Today I was astonished to discover that Britain is not, as we were all led to believe by the BBC, in the midst of a General Election. As NBC and Fox kindly pointed out, the breaking news regarding my home country is that a small baby deer has been adopted by a Doberman in Merseyside. I was grateful to them for successfuly reorienting my priorities, lest I should have fallen into the seductive trap of believing that other countries are not ruled by Mr Bush. After that little insight, I was plunged into the heady corporate world of Donald Trump and The Apprentice, where time and again that thrilling and pertinent message was drummed home: you are a failure unless you can successfully shit on your friends and wear an unfortunate hair-piece with aplomb. I was gripped by the sheer drama of the show (though found it rather intellectually challenging at times) and horrified by the firing of Alex despite Tanna spending the entire program scouring Staten Island for Bedazzlers. But when all is said and done, I was forced to concede that she did come up with the gems, and thus Alex just had to go.

The spiritual void is rapidly being filled by Krispy-Kremes and mindless TV. Hey guys - I think Red had a point after all...

Main



Thursday, April 28, 2005

Pricks I Have Known No. 7 - The Creature of God

The Creature of God emerges from his private, rapturous conversation with The Lord to cast his eyes disparagingly upon the heathen. Over there on the Subway, a single mother, a pre-marital fornicator whose sinful fruits can be seen mawling upon an Oreo cookie and drooling upon an unaware businessman's foot (note to self: Armani suit - obviously businessman has a college degree and hence is favorable to the Divine Spirit). In Union Square, the dark-skinned teenagers laughing frivolously - intoxicated by the devil's handiwork, marijuana, or worse Budweiser. In the streets at night, homeless people with needles sticking out of their arms like walking porcupines, muttering to themselves and taking the Lord's name in vain. A thin, scrawny dark person beckons to the Creature of God for a dollar...ten cents... please sir... The Creature of God shudders in horror, clutches his copy of the Good Book closer to his chest (which handily conceals a folded copy of 'Hot Asian Bitches' acquired quite by chance that morning at the newsagents when perusing 'The New Yorker') and casts his eyes despairingly to Heaven.

Unfortunately, so preoccupied is the Creature of God with his fervent prayers for the souls of these foul sinners, he fails to notice that he has unwillingly stepped into a fresh and pungent parcel of doggy-doo. This only becomes apparent once he has trodden the remnants into his new shag-pile carpet, freshly imported from Egypt. The Creature of God tuts to himself irritatedly, flicks the TV onto Fox, and makes a mental note to ensure that Fuckamai, his newly acquired Thai maid from the Cheap Asian Bitches Agency, deals with it in the morning, prior to his pre-office stress-relieving massage. Fuckamai, rather annoyingly, insists that she is a Buddhist, or some other strange Third World ungodly sect. The Creature of God feels a little glow at the thought that he should be the one entrusted by the Lord to set about converting her to the Righteous Path and saving one more damned soul. Nurturing this comforting thought, the Creature of God furtively sneaks 'Hot Asian Bitches' out of the Good Book for just a little peak.

After all, you never know when the Lord is watching you.

Main



Wednesday, April 27, 2005

It must be the goy

I share my front door with a Jewish newspaper, who have their headquarters downstairs, directly below the apartment. This often leads to befuddled Hasidics taking the wrong door and wandering into a marijuana-filled haze of rock-star goys drinking Heineken, when they were expecting the relatively innocuous printing press of a small Hebrew publication company.

It also leads to confusion of a different kind.

Today I was struggling with various bags, gym clothes and books, trying to find my key, when a Hasidic wandered into the lobby, and stood close behind me.

"Is open?"

"No, the office is closed today."

"Is open?"

"No, it's closed..."

"Is open? You have nice body. You sexy. How much for me and you?"

He leered at me, and grinned through a veritable jungle of bad facial hair. I could distinguish the remnants of a sesame bagel on his tash, and the sharp stench of old sweat. I slammed the door on his hand. He yelped and ran off. I think I killed his boner.

It's a sin for a Hasidic to have sex with anyone other than his wife. But to pay for sex is considered a business transaction, and hence does not result in the flames of purgatory. Apparently the Hasidic community has one of the largest STD occurrences in New York.

But the women wear great wigs.

Main



Tuesday, April 26, 2005

How to Find a Husband in Ten Days

I was musing on this theme for a variety of reasons.

One is that despite my claims of a turgid and desolate sex life, I do actually get a considerable amount of male interest. Unfortunately, those who choose to inflict their attention upon me are usually dull, odd, stupid and lacking in essential personal hygiene. Should my visa situation necessitate a speedy marriage, it's possible I could reply to the desperate man adorned in an argyll sweater I met extremely briefly two months ago, roll out a half-hearted blow job and exchange a few bodily fluids, and be ensconced in matrimonial bliss within a few weeks.

Strangely, this does not assuage my fears.

The other reason is my recent visit to Bon Giorno.

I was greeted by Lucia, heroin addict and large-assed slut waitress, at the door.

"Mimi, 'ow are you Mimi? I am not gooood. Not at all."

She lolls dramatically against the bar. Her pupils dilate and retract in time to 'The Gypsy Kings'.

"I go to Canada for a week, and zey will not let me back in. Zese asshole immigration people, zey say to me, 'Why ees eet you spend so much time in zees country? You must return to Eetaly.'"

She snorts loudly and wipes some traces of white powder off her nose.

"So I say to zem, Fuck you motherfucker! Your country suck! I don't want to leeve in zees America, I go 'ome! You suck cock motherfucker!"

A diplomatic reply which I'm sure endeared her to those in Customs.

"So zen, zey say to me zat I 'ave ten days to get out of zees country, so I come back to New York, and I decide - I must get married to ze American."

Why doesn't she just overstay her visa and pick up a fake SS number?

"I do not want to be illegal."

Ah. Of course. Hence the non-illegal path of shacking up with some desperate fucker and placing yourself in a ridiculously vulnerable position for an extortionate fee, all to gain that cherished green card.

"So now I 'ave nine days left to find ze 'usband. I put ze advert on Craig's List."

She sniffs haughtily, hacks up a large, phlegmy glob which she deposits in a shredded tissue retrieved from the pocket of her jeans, and disappears to the ladies room to shoot up some more of Afghanistan's finest. Her ass follows shortly afterwards.

New York is both a dream and a nightmare. The thin line between the two makes you start contemplating the incomprehensible, incorporating it into everyday living. Sometimes oscillating between the lives of the people I work with, the people I write about and my own life, everything starts to feel fictional. What is real? The emails I receive from strangers begging me for sex? The messages from immigrants pleading for tips on how to survive? The curt texts I receive from Carlos, caught up so completely in his own emotional world, that mine seems an amusing afterthought in comparison? The knowledge that I've been here for eight weeks, and I seem no closer to finding a base and filling in the empty spaces which were so glaringly apparent in my life from years of transience? I wish, sometimes, I could just switch off, but lately I've found these thoughts intruding into my dreams at night.

Christ, I need to get laid.

The $250 was found courtesy of the pawn shop on Essex Street, and Barclays Bank in England, who were most amenable to the fact that I have a false UK address, no credit rating to speak of, and little earning potential. Thank you Barclays.

The quality husband with exemplary personal hygiene, will, I fear, be more difficult to locate. Perhaps in the strip club...

Main



Monday, April 25, 2005

How to Earn Your Rent in Four Days

I have managed to scrounge two new jobs to ensure my survival. One is in a lapdancing club on the West Side. The other involves market research into product placement. Both do not commence until next week.

In the meantime, Friday is rent day. I need to earn $250 bucks in four days, or it's ciao to the loft apartment and it's charming quirks, such as the permanent stench of kitty litter, the heated toilet seat of which I have grown so fond, and my pet roach, Gilbert.

I have debated the matter long and hard, and devised a number of theoretical routes one could embark upon in order to earn rent in four days.

1) Pawning my Manolo Blahnik shoes.

Yes, I own Manolos. I used to work on boats, I had no tax to pay, no rent, no grocery shopping. Of course I spent my earnings on useless, frivolous designer items. They have all seen the pawn shop, apart from my Manolos.

2) Selling my eggs.

8,000 bucks a pop. Unfortunately, takes a month for the money to come through.

3) Selling my kidneys.

I worked in a ski resort three years ago. They have devalued in proportion to the amount of alcohol consumed during this time.

4) Clinching a major publishing deal.

Ah, yes. That old chestnut.

5) Cash in Hand-Jobs.

I live in a Jewish area. Despite diligent practice, I still haven't quite grasped the concept of circumcision and how this affects one's wrist action. I fear I would have to charge a mere five bucks for all that effort. That's approximately fifty hand-jobs over little more than 100 hours. A definite challenge, even for myself.

Any other ideas? Time is running out... as is my credit and supernoodles supply.


Click here for interview with me

Main



Sunday, April 24, 2005

My New York

My New York is the rattle of Mexican voices, Eastern European wailing at sundown, clipped Haitian tones, the Italian chefs in Bon Giorno yelling at me "Mimi, you are so stupid, Mimi...". My New York is the look of complicity on your fellow illegal's face when you fill in the little box with your SS number, and your eyes slide hastily away for fear of discovery. My New York is tramping the streets trying to find cash in hand jobs, sucking on a cigarette you bummed from an old Dominican guy playing Dominoes sitting on an upturned beer crate in the street, worrying because you already spent $2.50 today, which is 50 cents more than your average daily allowance, and the rent is due Friday, and working for minimum wage or part time for ten bucks an hour, you're still $250 short, and there's noone to call up, you're still new here, you don't know anyone...

My New York is full of stories from the people who clean up after you, carefully pick up the styrofoam cup you tossed on the subway this morning when you're already safely tucked up in bed. They're the people who make your mid-afternoon capuccino, who hiss and whistle when you walk past with your white girl swagger, your pristine American birth certificate, your American tones. They are the people who smile at you, pull out your chair, fetch you a drink and reply in a voice just like yours, so you would never know they weren't born here. My New York is answering the phone in work, a work you shouldn't be in because you're illegal, but you're white and you're British, so it never occurred to them to ask, and suddenly the slosh of a porteño slur wisks you back to Argentina as a new immigrant confides:

No tengo papeles... No tengo seguridad social... Quién me da empleo?

