This Space is My Space, It is Not Your Space

Aside from being relatively guarded about my own space in general, I feel it necessary to express the fact that I have some issues with the public internet zone otherwise known as My Space.

In all fairness to the folks over at My Space, I can say that I appreciate that there are many practical things inherit to its function. Personally, I like the fact that it enables me to keep track of far-flung friends. No complaints there. Like sending a text message, sending a comment to a friend is an easy way to maintain an open conversation without having to actually...like, converse. However, it does start to feel a bit too public and antiseptic when a private conversation takes on public proportions of back and forth comments for all to read. Aside from this, I think what bothers me more about My Space is the overt self-promotion that everyone feels compelled to do on their page. On one hand, it's great to find a forum of self-expression and creativity, but I guess it's just not my thing.

Recently, a rather unstable person from my past got in touch with me through my account. He not only requested that we be friends through this system, but in his email to me, he mentioned that he had saved all of my images for his "personal use". Poor me for saying it, but I felt a little violated. Ironically, this person was the very reason that I made my account private. I reopened it a few weeks ago for a friend of mine overseas to check out my recent pictures. Because I forgot to reset my settings, it opened the door for this individual to contact me. From this point on, my account will never be for public viewing again.

The thing about space is that it's my space...not your space. I feel like this problematic space issue is now a reflection of our technology-driven generation, wherein we are all a click away from each other, and fully accessible 24 hours a day. I, for one, really dislike it. I'm a big fan of privacy and not being completely commodified by all of my gadgets. I also just...need...my... space. For example, if I don't check my email 10 times a day, I run into professional issues. And I dislike the fact that in order to be a participant in society, I must give out my cell phone number in personal and professional arenas. With the last person I worked for, my cell phone meant that I was on-call 24 hours a day. I think this is the fundamental reason why Americans are overworked and don't know their families. Yes, I turn my phone off when I'm eating dinner. And yes, I absolutely turn it off when I'm on vacation. And I really dislike the fact that not picking up is an indication of my own rudeness, even when I'm being called at fundamentally inappropriate hours. Yes, of course, I screen my calls! Who are we kidding? And call me crazy, but I don't return every personal phone call right away. I'm just not a phone person. I make time for what is important. And don't worry, if I'm dodging you, you'll know it.

But yeah, back to the space thing. I would really prefer to take down my profile for good, but for now I will just remain on the fringes of humanity. That is, in the more humane side of things...

Simple Pleasures

I take tremendous pleasure in not spending large amounts of money. The other night, I was out to dinner with a crew of girlfriends who all carry Marc Jacobs bags and wear Manolo Blahnik shoes. Given the fact that I had never heard of Manolo Blahnik, nor could I even have guessed the price of the heavy leather handbags with their large buckles and straps at my feet, I had very little to add to the conversation. I sat and slowly chewed my $15 dollar salad and absorbed what social and cultural knowledge I could from the experience.

Apparently, Mr. Blahnik's shoes have a way of suddenly snapping in the middle of the heel. Given the fact that I have never had a heel snap in my life, what amazed me about this is that a woman can't begin to have a heel-snapping experience for less than $500. Fascinating! Of course, as a result of these unfortunate mechanical issues, every Manolo-loving woman in Manhattan has her own neighborhood "shoe guy" (within limping distance, I have no doubt). One of my friends revealed that her shoe guy specializes in "The Blahnick Snap". He charges only $30.00 (cash) to glue the stem of a shoe back together without exposing the tear in the fabric. Good as new. After the magical fix, my friend says that she typically then sells her Manolo's on Ebay. She'll wear them about 5 times, and then put them up for auction. Interestingly enough, she claims to often fetch twice as much for what she originally paid (broken heel or not--"no one needs to know!"). According to her, the rest of America does not have access to the New York boutiques like we do here. Therefore, she can get away with charging twice as much for used Manolos. I suppose there is no faulting her for this. She has set herself up on a continuous chemical drip of free or close-to-free Manolos...

Again, fascinating.

Of course, I know nothing of this world. I wouldn't know the difference between Manolo and Mossimo, and I'm more than happy to keep it this way. My friends all say that what they love about buying high-end, luxury items is the thrill they get at the moment of purchase. One said that she loves walking out of the store with her bag. It makes her feel powerful. Another said that it makes her feel very sexy, and she likes getting compliments on her shoes or her bag from other women in restaurants. Who am I to deny that there's something fetching about the experience?

To this end, I feel compelled to reveal that on the sliding scale of heart-racing, fetching consumer experiences, I had my own yesterday. In the heart of Greenwich Village, I stumbled upon a gem on MacDougal Street. Rounding the corner from Bleeker, I was casually doing some late holiday shopping, when I felt my body temperature rise at the first whiff of Middle Eastern cuisine. Of course, this wasn't just any smell, this was the smell of Jerusalem, the smell of freshly-ground chick peas, garlic and sesame seed paste rolled into small balls and flash-fried so that they are slightly crispy on the outside yet still moist and delicious in the middle. I smelled schwarma, too, and hummus and tahina and...oh! love!. I instinctively followed my nose (and racing heart) to a place called Mamoun's Falafel.