My New York is peopled by skin colors and accents you never see in Sex and the City, or in the Martini Bar on a Friday after work, or supping on a Merlot in a swanky Italian restaurant in the MeatPacking District. My New York is full of deceit, smiling my white university-educated smile which conceals my illegal blue collar living, two lives, two names, slipping seamlessly between both, so intertwined as to be inextricable, filling in form after form with fictions, carelessly ticking another lie, wondering how you can keep going, taking comfort in the fact this is not your real life, it's just for six months, just for a year...

No, my New York is not your New York. But it is, for many of us, the only New York we know.

Main



Saturday, April 23, 2005

Dating Part 2.

It seems, perhaps, a tad surreal to be musing yet again upon the trials and tribulations of dating whilst simultaneously keeping a watchful eye out for the CIA and overhead helicopters, but alas, when all is said and done, I am but a female. In some ways I feel grateful to 'the office' for having sufficiently occupied my neuroses for an entire 48 hours, thus ensuring I had little energy to expend upon mentally navigating the tricky obstacles of the New York dating scene.

My friends, however, had different ideas. By 'friends', I'm referring to those acquaintances who have my number, and who call me occasionally. After seven weeks, I have to say the concept of 'friends' is still a nebulous one. I've had friends who've tried to fuck me, friends who've accused me of credit card fraud, friends who've tried to report me to the INS, and friends who I've taken great pleasure in assassinating mercilessly on this blog, so the whole 'friend' term is really a loose frame of reference for ease of clarity.

After my exciting morning in 'the office', I retired home to call some journalist friends in London, and drink an excessive amount of tea to calm my nerves. I then went out for some drinks with a 'friend' (acquaintance of roughly five minutes) and was shortly joined by another 'friend' (acquaintance of approximately ten days). The ten day friend decided that after a morning of stress, worry and the fear of imminent deportation if my visa doesn't get here in the next week or so, what could be more conducive to a good night out then - setting me up with another 'friend'. Perhaps I would have been more amenable to the idea if the 'friend' had been Spanish speaking, taller than me, reminiscent of Ashton Kutcher, not a writer, and certainly not a balding, staid thirty-something whom I felt that had I mentioned the strange events which plague Me-me, he would have whipped out a Reporter's notebook and dictaphone and regarded me as a bizarre specimen ripe for journalistic dissection.

The setting up scenario is a fearsome one, and one which I have previously never encountered. What is becoming increasingly apparent about the New York dating scene, is that one is considered a pitiful and sub-human creature if not coupled up and indulging in repetitive and uneventful sex in the missionary position twice a week, with a man so well trained he will buy your sanitary products and toilet roll whilst out shopping for morning bagels. It seems incomprehensible to many that I would rather be single and have more bills to pay than pair up with an inadequate creature merely for the convenience of having hand-delivered tampons, a satiated sexual appetite and someone to lend me money when I'm broke. I actually like drinking a beer on my own, playing music loudly and dancing around naked whilst composing my blog without having to entertain my fictional other half. But the concept that time is running out is all pervasive. I am, after all, 26, and hence should be considering freezing parts of my biology for future use.

Now take my friend of five minutes. Absolutely fantastic guy. Good looking, intelligent, funny - but plagued by the idea that every woman is a potential life partner. New York has ingrained in him so deeply the segregation of the sexes and their meeting point only at the altar that he fails to recognise that by accumulating a variety of female friends, he could thus widen his social circle, gain a valuable insight into the female mind, and potentially meet his theoretical woman through this. Or even... not, but have a great group of girl friends to play with. There must surely be some people in this world who don't manage to have successful relationships and be happy. There must be single people who die fulfilled. But New Yorkers are consumed by the potent myth of the happy couple, torn up by that innate human repulsion against loneliness.

Everyone in New York is dating frenziedly, because everyone is terrified of being left alone. I read recently that a famous artist died in the public restrooms in Grand Central and it took a week to identify him, despite his phenomenal fame and acclaimed public persona. We New Yorkers are merely obsessed by the possibility that we could become the anonymous dead person found with their trousers down in Grand Central Station. The answer is simple. Couple up. Make yourself indispensable to another in order that an untimely absence will render them distraught, useless and finally, heartbroken. In some ways this is the whole dynamic of the relationship. Who cares more. Because the one who cares more, is inevitably the one who will suffer more. The aim is clear. Hook someone in, and make them care for you, whilst you remain relatively emotionless. This dynamic is established early on in the dating ritual through the initial 'phone number exchange'.

Like Pavlov's bells, the exchange of phone numbers for the New York male has become a social conditioner for an immediate boner and the expectation of wild, uninhibited sex. For the female, it is akin to a pre-marriage ritual, and induces immediate daydreams of future children and the wedding cake. All are disappointed. In reality, the exchange of phone numbers is merely a start to the dating games of old. When does one call? On the third day after the initial exchange? But what if one really wants to call on the second day? Does this immediately render one a social pariah for not having a busy enough social calendar to wait the requisite three days?

The female mind has three steps to this three-day call amnesty, as I outlined to my five minute friend in an email this week.

1. The female caller must ensure that the male call-receiver is well aware that she is not desperate.

2. The female caller must impress upon the male call-receiver by a three day no-call rule, that she has had an immensely fulfilling week with very little time to think of a mere man (and hence potential soul mate and husband) due to her impossibly busy and demanding schedule, social life and dating calendar.

3. But now it's day three she can afford to, perhaps, concede a modicum of interest.

In contrast, the male does not think. He just picks up the phone and calls when the mood hits him. It's clear that the male has an immediate advantage to the dating game, merely in his unpremeditated approach, differing radically to the carefully scheduled and pre-rehearsed moves of the female.

If one manages to ever progress beyond the doomed phone number exchange, the next New York obstacle is the revelation stage. New York neuroses dictates that every sexually active person could be a carrier of disease. The 'STD' conversation is introduced relatively early on, when, by New York standards, you are allowed to jump into bed with each other having established that you are really 'dating' and disease-free - usually after alcoholic beverage number five. The 'STD' assurance is followed by the female complaint that the 21st century male never uses condoms. Shocking! Disgraceful! the male tuts in horror, beckoning to the bar tender for another beer as he shakes his head in disbelief. Two hours later he explains to his lustful partner that actually, he's always had a little thing about condoms, sex just doesn't feel right with one on, I mean, obviously he usually uses one, but just this once, he's very good at pulling out in time...

Ah me. This strange world I have chosen to inhabit. The next question on my agenda is:

How many sexual partners is too many?

How many have you had?

Main



Friday, April 22, 2005

Fuckin' Hell

After arriving at my workplace yesterday, I was requested to join B----- for a 'little chat' in the back room. Imagine my joy upon beholding that B----- was actually a secret fan of my blog! Unbeknowst to myself, B----- had been tracking down my browser history, and upon discovery of Mimi in New York, had felt compelled to print it out so as to keep a cherished copy in the workplace for everyone to enjoy. I did feel popular, let me tell you.

Well, B----- and B--- were not impressed as to my description of the joys of office life, nor as to the fact my little site gets 500 + hits a day. They were even less happy that I am a freelance journalist writing for a variety of major publications both in the UK and the US. A little consternation surfaced, a few heated words over the fax machine took place, Mimi was handed $200 and told swiftly to depart, but not before signing a 'gag order' forbidding me to write about the office or the employees in future articles.

Do I think that this one, last post on the issue counts? I think not. I had thought the matter closed, but then received some further correspondence late last night threatening all kinds of weird, exotic and wonderful actions against myself, based upon the presumption that my use of an imaginary SS number on a previous blog post (I must have stolen it from a client!) the loss of some copies of my application form (again, it has to be the dirty 'illegal'!), and the fact that I am not, apparently, on the payroll for any of the newspapers for which I have written, meant I was a threat to National Security. The payroll situation could explain why I still haven't received $750 for some previous work. An interesting discovery which I'm glad the office took the effort to bring to my attention... thank you office! And thank you for your continued reading of this blog - long may it continue! And to further consolidate our friendship, let me just say, 'the office' stops here - with my agreement not to disclose certain characteristics of the company and its work, and your agreement to accept my word, destroy my documentation, and forget that Mimi ever darkened your doors. For I can't help thinking that should the INS, the CIA or the FBI get involved as threatened, they may have slightly more important things to do than track down a writer who is... writing. It's hardly, let's say, the most shocking of all revelations. Nor do I feel a writer writing about working somewhere for less than two weeks constitutes the most horrendous of crimes. The real crime is, perhaps, only in the employer who fails to employ a legal worker. The real object of interest is that they perceive me as some kind of threat to them. The real fear seems to be that Mimi in NY could turn into a little exposé of some of the less attractive sides of the office industry - or am I just being a little contentious here?

So life continues, serene and calm, as Mimi moves on to further New York avenues of adventure, to shed light upon the darkest corners of the city, those places where many venture but few return unscathed - the waitressing job, the office job and next - the market research position.

Main



Thursday, April 21, 2005

Mimi no longer in NY?

Our Legal Department contacted the ------ Newspaper in London and spoke with --------- who checked the newspaper’s database and found no information whatsoever on Mimi F.  Obviously, your supposed story about the ----- getting you a Work Authorization is a complete hoax.  We are still awaiting a copy of your Work Authorization which you needed two extra weeks to provide to us.
 
To our surprise also, copies of all your information including passport and resume have suddenly disappeared out of your file.  Luckily for us, we have three other copies.  We are doing a thorough investigation to see what else is missing.
 
Upon further investigation, our Legal Department had a shock when they discovered your website at www.miminewyork.blogspot.com.  Imagine our consternation when we saw someone’s social security number which you took from our office and posted on your site.  This is totally illegal.  Hopefully you did your homework and made sure that the social security number you posted is not someone’s actual social security number.
 
We are demanding that you pull down all the information on “STAR SKIVVIES” IMMEDIATELY.  If the information is not down from your site by 8:00PM EST, April 21, 2005 an official police report will be made and your passport No. --------- and all the other information that we have on you will be turned over to the necessary authorities.  Do not even think about publishing any further articles about the corporation.
 
If you do have an employer as you CLAIM, we need a letter from them immediately stating that no information whatsoever will be published about us in their paper.  We want nothing that will even hint at our type of industry - staffing. If we do not get the letter and the information on your website is not pulled down, we will be contacting the Federal Communications Commission. Since you did not get a license to do this undercover story you are in violation of the US Federal laws. Further, we will be contacting all the necessary authorities - the British Embassy, The US government, The FBI, the CIA and the US Immigration and Naturalization Service and Homeland Security. You will be stopped at all US borders.  Maybe you can assist them with all the little hints you have about your Queens escapades getting social security cards.  We are sure the FBI and the Immigration and Naturalization Service can use your help as an informant.
 
To avoid any further action you need to act on this immediately.
  
Thank you.
 

Main



Wednesday, April 20, 2005

The Office

I was on the subway at the crack of dawn today en route to The Office. The J train was packed. Two young teenage Jewish guys wearing yarmulkas stood next to two Puerto Ricans, with baggy jeans and basketball shirts. The Puerto Ricans start yelling across the commuters:

"Hey, We love Jews man! Jewish women are fuckin' hot!"

The commuters look around warily, waiting for gang warfare. The Puerto Ricans laugh loudly, punch each other, and start singing -

"J -E - W - S! J - E - W - S!"

The Jewish kids look over. There's a pause. One of them smiles.

"Hey dude, I'll tell you where to get the hottest Jewish women. Club Z man. Club fuckin' Z in the East Village."

Both Puerto Ricans and Jews launch enthusiastically into the relative merits of Jewish pussy, united by that universal, non-sectarian, manly bond - cock. Commuters exhale in relief.

In the office Brenda reveals to me a new gift in the form - of office attire, complete with shoulderpads.

"I thought, like, that you could do with some more suitable clothes. Maybe like, baggy combats aren't like, the best wear for some of our more priority clients? We're like, the same size, right?"

Brenda brandishes a size 16 jacket. I am a size 4.

Swamped in tweed, bolstered by shoulder pads, and inhaling the pungent stench of ozone and menopausal woman, I commence my nine hour sentence. The phone rings.

"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"

It is Polly, the Septuagenarian Texan millionairess.

"Who's that? Who is it? Is that Brenda?"

"No it's Mimi. How are you Polly?"

Bill, Polly's dearly beloved, passed away three days ago, presumably after over-exposure to their noo colored nurse Dotzy from St Lucia.

"Ah've lost his teeth. They're gone. That noo nurse stole 'em. Tell her to give 'em back. Ah need Bill's teeth fer the funeral. Ah can't bury him without his teeth..."

She starts to weep hysterically. I switch to speakerphone. Brenda snickers cruelly before turning back to People magazine and a bumper packet of Twinkies, keeping one eye out for any new erotic Instant Messages from Leroy in PR. I transfer Polly to the harassed office assistant, Sally-Jane. Sally-Jane is Brenda's favorite target. She bears the brunt of the brutal and cutting Instant Messages which Brenda has honed to perfection after years of mastering the skilled art of office sadism.

SJ, R U S2pid? Do u want 2 keep this job?

Sally-Jane flutters anxiously.

Have u put on weight?

SJ palpitates visibly, and retires to the photocopier. I have informed Brenda that I have a debilitating and highly unpleasant bowel disorder which necessitates frequent hourly trips to the bathroom, thus ensuring my cigarette breaks go uninterrupted. Noting that I have twelve callers on hold, I decide it is prudent to exercise one of such breaks, and vanish to my usual spot outside the remnants of the WTC, in order to inflict cancer upon myself with a Marlboro.

Returning to The Office, I am greeted by a sheath of letters which have, yet again, failed to live up to the impossibly high standards set by Brenda, and must be retyped, by moi, for the sixth time. I surreptitiously click on Internet whilst Brenda works industriously on her eleventh Twinkie of the day, and start to write an email. Instantly my IM flashes.

R U on the internet?

I close the window and return to correcting letterheads. I check the time. 47 minutes until my debilitating bowel disorder / nicotine addiction necessitates another toilet trip. 7 hours, 43 minutes until freedom. I reach, quietly, for my cellphone for essential text-message relief in the form of contact with a world outside The Office. The IM icon flashes.

R U making personal calls?

The phone rings.

"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"

Main



Monday, April 18, 2005

Oh the irony...

Hello St-- Sk-----s, How may I help you?

Today's scintillating and challenging office task is to open envelopes, retrieve the contents, and read them. The content so far seems to comprise of the results of background checks that St-- Sk-----s are currently running on their employees.

Mimi F. - SS number 011-23-4342
Results: Name and SS number do not correspond

Brenda wobbles over.

"Hey Mimi, is everything like, OK? You just gotta like, open the envelope, and then take out the letter, then like read it... all SS numbers and names match?"

Brenda's attention is quickly diverted by a new Instant Message flashing on her computer from Leroy in PR. She dashes away, leaving the faint scent of desperate menopausal woman in the air.

Office life continues serenely, oblivious to the alien in its midst.

Main



The American DREAM

Education, hard work, determination – these are often cited as the key to success in the United States, access to that all-pervading myth of ‘the American Dream’, a myth so potent that it draws 105,000 foreign-born illegals into this country every year. But the American dream is as remote to some as if they had stayed in Morocco, Taiwan, Nigeria or Venezuela. When my article came out in The Village Voice defending illegal aliens from many of the accusations often levied at them, I checked an online message board connected to the Coalition of Student Advocates (CoSA), a group which provides an online forum for the children of illegals brought into this country from an early age. One girl wrote in excitement after reading the article, which aimed to dispel many of the dispersions cast upon illegals: “Let’s get together in NYC and have a party. I’ll bring the cake.” A poignant reply swiftly followed: “Did someone mention cake? I just want my papers.”

Coming originally from the UK, America is still a foreign country to me. New Yorkers struggle to understand my accent, and I stick out like a sore thumb wandering through my Hasidic Jewish neighbourhood with skinny tees and 4 inch heels. I’m still an outsider, an observer, but the possibility for acceptance, access to that holy grail of American myth-making, the American Dream, is still there for me. It comforts me to think that I won’t be a waitress forever. And then I received a message from ‘Amy’, a girl working in the service industry in New York City, who said she wanted to speak with me urgently.

Amy came to my apartment, as she felt it was too dangerous for us to talk in public. A tall, attractive Asian girl, articulate, well-educated, sharp and funny, she’s been in this country for 23 years, narrowly missing out on the 1986 IRCA, a law providing a blanket amnesty for those who entered the US before January 1st of 1982, by a matter of weeks. She thinks like an American, she talks like an American, she was educated through the American system, she pays American taxes, she has the ability to both recognize America's faults and praise its achievements with a swift intellect which leaves you breathless. Amy had aspirations to become a lawyer after college – but left law school upon discovering that her undocumented status means that she would have been unable to step up to the bar. For Amy can't wave that essential piece of paper which 'validates' her as a citizen. Brought over here by her parents from Taiwan when she was three years old to escape persecution from the Kuomingtang, her family was not considered for refugee status as the US government did not acknowledge the humanitarian crisis in Taiwan at this time. Amy and her family began to slot into life in the US as one of the 11 million undocumented people living here today.

Because of bureaucratic technicalities, Amy is not an American citizen, but she is an American. If Amy were ever to be granted citizenship, it is certain that she would not take it for granted, because she's thought of little else her entire life. Meeting someone like Amy, who is exactly my age, is completely sobering. I've researched my decision to come to the US on and off for five years or so, considered schools, looked at colleges, applied for jobs from the UK or Spain to meet with the same response "Are you in the US? Because if you're not in the US we can't even consider you. Are you eligible to work?". Yet to go to the US and actively seek work as a foreign passport holder is grounds for deportation, as is my current activity, writing about immigration without the ‘correct’ visa. My acquaintance with these issues is patchy, piecemeal, cobbled together from talks with an immigration lawyer and the advice of friends. Amy is a wealth of knowledge about new bills, past amnesties, potential changes to the law, because she is forced to keep abreast of these issues on a regular basis - hoping that something may change about this system and allow her to stop working part-time in the service industry and start both her career and her life as an American citizen.

Many of the criticisms and aspersions cast upon illegal aliens focus on their uneducated status, their inability to speak English, their failure to pay taxes, their ‘abuse’ of the welfare system. Yet several days ago, in the Mercury news, there was an article about how much money illegal immigrants put into Social Security and Medicare. The numbers are staggering. Taxes alone are estimated at around $83 billion a year. The IRS chooses to turn a blind eye to identity theft because it is added profit to them. Illegals can pay tax, but not file tax returns. If America were to somehow deport all of the 8-10 million illegals (2% of the total population) currently residing in the US and slow down immigration even more than the 900,000 or so visas handed out each year, there would be economic chaos. Employers simply can’t rely solely on unionized workers. These 900,000 foreign immigrants are needed to keep up with growth alone. Amy is a perfect example of one such illegal who contributes to the American economic system without reaping the benefits of citizenship. She works a forty-hour week, pays for her own Health Insurance since her workplace does not provide this, has a bank account, credit cards, a driver’s license (gained before new laws prohibited illegals from gaining such documentation), a social security number (not valid for employment) and is more American than I could ever hope to be. Yet Amy lives in constant fear of deportation, a fear most American citizens are unable to comprehend.

“I was going to tell my story to Glamour Magazine. They said they couldn’t do it without a picture. I was like, ‘Are you crazy? No fucking way!”

She shakes her head in disbelief.

“Don’t people realize that this is my life which I could jeopardize by going public? But to them it’s just another story for their next publication.”

I suggest that many Americans misperceive the process of gaining citizenship, and think it’s actually a lot easier than it proves to be. She nods in agreement.

“There’s some kind of idea that illegals come here, and if they stay long enough, they’ll automatically be granted citizenship. That’s not true. My family has never taken anything from anyone, and we paid taxes all our lives. My parents had to pay out-of-state tuition to send me and my sisters to college, despite having spent every year since we arrived in the US paying taxes in our state. Twenty-three years later, we’re still undocumented.”

She pauses.

“I’m scared to leave. There is a ten-year bar on re-entering the US once the INS realizes that you’ve been out of status in the US for any amount of time. I don’t know where else to go, as I speak English far better than any other language.”

I discuss the situation of illegals in this country with Amy. She is a realist, conceding that outsourcing, the use of illegals as cheap unskilled labor, NAFTA, is all “just business. It’s real life. America is run like a business, and Bush is one hell of a businessman.” She suggests to me that whilst Bush’s Migrant Worker Program corrects some issues, it doesn’t account for those illegals already here, who have an education and are ready and able to work and contribute towards their adopted country. Amy is one voice among many. 65,000 undocumented students graduate from high school in the United States every year, and because of their lack of papers, are faced with astronomical out-of-state tuition fees should they wish to attend college, or more realistically, no college at all.

Amy has few choices. She can get married for papers, “But it goes against everything I was taught,” or she can continue working in a dead-end job, with few, if any career prospects, and hope that the DREAM act will pass in Congress this week when it is re-introduced for the third time.