It's important to add that Middle Eastern cuisine is not a rarity in New York. But, frankly, good Middle Eastern cuisine done right is difficult to find. I have been known to walk into a restaurant, smell the place, and walk right out. I don't care how hungry I am, I will throw things if the falafel is dry.

Once inside Mamoun's, I suddenly felt like I had entered a place where I was home again. There were three plastic tables, a cooking area, and a menu overhead. Just like in Jerusalem, the food was fresh and fast. And to my sheer, orgasmic delight, a falafel in pita cost $2.00. If wanted to add hummus, it would be $2.50. It's safe to say that I was practically vibrating. I nearly wept. I ordered an Orange Fanta (that came with a straw!) and a falafel sandwich to go. Because the three plastic tables were packed with other falafel lovers, I walked across the street and sat on the stoop of an old brownstone. The first bite must have cost me 10 cents, and yet it transported me to a place beyond words. Talk about a religious experience.

I believe I have found my Manolo.

The good news is that I have a meeting later today in that area, near NYU. It's going to cost me just as much to eat as it will to get me there on the subway. Mamoun and I will be going for Round Two.

Animal Spirits

Ok, ok, ok...

Here it is: I am a socially-constructed being. I am a product of my ultra-modern, uber-elitist, hyper-indulged, latte-drinking, text-messaging, hi-speed, urban American lifestyle. I enjoy nature...and pretty scenery...I really do...but these are things that I have a tendency to visit...kind of like an amusement park. Last spring, I donated my overpriced Adidas hiking boots to Goodwill. Why? Because the way they fit my feet gave me terrible headaches. In the 5 years that they were a part of my closet, I wore them maybe 5 times. Twice to hike, and three times to construct an outfit that would more or less resemble the kind of girl which a proper bear-hunter would want to drag into his cave. A-hem...

Of course, one caveat to my confession is that I was, in fact, practically raised by wolves. Ok, ok, not wolves per se, but out-doorsy, manly-men. I was the only girlchild in a family of sport hunters and renaissance-types, who, to this day, hum tunes of Mozart as they kill their own meat in season. Unlike the wives and girlfriends of my father and uncles, I was the female child given an honorary place in my tribe of menfolk. Along with my brother, I was given proper instruction in outdoor survival. In fact, if I had to field dress something I intend to eat, I could do it. Of course, I would probably defer the labor someone else to do it, but this is beside the point.

On my flight home the other day, it occurred to me that the concept of survival takes on an incredibly unique spin in our hyper-modern society. Once upon a time, a woman at my tender age would be approaching her final lap in her child-bearing years. That is, of course, if she managed to survive her first ten pregnancies. At the same time, she would be adept at a set of survival techniques that are basic and yet fundamentally foreign to me. Knowing that I could resort to them if need be is a relief, but I'll be honest, I know that I would fumble at first. Take, for example, my dear grandmother. The woman still knows how to cook something fabulous for a family of 12 on a budget for 2. This is beyond impressive. And she has magic in her fingers--she can mend anything to make it new again. Best of all, she can get a stain out of anything. ANYTHING. This my friends, is a skill that has been lost to age of dry cleaning and Ann Taylor stores on every corner.

And yet, as I have a tendency to do from time to time, I began to ponder what skills I have to survive in the modern world. For example, I realized that my grandmother, and even my mother, would be mere babes in the woods in a modern airport, let alone a big-city subway system. Conversely, I have navigated my way through places where maps are beyond impossible, toilet paper is a luxury and English is not an option. I may not be able to get a Swiss chocolate stain out of my favorite cashmere sweater, but I sure as hell know how to charm my way to first class seating, even after missing my flight because I overslept. I am a master at maneuver. I am the quintessential, hyper-modern human being.

And the end of all of this, however, it occurred to me that my embrace of Western modernity is lifestyle of choice. In being a choice, I find that it does not infuse my essential nature as a human animal. I may have acquired tools for expressing my intellect or material desires, but underneath all of this, I am still an animal--an intellectual animal, perhaps--but an animal nonetheless. Despite all of these levels of masterful manipulations, and social dictates to which we, as modern beings, are told we must conform, we simply cannot ignore or exclude who and what we really are. I'm light-sensative. I get motion sickness on the Metro. I crave fresh air. My body responds to the moon. I'm phermone-driven. And I'm ok with this.

Sometimes it's good to step off the fast track. Sometimes it's good to stop for a moment, do something outlandish, passionate, and reciprocally wonderful. And sometimes, still, it's such a relief to answer the call of the wild.