The DREAM Act states that any child brought illegally into the US at the age of 15 or under, has lived in this country for five years and has demonstrated excellent moral character will be given the opportunity to gain six years of conditional status. The proviso is that the candidate continues onto either college, or the US military for two years. After six years during which their behavior and character is subject to further scrutiny, they can apply for citizenship. Contrast this bill to the indiscriminate handing out of 60,000 green cards with the infamous ‘green card lottery’, and one starts to question what kind of people government officials are trying to let into this country.

I spoke to Josh Bernstein - one of the campaigners for DREAM - about the proposed bill. He was optimistic about the upcoming Congressional vote, and felt that the achievements of many undocumented constituents had been responsible for DREAM’s increase in popularity among House members.

“I think the most important thing for people to realize is that these kids have battled hard to get to this stage. They’ve been brought into this country through no fault of their own. They’ve been educated as Americans, have had to learn a second language, a new culture, and have thrown themselves into a new society. Most are not from affluent backgrounds, and to have avoided the social problems associated with poverty, not just avoided, but to have proved themselves to be so amazing, both academically and socially, is miraculous. They are the living embodiment of the American Dream – the belief that you can build yourself up from nothing. We can’t turn them away from their country. They belong to America now.”

Josh put me in contact with Kamal Essaheb, like Amy, another New Yorker. Kamal has been in the US since he was eleven years old. Unlike Amy who is not known to the INS and is compelled to stay anonymous to protect her identity and her future in the United States, Kamal is currently fighting against his impending deportation. After 9/11, Kamal took his family along to 26 Federal Plaza in Manhattan for ‘Special Registration’ – a demand that men of a certain age from predominantly Muslim countries must register with the INS. This set into action the chain of events which is inexorably leading to Kamal and his family being deported. The story is a familiar one. The New York Times covered a similar case several years back looking at 17 year old Mohammed, a parentless high-school senior who was nearly deported back to Pakistan following Special Registration. Mohammed got lucky. Following the publication of the article in The New York Times, Senator Ackerman intervened, and Mohammed was allowed to stay. The publicity for his case perhaps alleviated a recognised public demand for justice to be served for such victims of indiscriminate and uncompassionate laws. Yet the media lost interest after Mohammed’s case. Thousands of stories remain untold and unacknowledged by the New York media, and consequently the public. Private bills by Senators are the exception, and many, like Kamal, are not so lucky.

Kamal is one of life’s achievers. Josh described him to me as “a young Kennedy,” and after a brief telephone conversation, I could see why. After graduating from Queen’s College, Kamal was offered a place to attend Stein Scholars Program in Public Interest Law and Ethics at Fordham University, a highly selective scholarship program for students committed to public interest. He started volunteering at a local organization called ‘Sanctuary for Families’ that provided shelter, counseling and legal service to battered women and children. Kamal is one of those people who is patently brilliant. In person, he’s affable, good-looking, warm and intelligent, an All-American young adult. Yet nothing that Kamal, or his brothers, Hassan, completing a Masters at Columbia, and Housseine, an Actuary, has achieved is likely to make a difference to their immigration case.

“Every few months, we go to a master calendar hearing and hope that this won’t be the hearing where we’re ordered deported. If deported, the law will prevent us from returning to our homes here for at least 10 years, and likely much longer than that. We live on borrowed time, never quite knowing where we’ll be six months from now.”

Talking to Kamal is like talking to an adult who has lived through decades of strife. The possibility that he may be removed from his home and his friends is ever-present. Like Amy, marriage would be the only ‘legal’ route for Kamal to become a citizen. A false marriage precisely for such purposes is anathema to Kamal. He admits ruefully that “Now is the time I probably need it most, a partner, support, the possibility of getting my papers. Yet I can’t comprehend starting anything new, not now, not with this hanging over me.” Even if he did get married, this would not prevent his family from being deported, and Kamal refuses to stay in the US without his siblings. He admits he is already mentally prepared for leaving the US, one foot hesitantly poised out of the door.

The punitive laws brought into existence after 9/11 are often cited as displaying an American fear of race, particularly those immigrants of Muslim countries. Whilst it is true that those of Asian and Arab countries have suffered major indignities since the WTC attack, what is glaringly apparent is that the system fails immigrants of every ethnicity and nationality. Sunny is a 21 year old British girl living in South Florida, brought into the country illegally by her parents when she was nine years old. Sunny was unable to attend college due to the out-of-state fees she would have had to pay for a degree course. She is now in a quandary as to where her future lies – in the US, without further education and papers, and thus without access to a career suiting someone of her intellect, or in the UK. If she returns to the UK, she again will have to pay foreign student fees for university attendance as she has been out of the country for such a lengthy period of time. Illegality places its victims in an impossible Catch 22 situation.

The argument against Amy, Kamal and Sunny is simply that they are illegal. Kamal’s father lost his green card after being exploited by his employer, who subsequently mismanaged the paperwork, leaving the family without immigrant status. Amy recites a similar tale. Sunny’s parents did not research their decision, but simply turned up in Florida expecting the route to citizenship to be a relatively simple. It is a tale which is painfully familiar amongst undocumented citizens. The process of ‘legalizing’ oneself in this country is full of bureaucratic pitfalls and misinformation. Immigration lawyers vary in standard from the very brilliant, to the direfully inadequate, and for those immigration candidates whose English is less than adequate, informing oneself becomes practically impossible. As a university graduate, potential law student and first-language English speaker, even I found the maze of information concerning work visas, residency and citizenship impossible to navigate without effective legal representation. It is easy to comprehend how families such as Kamal’s, Amy’s and Sunny’s, without the right lawyer, simply fall out of the system.

Opponents to the DREAM and the Student Adjustment Act point out that allowing people like Amy, Sunny and Kamal citizenship would ‘reward’ such ‘illegal’ behavior. I found one message on the CoSA website which suggests precisely the opposite.

Me and my family came to the US ten years ago. Dad, Mom, sister and of course me… They were all adults when they came, I was just 12. As time passed, we all stayed here illegally for a few years, until my sister married an American citizen. Of course, she became a resident and then a citizen, and because of the laws my parents became permanent residents after a few years. I however, did not, and became an illegal immigrant because I reached the age of 21. So, it appears to me that the American laws rewarded my family despite their illegal behavior, yet I, who was the least at fault because it was not my choice to come here, cannot be pardoned?

Amy says simply that; “no one can truly understand our situation unless they’ve walked in our shoes – a million miles and then some.” I spoke to many New Yorkers about the issue of illegal aliens, what they thought, would they support DREAM and the Student Adjustment Act, and time and time again I was faced with the same reply:

“My grandfather was illegal.” “My Mother was illegal.” “I came here as a refugee.” “I got a green card through my wife.”

Does an illegal deserve that most coveted of all prizes, citizenship? I asked a former Vietnamese refugee now a citizen, working as a cop with NYPD.

“We are a country of immigrants. If someone proves to be of worth to our country, if someone takes citizenship that seriously, then yes, they deserve to be here.”

Unless Senator Clinton files a Private Bill, a highly unlikely proposal, unless the DREAM act passes this week, Kamal will return to Morocco, a country of which he has little recollection. Whether the DREAM act will pass or not is doubtful. Despite Josh’s optimism, Kamal and others remain skeptical. They have been through too much to place their hopes solely on the creaky workings of the immigration system and the law courts. Contrasting the slowness of this bill with the speed in which the REAL ID Act is rattling through Congress, one starts to have serious doubts about where the interests of American bureaucracy lie. The REAL ID act creates a number of obstacles for Asylum seekers and other applicants, meaning that the high burden of proof required to file such an act would rise to almost impossible proportions. Access to the courts will be prohibited under this law, meaning that many unlawful deportations will see no judicial review or hearings. There is already an enormous immigration backlog in this country, yet this law, designed to expediate deportation proceedings, has major repercussions on civil liberties for potential immigrants and asylum seekers. It would only increase the problem. It is interesting to note that of the 33 billion dollars allotted to the Department of Homeland Security this year, only six million dollars was allocated to decreasing the immigration backlog. There is simply no hope for people like Amy and Kamal whilst the system remains in its present inefficient state. The DREAM act and the Student Adjustment Act would be a major start to readdressing the balance of power, and allowing the innocent victims of US immigration procedures to gain back some rights. But the issue remains an unpopular one in the press. If one brilliant athlete is reprieved, Congress is able to pat themselves on the back, ride on the media attention, and then return to ignoring the real issue at stake. That this system is in desperate need of reform, help and support, to ensure that the other Mohammeds are similarly given justice, is evident.

Awareness is growing. I attended a film screening at NYU last week, where talented law students, filmmakers and social workers gathered to discuss these issues with an intelligence, clarity and simplicity such a ‘grey area’ of law belies. That the lawyers of the future are devoting their time to immigration clinics, into giving their clients the help the system has denied them, is impressive. America has produced these people, and it has a right to feel proud. Yet America has also produced those such as Amy, Kamal and Sunny, and it shows itself reluctant to feel the pride these talented non-citizens have the potential to evoke for a country they feel is their own. The REAL ID act has been attached to an appropriations bill in the Senate, and is expected to be taken up with little real discussion, during this week. The DREAM Act will be presented shortly afterwards, and will face the full scrutiny of the floor. Kamal has a further deportation hearing in the next few days. Sunny is still in South Florida, planning how to study for the college course which she has worked towards all her young life. Amy will continue working part-time in the service industry, harboring her continued dream to one day own her own business. How will you cope? I asked her.

“I’ll figure it out because I have to. Like most illegals, I’ll always find a way.”

She smiles.

“We’re survivors.”

Main



Friday, April 15, 2005

Which Hole?

Hi! My name's Mimi, and I'd like to take a few moments of your time for an online survey which will undoubtedly improve the quality of your life, career prospects and social interactions. The survey is for a non-profit organisation entitled 'Which Hole?' and the questions are really quite simple.

***So have you, would you and will you again?***

It struck me today that Brenda from work certainly, as you Americans so delicately phrase it, 'takes it up the butt'.


Me... I'll give you my answers only if the comments section hits 40...

Main



Thursday, April 14, 2005

Pricks I Have Known: No. 6, The Anal-Fixator

The Anal Fixator plans his conquest in minute detail. No inelegant and clumsy thrusting for this creature, but a detailed, lubricated and effortless plan of attack. Obviously the Anal Fixator would prefer his rectum nicely oiled up and relaxed by excessive alcohol intake, but a sober victim presents no palpable form of resistance such that the Master of the Anus cannot overcome.

His trick lies in the process of seduction. The Anal Fixator, unbeknown to the female of the species, has had the express objective of sticking-it-up-there all along, yet will profess, upon first bringing up the issue, that this is 'his first time', and thus, by extension, a 'special' form of intimacy that can only function to bring both of you closer together, as a loving, trusting, albeit faecal-obsessed, couple.

There is a pattern to his conquest, a delicate weaving together of mind, body and anus which demands from him the utmost concentration. The Anal Fixator is a devious little puppy. First the little finger is employed at the height of orgasm. The female victim thus begins to associate digit + orifice = pleasure, until the equation becomes indistinguishable. The little finger will gradually progress to the larger index. Patience is of the essence at this stage, and a mistimed introduction to the penis-up-the-butt could ruin the tenuous connection he has so immaculately established. With the concentration of a Yogi, the Anal-Fixator bides his time. It is only after he has lulled his partner into a sense of unshakeable security, with spooning, long talks about existential angst and beer, plus a gift of his favorite boxer shorts, that the Anal-Fixator will pounce, and...

Stick It Up.

Mr Anal Fixator, the purveyor of all anal-knowledge on my previous blog, I am not entirely acquainted with you, but I feel, strangely, as if I know you. I profess that the prospect of my waste products revisiting me via a different orifice to that which they exited, on a carrier which can be appropriately labelled 'your tiny penis', does not immediately make me wet and dripping with lust. I would like to decline the offer of friendship and too-much-information you so charitably shared with us all, and tell you to fuck right off.

But having said that, there are some girls out there who like assholes like you. Go get 'em cowboy.

Main



Wednesday, April 13, 2005

Mierda

My musician roommates, Desiree and Joe, have been on tour in Japan for the last two weeks. In their absence, other roommate Dingo, his girlfriend Conchita and myself, have been indulging in frequent late-night Margarita binges, smoking until we made ourselves sick, and playing bad music in an incessant, unrelenting loop. We knew the party had ended when we ran out of toilet paper, we could no longer reach the front door because of the amount of trash piled in front of it, and the cat had developed dags all around its derriére.

To be fair, Desiree and Joe had not forewarned either Dingo or myself that cats require a good deal of attention, such as feeding and watering. Nor had they thought to suggest that we locate the kitty litter tray ahead of time and, for hygiene's sake, ensure its frequent cleaning. Both Dingo and I had been aware of a noxious, pungent aroma for several days, but secretly attributing it to each other, we had failed to take action.

Tonight, it became too much.

I ventured forth, following the aroma of poop to what was not, as I had previously thought, my roommate, but a plastic box hidden behind a moulding sofa, half a bicycle and a drum kit. Upon removal of the lid, I was greeted by a veritable Pompeii of fossilised kitty crap, resembling miniature terracotta warriors. I reached for a nearby garden trowel, and through a process of trial and error, managed to deduce that rather than throw the entire box away, litter, crap and all, it was possible to sift gently through the offending articles, remove them, and recycle the actual litter, so that the apartment now smells only of cat pee, as opposed to shit. The ingenuity of this astounded me. Indeed, I found the whole process of scrabbling around in gravel to locate the last, devious crispy log, on the whole a rather soothing, therapeutic experience.

I have started to appreciate many of the smaller pleasures of life since commencing work in St-- Sk-----s.

Main



Tuesday, April 12, 2005

Star Skivvies

The new job is right next to the gaping wound where the World Trade Center used to be. I feel it is an ominous sign. The basic premise is that I'm responsible for interviewing potential carers, nannies, nursing aides, butlers, chefs, housekeepers and other staff for the créme de la créme of New York Society. Brenda, my boss, explains my duties in great detail.

"So then you, like, pick up the phone when it rings, and there will be, like, a person on the other end, and you have to say like 'Hello Star Skivvies, How may I help you?' and they will reply..."

The office is beige and pink. They play supermarket music continually at a tone set to resemble Chinese water torture. Brenda wears brown tweed and shoulderpads. I spend an hour playing Solitaire on the computer. The phone rings.

"Hello, Star Skivvies, How may I help you?"

A quavering voice trembles across the line.

"It's Po-lly. Who're you? Ah don't know yer voice. Who are ya?"

I put the call on hold and tell Brenda that it's Polly. She mouths over (using accompanying hand gestures) that I should tell Polly, one of their clients, a Texan Septuagenarian millionairess living in New York, that her nurse, Ramona, has gone to the hospital to have a cyst removed from her inner thigh and that Nurse Gloria will be changing her old-person nappies today. Charades over, Brenda resumes Instant Messaging with Leroy in the PR department, unaware that I have secretly logged onto her IM and can read every sordid detail of their last steamy stationary cupboard encounter together. I go back to the call.

"Hi Polly, Ramona can't make it today..."

"I know, but I don't want a noo nurse, I jes' want my Ramona or nobody young lady...."

There is a scuffle in the background. A croaky male voice yells "Is she young? Good lookin'? Ready fer anythin'?"

Polly's voice tremulously re-emerges.

"Shurrup Bill. That's ma husband. Tell me young lady, this Gloria, is she... black?"

"Erm... no?"

"Wa-all, Ah guess ah kin have a noo nurse jes' fer one day. Ah'm jes' worried about the time it takes me to open the door. It takes me a real long time to open the door. What if ah spend all that time gettin' to the door, and she ain't there no more?"

I check the time. It's 10.20am. Gloria is scheduled to arrive at 11am.

"Polly, tell you what, how about you set off for the door now, and by the time you get there, she'll probably be standing on the doorstep waiting for you."

"Oh. Ah guess. Oh. Ah'll get up now. Oh it hurts. Oh the pain..."

I hang up.

Star Skivvies prides itself on its staff selection process, which is, according to the website, "likened to Fort Knox" in its ability to filter out 'smokers', 'those with fake documentation', 'illegals' and other 'undesirables'. How they managed to miss the chain-smoking illegal on the front desk answering the phone for ten bucks an hour with a fake SS number and no work visa is anyone's guess. The clue is, perhaps, in the white skin, English accent, and Brenda's IQ level. I can see that this job will push me to unendurable new intellectual heights. I am already relishing the challenge.

Main



Sunday, April 10, 2005

Dating

I heard on the grapevine that not everyone shags on the first date (impossible to believe I know) and those that do are condemned to Ho-dom forever, and are consequently incapable of maintaining healthy, mature, adult relationships. This concerned me greatly. After a veritable shag drought, surely one's attitude should be to get it while you can - if he/she turns out to be an asshole then move swiftly on, and if not, fantastic! you've won the lottery! Hello relationship and cosy nights in drinking red wine, watching DVD's together and initiating early-morning, bad-breathed sex before work.

But apparently, in God's Blessed Land, 'dating' has been established for the express pursuit of filtering out one's life partner before tumbling haphazardly into bed with them. This confuses me greatly. I am, as I wrote on another blog recently, more used to the English way of doing things. Get blind drunk, snog, repeat the next week, repeat the next week, bang! relationship. No messy phone calls. No awkward prearranged getting-to-know-each-other drinks affairs. No coded text messaging. By the time alcohol has dissolved that messy barrier between social convention and drunken desire at least three times, the English couple has progressed past the need to ever 'know' each other apart from in the carnal sense.

Now New York confuses me. When a guy wants to 'hang out' with you, it does not, apparently, mean that he feels comfortable enough to swing his genitalia freely in your presence, but that he wishes to partake of an alcoholic beverage in your company whilst talking obsessively about his ex-girlfriends. This takes place three times, in three different locations. He will then try and screw you like a bitch. When three repetitive monologues yield little more than a brisk handshake, he becomes, surprisingly, annoyed.

So the issue is certainly that everyone wants to have sex on the first date, but ideally you should wait until the third. But by the third, interest has definitely waned to the point where more talk of Belinda-the-amazing-yet-screwed-up-ex really doesn't get you sufficiently turned on enough to look past the bad hair, nose-picking and garlic breath. You are consequently out of pocket, still desperate for sex, and with the depressing realisation that you have wasted three precious evenings with a complete cock.

What complicates this 'dating' affair is that unlike the English unspoken-yet-accepted tacit agreement that one is 'taken', 'dating' is so nebulous that one person could be dating three or four different people, and that, apparently, is entirely acceptable. One person told me he had 'dated' a girl for a year, but it 'wasn't a relationship'. What? How the hell does that work? Surely it becomes a relationship as soon as you've had sex when sober and feel guilty about screwing the cute guy in Starbucks? How can it be any other way? What are these Americans thinking?

I am presently being pursued relentlessly by this guy who calls me every day. When we initially met, I expressed no interest in him, and he spent two hours moaning about his Italian girlfriend, which I assumed to imply that he similarly had no interest in me. Two weeks later, the phone calls commenced from out of the blue. He called me at 3am one morning. I sleepily told him to get fucked. The next evening he called again. I asked him why he had called me at 3am that morning and not heeded my advice to go fuck himself and cease the molestation. There was a pause.

"I phoned you at 3am?"

"Yes."

"Oh. Oooooh. Oh no. No, that can't have been me. That must have been, my, erm, friends, stealing my phone, and calling you. Yeah. Yeah, that was it. Assholes. So what you doing later? You wanna hang out?"

I think not.

Now matters become even more complicated when you actually like someone. New York is not the kind of place you casually bump into people you know. Schedules are tight, everyone is busy, the city will not stop for one person. So 'dates' entail planning in minute detail. Or even no planning at all. Take Carlos from Queens for example. The situation is disturbing. I like Carlos. I think he likes me. We have fun, he practises good personal hygiene, he drinks as much as, if not more than me, he's a musician, he's intelligent, interesting, funny and he is very, very cute.

But do I ever see the damned boy? We have a virtual (non)relationship via text-messaging. I have been in a (non)relationship with Carlos for only a month. Hardly enough time to start stamping your feet and whining 'what's going on?' But I literally don't know what to think. Do I see him so rarely because he spends all his spare time screwing his ex? Is it any of my business? Is he just a nice boy too sweet to tell a fragile English rose who sucked his cock one night after too many beers that he's just not interested? Why all the text messages? Is this the manner in which New York dating runs its doomed and futile course, once every two weeks a few Margaritas and a drunken snog in the rain before taking three subway rides home to a dark and cold apartment? Perhaps I am, unknowingly, being pitted in a close run competition between myself and three others of the female gender (a lá The Bachelor), and the eventual prize will be my own personal man, or else a swift goodbye after enough dates for Carlos to figure out that I am not... the one. I have an intuitive feeling that I am somehow not 'ideal girlfriend' material, which suggests I may find myself exiting the program on about the fourth episode. And then I guess this leads to the real question, what do I expect from him?

Well, good point. I don't know. Having sailed through the last few years shagging married men (unknowingly, for the most part) I don't think I'd know what to do if I ever got past the 'hanging out','dating' stage with an available, fully-functioning male free of emotional scarring and a wedding ring. What do I expect? More hanging out, less dating. Dating has connotations of bars and expensive drinks and I'm too damned poor. Hanging out suggests more friendship, more trust, more talking. I guess, really, when it comes down to it, I expect to know what's going on, instead of being in this bizarre paralysis of unknowing, unsure if you're being taken for a ride, gently dumped, or just... not even thought about.

Maybe the real question is more - why have I become so ridiculously neurotic? I found myself spending Sunday afternoon in Central Park with a frappuccino avidly reading puerile crap for the neurotic female mind, such as the dating bible 'He's just not that into you', and scouring its pages for tell-tale signs of impending (non)relationship cessation.

Are you neurotic? Tick.
Are you depressed? Tick, but only because I have no money and no career. Does that count?
Does he let you down? Well, he doesn't call when he says he's going to...
Does he call at all? Occasionally, more text messages.
Why occasionally? Because he's busy.

Noone is that busy! He's just not that into you! You are a LOSER! Get back in the dating pool!

Great.

I think I need to get out more. The writing combined with hardcore left wing politics, beers at night with my roommates, being dumped by the O'Reilly Factor and no sex is starting to get to me.

Oh to be in England...

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Friday, April 08, 2005

Cheers me dears

Thanks for all the amazing emails everyone - every time I feel like quitting I log in and someone else has left me an inspiring story, a message of support, some kind words... there's a lot of us out there, I guess, in the same situation worlds over, many far far worse off than I will ever be, just trying to make a living and getting our voices heard. I found myself two jobs yesterday - one is matching up nannies with celebrity clients. Fortunately, Americans are pretty dumb and you wave any kind of visa in their face and they stop asking questions, which shelved that problem. The other is watching prime-time TV for 14 bucks an hour and then writing about it for an online magazine. I can think of worse occupations. The man situation has not visibly improved. I am now being pursued by some lunatic who keeps calling at weird hours for no apparent reason. Fortunately, Carlos the Puerto-Rican-Cubano-American has so far revealed no hidden children, venereal diseases or hints of psychopathy, and has not yet accused me of credit card fraud or self-obsession, so at least I have one person I can call who is (so far) not off their fucking tits.

Someone asked me why I'm such a wanderer, why, after five years I suddenly decided to stop, and how the hell a black activist ended up inside a middle-class white chick's body.

Hmm. Here goes in answering that one...

Let's start by introducing you all to the Feo Family.

My dearest mother and father got hitched when my Mum was 17 and my Dad was 22. They spent their youth discovering the flaws in various methods of contraception and consequently churning out children. My Mother then hit on the pill, and took a ten year break. They then decided to go for one last brat, and got two instead, myself and Cinderella. The Feo family are that dying breed of huge mafia families with all the fighting and the stresses of seven very different people living in the same house. We squabbled, we squalled, we argued, we laughed, we got extremely drunk at Christmas time, and we got on with life in North Wales. Dearest Dad was always good for a laugh as a permanently stressed, misanthropic Scouse family doctor.

"So this fucking woman comes into the surgery and says 'Doctor, I don't know what to do Doctor, I think I have a gland problem. I just can't lose weight'."

He chortles and downs a glass of wine in one gulp.

"Sose I said to her, 'Look, they were no fat people in Auschwitz. Think about it'."

He goes off on a mad cackle, and my Mum joins in, two scousers united against an ugly world.

Growing up in Wales sucked. It was not multicultural. A few cows, some fat girls called Sharon and Angharad, and a lot of sheep. You have only two options. You get the fuck out, or you stay and marry a guy called Gareth and work down the local Lunn Poly and stress about your cellulite with Denise the Beauty Therapist over a cup of tea and a slice of Bara Brith. So I worked my ass off and got out, much to the shock of my dear family, who thought I was destined, like Sylvia Plath, for bad poetry and the gas oven.

Cambridge was cool. Everyone spoke posh though. And they all knew each other. And they all knew Hanif Kureishi. And everyone wanted to be actors and thought they were funny. I did too, and joined the Footlights, and pretended to be as posh as everyone else, and didn't go back to Wales very often. The incentive for returning, in the shape of a very nice house in the middle of the mountains, had disappeared as Daddy had hit on a little problem with the tax man, which I'm certain is why they're now happily settled far away from the Inland Revenue Service in rural Spain. So I did my Cambridge time, wrote a lot of articles, acted in a lot of bad plays, and discovered something called Postcolonial Literature, which was all written by brown people suffering oppression and trying to struggle free from the last vestiges of English colonial rule. My final year was shaped by amazing and inspiring tutors from Ghana and India and Canada and Nigeria. England seemed like a very small place. So I left, and went to live in Argentina.

Argentinians aren't South American. Argentinians hate brown people, and Indians, and short dark people, and tall dark people, and anyone who doesn't look or act like a European. It wasn't the best choice. So I went to India and worked with Buddhist monks. Then I went to Cambridge again and wrote about South-Asian immigrants in the US. And then I went to Nepal and studied with more Buddhist monks. And then Tibet. And then France, and Italy, and Spain, and across the sea to Trinidad, and Tobago, and Antigua, and Grenada, and St Maarten, and Anguilla, and Mustique, and St Barts, and Jamaica, and Haiti, and Costa Rica, and Guatemala, and the States.... it goes on. And the more I travelled, the more I couldn't bear the thought of returning to the island in the north, where my friends had settled into domestic London existences and took drugs to make the weekend bearable, and my family started to break apart and tear themselves and each other into pieces. And I had started to notice that what I'd read and studied in postcolonial literature was all true. People weren't treated the same. The West Indians were cussed at by rich white people. The Hispanics were seen as the rats of Florida. The Indians and Pakistanis I hung out with were suddenly dirty asylum seekers. All these people who I'd travelled with and had sketched in the empty canvas of my life - I was meant to be better than them?

Travelling is hard. It's addictive. You go to one place, make new friends, start learning a new language and culture, you thirst for more. You give up your friends and family and support system, and live on your wits alone. It's an adrenalin rush. You answer to nobody. You suffer the bliss of permanent nostalgia, memories and tinges of places you've been, places you've yet to go. You're constantly whispering both goodbye and hello in the same breath. I'd suffer two months working 16 hour days on a boat owned by rich assholes for the thrill of a big pay check and the knowledge that the day the boat docked in port, I could fly somewhere new. You survive inside yourself and learn to be hard, and suspicious, and inquisitive, and entirely self-sufficient. There were no guys in this time, noone I let in. Just nights here and there, a few farewells, only time for experiences and people. The people I've met just for one day are still around, still in my life. And the people I knew from my childhood somehow slipped silently away.

But travelling is all about deferral. You observe and store up what you need, but you know, always, that you're escaping something, postponing the inevitable. For me it was probably a fear of normality. Of turning into Glenda who works at Lunn Poly and has cellulite on her arms. Of living in London and taking the tube to work every day and coming home to a balding twenty-something asleep in the armchair with his hand still in his pants. Of opening the paper and reading about these far off countries and people. It was a fear of failing to be a writer. As long as I kept moving and writing my novel, I wouldn't have to deal with the fact noone actually liked it.

The funny thing is, I always said I'd stop moving when I came to New York. And the last year when the travelling didn't satiate me any more, and I wanted to see, tenuously, if I could make it as a writer, and start telling people about what I'd seen, and why the world really shouldn't be as fucked up as it is, that's when I knew it had come to an end. I will never stop loving travelling, but for some reason, this place feels more like home than any other, no matter how hard it is. In New York, you don't travel, the travelling comes to you in the huge breadth of people and cultures living on top of one another in uneasy co-existence. And it feels like somewhere I can say something in a more useful way than anywhere else. Things happen for a reason, I always think. And I'm here for a reason. And whatever happens, when my visa runs out on August 23rd, I won't be going anywhere. I'll still be mouthing off about immigration and racism and all that sucks about the world.

I'll just have a lot more words written.

And Mum and Dad are still happily living in Spain. Dad has taken up several new hobbies in retirement - shoot the feral creatures with an air pistol, and torment the senile German couple next door. They are content, away from their warring offspring.

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Thursday, April 07, 2005

Pricks I have Known No. 5 - The Single Woman nearing Forty

The single woman nearing forty has started to obsess about ovulation. Surely it is nearly time for her womb to shrivel up, and the deadliest of all beasts, menopause, to set in? To this end she frets unduly, and any change of body temperature induces an endorphin fuelled rush of fear - before realising she has left the thermostat too high. Babies have become the point of existence, the reason for living. She must reproduce. It is a primal and irrational desire. Only six months ago the very thought made the single woman shudder in horror and reach for an extra packet of Trojan ultra-thin ribbed and horny Wild Stallion bumper pack. But now - black, brown, yellow, pink - any baby will do. She scours the streets seeking out her prey: a suitable mate. Possible candidates are subjected to the utmost scrutiny. The single woman has honed the art of rejection to perfection, and she can tell at twenty paces a premature ejaculator, a freakish genetic structure, and that most hated of the male species, a commitment phobe.

The single woman no longer takes comfort in her shoe collection, Martinis after work or browsing through Bloomingdales. Too proud to cancel her subscription to Marie Claire magazine, she instead indulges her fantasies of Motherhood online, and spends hours in chatrooms communicating in semaphoric text abbreviation with other barren wombs. wot u going 2 call urs mine will be called genny cute yeh?

She takes comfort in the fact noone will ever think a highly intelligent, independent and creative woman could indulge in such hormonally depraved acts. For the single woman nearing forty is terrified to admit to her fellow female friends - they whom have obsessed over Brad Pitt and compared dildoes together - that she is considering giving it all up, in order to become a slave - to the cradle.

This period will last perhaps six months, and then the single woman will sensible decide to date a younger male instead and indulge her mother fantasies and raging libido with wild, uncontrollable sex.

Tina honey, this one's for you. I'll miss you and Bon Giorno sweetie.xx

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Wednesday, April 06, 2005

OE is a word

Being unemployed and now out of the media spotlight, I have sod all to do. I woke up this morning to find Brooklyn transformed into a haze of dappled sunlight and summer glory. It instantly depressed me, and I was forced to return to my bed and wait until a more suitably negative climate could compel me to move. After two hours, it was still sunny, and I had to get out of the apartment before I could be consumed by Catto, our friendly feline, who is starving because he refuses to eat the choice crispy cat fare set out for him every day and keeps holding out for some prime rib. That cat is in the wrong damned neighbourhood. I'm considering dropping him off in the meatpacking in the hopes that Mary-Kate or Ashley will take pity on him and give him all the juicy morsels they can't eat in the fear of gaining unsightly flesh.

I did some work for David the travel writer for a few hours, and then wandered around the West Side aimlessly, and found myself in Washington Square. The weather has re-animated New York. When I arrived six weeks ago the wind sliced through you, the snow froze your eyelids together, your feet clunked around uselessly in flimsy shoes like carrying bricks at the end of your legs. I remember jogging around Washington Square and sliding along sheet ice. And now everyone is happy and carefree, bathing in the sunlight in sheer gypsy skirts and bejewelled flip-flops, guys with guitars singing bad versions of 'Hotel California', kids with skateboards, businessmen grabbing lunch out of their office cubicles. New York is a pleasant place to be again. Yet it's one of those observations I note with complete detachment, because I feel like I'm carrying a huge weight around, worried about money, my visa, jobs, careers, friends, men - I can't get attached to anything or anyone, because one foot is tenuously here, the other somewhere in the middle of the Atlantic. Isolated I guess. I sat with my head in a sheath of immigration laws until some bum shuffled up next to me.

"Hey lady. You know how to play scrabble lady?"

He sniffed and wiped his nose with a dirty paw, and held out a scrabble board. I looked at it. I suddenly realised it had been 24 hours since I'd spoke to anyone else. Geez, that's kind of sad.

He shuffled onto the bench and taking my silence for an answer, set up the board.

"OE? That's a word?"

The bum gazed at me coolly beneath dirt encrusted brows.

"OE is a north-easterly wind which blows around the Faroe islands during Spring."

Oh.

The bum beat me 320 to 210. I asked him what he did for a living.

"Nothin'. I'm unemployed."

Does he claim unemployment benefits?

"Nah, I don't need 'em."

Where does he live?

"The Meatpacking District."

He gathered his scrabble letters gently and carefully together, placed them in a stinking old sock, fished a high-tech ultra-modern camera-cellphone from his tattered jeans, waved goodbye, and shuffled off. See ya lady.

I went to a film screening tonight at NYU, a documentary looking at three foreign-born muslim kids in the US affected by the 9/11 Special Registration. Special Registration basically required males over a certain age from predominantly Muslim countries to go and register at 26 Federal Plaza after 9/11. 83,000 males went to register, and faced the indignity of such questions as "Are you friends with Osama Bin Laden?", "What are your feelings about US politics?". 14,000 were later deported. The aim of Special Registration was ostensibly to 'discover' terrorists. Unsurprisingly, the proceedings yielded zero. Another example of the frenzy of the government after the tragedy to find a scapegoat, to appease anti-islamic feeling, to feed the American fear of difference, of race. I felt good listening to NYU lawyers rattle through laws, proceedings, particular cases. There was a zing in the air, a sense of determination, something other than the world-weariness, the hard-faced look of the terminally disillusioned, which when you're nothing but a waitress, you encounter night after night after night. It inspired me. I met Amy there, and a guy called Kamal, whose story I'm using in a new article I'm trying to pressure the Voice into printing to coincide with the reintroduction of the DREAM bill to Congress next week.

And then after being lost in the stories of other people, I suddenly had to slide back into the making of my own. I started walking the streets of New York, resumés in hand, searching for a job, searching for a new income, the ever present knowledge in the back of my head that I have only fifty dollars left until I can find something new. I bumped into one guy, Abdel, who I'd met six weeks earlier while doing exactly the same as I was doing now - job hunting. He gave me a big hug, pulled up a chair, and poured me a glass of red wine. I asked him whether he went for Special Registration after 9/11. Abdel is from Morocco. He looked at me and laughed.

"Honey, I was in fuckin' Hawaii screwin' some bitches. I wasn't goin' near no fucking INS with the feelin's against muslims runnin' high in Noo York."

I drank my wine and watched some black dude on the sidewalk try and pour a can of Bud down his throat, unfortunately mistiming the proximity of both can and mouth. The beer dripped down his holey jersey. He cussed through broken teeth. Gawdamm.

Life is like that sometimes. You're thirsty, you have the can, but no matter how hard you try, you just can't get that damned thing anywhere near your mouth.

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Tuesday, April 05, 2005

and the truth is revealed....

Hmmph.

--------------------------------
I owe all of you an apology. I was mistaken about the credit card charge. It seems that I made a purchase from a restaurant by a different name but also happens to use the name ‘Bon Giorno’ for their credit card charges. That was impetuous of me - that e-mail should never have been sent without more research on my part.

I feel like an ass.

Please extend my apology to Mimi as well. I can’t seem to find her contact info.

Main



the betrayals have begun...

A few emails of interest in my inbox today - and unemployed cinderella, do NOT use my real name in comments please.

I'll let you decide for yourselves if I'm really quite as criminal, mean and stupid as Troy seems to think. But let me give you a little hint as to the question as to whether I would sink this low -

NO I WOULD NOT.

What a life. Am currently sitting in New York public library with worlds upon worlds just crashing down around my head. I think I need a cigarette.

-----------------------------

Hello,

It seems that someone has borrowed my credit card numbers and used them three weeks ago in Bon Giorno, the restaurant where Mimi works and where I have never been. I am not making any accusations but would one of you have a talk with her? I'd like to avoid her the whole mess with the police, but I don't want to take unnecessary chances. She had access to my information for a full week and I don't want to deal with identity theft.

Thanks,

Troy


-------------------------------


i've never known her to do anything like that before, but she is a bit crazy at the moment so
much as I'd love to reassure you.....i can only say i've never known it before....

How much was it? I'll sort it out bank transfer, or send u cash recorded delivery....I'll speak to her also...

Can you not tell Haiku this please? Just in case mimi has nabbed your numbers, which i hope to god she hasnt. P. is her best friend it'd be really embarrasing for me/him/her...

-----------------------------------

Thank you for your prompt response. I don't think I'll need the money as I can dispute the charges with my credit card company. I just want the assurance that she will not try anything if she has nabbed any of my other information.

------------------------------------

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Monday, April 04, 2005

We live in Beautiful Worlds...

...sings Coldplay, whom I personally hate, as looking at Chris Martin's swanky pad in London's Chelsea, I can well believe they live in far more beautiful worlds than the rest of us, who instead have to settle for a take out doner-kebab, a half-hearted wank and a bottle of Corona after a bad day.

I've been holed up in the Brooklyn apartment for two days, obsessively researching and following up leads to comments people make, filling the holes in my inadequate knowledge, pre-empting questions and responses, emotions, possible attacks, lines of defense.

It is like preparing for war.

It's also hard and lonely and strange. Strange because after my great claims to understand the situations of illegals in this country, after I've deliberately placed myself in the situation due to a personal choice, a desire for something other than Rule Britannia and life on the ocean waves, can I ever fully comprehend the situations and emotions of those who felt they had no option but to come to the States? For whom relocation was not a deliberate choice but a necessity to survive?

Today I met Amy who's been in this country for 23 years. She thinks like an American, she talks like an American, she was educated through the American system, she pays American taxes, she has the ability to both recognise America's faults and praise its achievements with a swift intellect which leaves you breathless. Yet Amy can't wave that essential piece of paper which 'validates' her as a citizen. Because of bureaucratic technicalities, Amy is not an American citizen, but she is an American. If Amy were ever to be granted citizenship, it is certain that she would not take it for granted, because she's thought of little else her entire life. Meeting someone like Amy is completely sobering. I've researched my decision to come to the US on and off for five years or so, considered schools, looked at colleges, applied for jobs from the UK or Spain to meet with the same response "Are you in the US? Because if you're not in the US we can't even consider you. Are you eligible to work?" Amy is a wealth of knowledge about new bills, past amnesties, potential changes to the law, because she is forced to keep abreast of these issues, hoping that something may change about this system, and allow her to stop working part-time in the service industry and start both her career and her life as an American citizen, a right for which she spent four years in college working towards.

It's like leading a double life, stuck in front of my computer, then emerging blinking into the daylight, assuming the persona of someone who knows what they're doing and where they're going, the 'legal' Mimi. I've witnessed this for a month, and it's turned me into a constantly tired chain-smoker ten pounds lighter than I was when I landed in JFK back in February. Most of the time I exist within myself, and am so busy I don't even notice that I've spent ten hours reading, three hours writing. And then sometimes, I wake up, and exhaustion and isolation and stress get to me and I just want a hug, or for someone to say it's OK. But it's not the kind of thing you advertise - hey, I'm anonymous, I'm writing this shit about illegals because I became one for a month, but it's OK, I'll probably get a job soon enough, then I can forget I was ever one of those people, and go back to being an upwardly mobile, middle-class white chick with a nice EU passport.

This is the point where irony slides into truth, because for me, this probably, potentially, more than possibly, is what will happen. This is the plan. Put up with the shit for a short period of time, and life swivels back to normal. Amy has lived with this for 23 years - How many of us could ever forget the anger of having our lives put on hold because of bureaucracy? How many of us could simply attribute that to the unfairness of life and move swiftly on? How many of us could keep living in and serving a country we feel is our own, which we contribute to, which we feel patriotic towards, which we feel is our country but which behaves like it doesn't want us?

It gives me an enormous headache and makes me long for the days when I could just write about anal sex, Raoul, and masturbators.

Well, Cinderella was offended by my oh-so-ungrateful early morning comment, meriting my inbox full of family hatred once again, and after my meeting with Amy, I went to see David the travel writer. David was shellshocked and sore after three days writing his book on Fidel Castro. I exploded into his room, and we blustered about how writing is the most fucked-up career anyone can possibly indulge in, and then I went to unload on Chico in Bon Giorno.

Chico is the Italian bar tender, a sleepy eyed, dormouse-like creature who can't speak English. He's in the US on a tourist visa, for "experiencia" and then he's back to throw his doe-eyed charms at European women again. I ranted at Chico in Spanish for a good half hour and tried not to notice Fernando, the pre-pubescent Mexican chef dribbling in the background sporting an evident stiffy, and then reluctantly got the subway back to Brooklyn, back to the apartment, back to the creaky workings of my own head again.

To change the subject somewhat, I'm getting a lot of male attention lately, (which could be the loss of 10 pounds, but I was only 125 to start with, so I doubt it). And this again pisses me off, as I spent a good half-hour explaining to José, David's doorman this afternoon.

"So they keep callin' you up and askin' you out for drinks, right? So what's the problem?"

"All they want is sex and white ass José!"

"How old are you?"

"26"

"It's time then baby."

"Time for what?"

"A relationship."

Oh. It is? When are you ever ready for a relationship? I mean, the thought crosses my mind, but I haven't met anyone particularly interesting for a long time, and anyone who is interesting, I never see, which makes me assume they're not interested in me, or they just want one thing or... Am I ready? Who knows. I guess I'm more ready than the time last October when I got pulled over by the police in Oregon for attempting to give some guy fellatio on the freeway (all a misunderstanding). But it's unacceptable to me to be invited out by men just for a quick screw. I said to all of the three guys who called me yesterday:

"If you're looking for a relationship or sex, I'm not interested, but if you wanna grab a coffee, then, yes."

Every guy gibbered an excuse and hung up.

I definitely hang out with the wrong damned people. What I need is some good, old-fashioned friends. Maybe I should look on Craig's List.


Ugh. Tired tired tired. Apparently The Times of London want to interview me after the O'Reilly Factor, but the O'Reilly Factor has changed status from "definitely Thursday" to "yet to be confirmed", as the Pope's death has "changed everything" according to the retarded Producer I spoke to this morning. Well yes, it's changed the fact I may or may not be on National fucking TV you asshole!, I ranted back, then felt guilty, said three Hail Mary's and was put on hold, and had to listen to Jessica Simpson for a while, whilst images of groundbreaking immigration bills passed superfast, adoring fans, book deals, and a secure financial future fluttered away like moths. I left Bon Giorno for this you prick! I felt like screaming, You have ruined my waitressing career! But I was very meek, sang along to Jessica Simpson, the retarded Producer came back online, and I agreed he could call me back tomorrow.

So who knows? Was it all for nothing? Oh the tension grows....

Main



Saturday, April 02, 2005

The O'Reilly Factor

Will be aired on Fox News at 8pm (EST) on Thursday 7th April. That's this Thursday folks. Check out the Pulp Fiction hair if you will.

Main



Gospel Karaoke

Gospel Karaoke - did you all see that? What fantastic ads Google are so kindly placing on my site. I feel immensely privileged.

Raoul slunk back to the apartment last night after a week of not answering his calls and relocating to the loft in Tribeca. Having read about the O'Reilly Factor, Raoul has obviously changed his mind from the previous week when he expressed doubt and concern that I would ever 'make it' in NY. I guess what some perceive to be 'success' is attractive. I have, now I think about it, seen a marked increase in the number of new 'friends' since this whole debacle started. Raoul tried to get me into bed with him. I went and got drunk with the other Mimi in SoHo instead. I remember little of the evening aside from this fact, and am consequently suffering today. It ended with a two hour politics discussion in Dunkin' Donuts at around 2am, and somewhere in the middle featured a long in-depth phone conversation with a lady called Shanice who was preparing for a date and didn't know what bra to wear. I also went to see Zsa-zsa, the owner of Bon Giorno. Zsa-zsa took the 'undercover journalism' line extremely well. She was obviously concerned to keep the restaurant out of the press, but said I was the only one without papers 'working' there, but as I was never getting paid and it was all for journalistic pursuits(Aha...!), even if they do locate Bon Giorno, she's covered.

Ahem. Of course you are darling. Let's just not mention the six Mexicans in the Cocina and five Italian waiting staff shall we?

I awoke this morning to find Catto, our friendly household feline, placing his behind on my face, my eyes glued together with what appeared to be Dunkin' Donut frosting. My phone rang.

"Mimi."

"Raoul."

"Ah don't think ah wanter be friends with you anymore. Ah think yer too conceited. Ah think yer judgmental. Ah think yer too opinionated. Yer too immature. Everyone hates yer. Ah think yer..."

"Raoul, if you don't shut the fuck up I'm going to rip your fucking balls off and stuff them down your scrawny little throat. Sod off."

"Ah don't think yer should be talkin' to me like that Mimi. 'Cause ah know where you live Mimi. Ah know yer real name. Ah know where you've bin workin'. Ah know everything about y'all..."

I hung up. Raoul called back three times. I practiced my Bill O'Reilly rant at him, and I was pleased to note that aside from the excessive use of foul language (a no no on national TV I am sure) he crumpled like a paper bag under my onslaught. Mimi power. I can't believe this slimy piece of shit had the cheek to threaten to report me to the INS because I refused to suck his fucking cock. But pricks like Raoul are doing me a favor. Because the more riled I get, the more people try to silence me or intimidate me, the angrier I get, and the more prepared I feel for O'Reilly.

I'm going to look slightly silly if I screw up after saying all this.

Well, excuse my inelegant language today. Dehydration, rain, and headache combined with fury does not make Mimi an eloquent writer. I can't say I'm surprised by the threats from people like Raoul. My inbox has been crammed with some extremely weird shit since the article came out - Minutemen, right-wingers, Republicans etc. This again doesn't overly concern me. It makes me more convinced that I'm doing the right thing, making people like this, White America (which - yes! - includes you Red. 'White' is a state of mind), uncomfortable with my writing and beliefs. It's starting to spotlight the injustices facing people like Amy, who made a comment on the blog yesterday, and whose story you can read on the CoSA website. I certainly recommend that you all took a good nosey at this site, and tomorrow we'll have a pop quiz on the DREAM bill. I'll put the link at the end of this post.

Now I'm going to have a hot bath, and sleep.

Hasta Luego mis amigos,

mimi

Main



Friday, April 01, 2005

it's all go in SoHo

So I said YES to Bill O'Reilly.

If Jenna Jameson can do it (one of my favorite female role models. She rocks man) then surely I can.

Ok let's not go into that.

There were a few catalysts for my decision.

1) An article I wrote about White America, so far unpublished as I've tried to tout it to the VV but they have all disappeared to mourn the passing of Terri Schiavo. An African-American friend of mine read it and said he was 'proud to know me', which made me go all tingly, and inadvertently inhale my coffee through my nose.

2) The fact that the number of people who agreed with my views was exactly equal to the number of Right Wing, Minutemen, narrow minded assholes exhorting that I be deported and that all Mexicans and brown people should get out of this blessed country. I can't believe people like this exist and flourish in the richest and most powerful continent in the world. Do I think I'm a spokesperson for the voiceless? I wouldn't be that presumptuous. I'm just someone who is pointing out injustices and has a loud voice, and have been lucky enough to have been listened to, for however small a time. Might as well make the most of it and ride the crest of this media wave. Fame for Five minutes. Will it really change my life that much? My alternative is to stay and do this internship - and I just heard yesterday that they won't allow me to continue interning without a student visa. I HAVE A FUCKING FIRST CLASS HONORS DEGREE AND MASTERS FROM CAMBRIDGE. I do not want to be a student anymore. I want to get some editorial experience, and afterwards, they'll hopefully offer me a job. But no. More red tape. More obstacles and precious time passing. I will be 90 before I can legally work in this country. Especially taking into consideration that they'll probably never let me back after this debacle.

3) Working in Bon Giorno last night.

"Mimi, you are so stupid Mimi. What ees wrong with you Mimi? You are zee worst, most stupid waitress in ze SoHo."

One of the Mexican Chefs, a kid of about 19 who follows me everywhere, turned up with a huge teddy bear and chocolates in the shape of a heart.

"Tu cumpleaños, sí? We can go out sometime?"

ARGH. This is, perhaps, one of the most potent arguments against immigration of Central Americans. They give you gifts and presents and refuse to take 'no' for an answer. Mexicans and Guatemalans who profess a love interest in you are like small, eager puppies. Totally harmless, eager for a pat, thirsty for attention. I keep telling the boys I have a boyfriend, which I don't, I have a very nice Cubano whom I hang out with, get extremely drunk with, and have known for approximately two weeks, which is entirely different, but it is all irrelevant to them. They can wait. They will wait, patiently and tirelessly, whilst loading me with takeout food and saying I can't be a real white girl as I have a Puerto-Rican butt. How flattering. And in the meantime, they waste their hard earned wages on gifts for me, which I feel bad about.

I stayed behind last night after my shift drinking with Monique and Giovanni. I figured I only have a few days left in the restaurant, as after the show, I can't, for their sake or mine, return for a good few weeks. The prospect makes me quite sad. The alternative, being holed up in my Brooklyn loft with four stoned musicians, is not attractive. We drank Montepulciano, sambuca, smoked countless cigarettes, spoke in a bizarre mixture of Spanish and Italian, discussing Giovanni's impending marriage ("Ees not for ze papers. You think I want to live in zees stupid country? I don't zink so. We go to live in ze Rome."), Monique's married man (which is one possible reason why she's such a bitch) and the big scandal of the week - the ousting of Tina the Bar tender from Maid of Honor at the wedding.

"Mimi, I cannot 'ave zees girl as my Maid of Honor. She ees fat Mimi. She ees crude. She dreenk too much. You see her skirt ze other day? So short. So 'orrible. I cannot 'ave zees at my wedding. What will my Mother say?"

A mental picture of Tina springs to mind, nosily banging her twenty year old boyfriend, ageing jowls flapping in the breeze.

Gimme a Woah.

Woah

The trials and tribulations of Bon Giorno put life back into perspective. I went round New York City yesterday, and spoke to every Police Officer I could find, and asked them if it was true NY was a 'sanctuary city', and they couldn't question me about my immigrant status unless I was caught committing a crime. One guy grinned at me.

"My Grandfather was an illegal from Ireland. Would be kinda wrong of me to say anything to anyone else, right?"

Another was a Vietnamese refugee. A Cubano who came over from the island twenty years ago. A Polish-American. An Italian-American. A dominicano. NYCPD, courtesy, respect, professionalism, reflects the multicultural microcosm of America. Every single police officer said the same.

"Honey, we look like we care? Everyone's illegal in this city. It's how it goes."

Gimme a Woah.

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