Through The [tinted 1-way] Looking Glass

Why I have become obsessed with detective work and forensic investigation? Is there something inherently sexy about dusting for fingerprints with carbon powder, or testing the DNA of a strand of hair, root intact of course, or spraying a fine mist of luminol to check for hidden blood evidence? I did not grow up dreaming about the curriculum at John Jay College, nor have I ever wanted to take any kind of police exam. Turn to almost any channel on your tv (or, just scroll through the shows I have queued up on my DVR), and you'll be bombarded by sexy female cops, like Detectives Olivia Benson and Alexandra Eames, Dr. Sydney Hansen, CSI.. I admire the power they wield - beauty, acumen, cleverness - manicured nails resting against a shiny Smith & Wesson... could they BE any cooler? Times have changed, since the days of Dragnet. Ah, thank God for modernity. It's not just men who can berate a perp.

I suppose you could say my EMT work brings me in frequent contact with New York's finest... they protect and serve, whilst I tend to bloody wounds and assess consciousness. My most recent brush with the boys in blue was this past Saturday night --er, Sunday morning, 4:30 am. Nothing gets me out of bed like the ear-piercing sound of nine gunshots (more specifically, 4 shots - pause - eyes dart furtively around bedroom - 5 more shots). Yep, the myth holds true - even if you've never heard "live" gunshots, you know 'em when you hear 'em. [Cue heart pounding, fingers trembling.] I tip-toed to the window, and once safely situated, barefoot, on my fire escape overlooking 9th Avenue, a sea of chaos unfolded before my tired but adrenalin-pumped eyes. A grey SUV sped off, a man collapsed in a bloody and fatal heap, to the street [a gut-wrenching case of mistaken identity], 3 cops dashed as if in a 100-metre heat down 48th street, 4 unidentified men with multi-colored down coats took off in the opposite direction, a fleeing suspect tripped on the sidewalk on 49th, hitting his head but concealing his gun in the sewer just in the nick of time -- some of these details I would be asked to recount the next morning to a slightly bleary-eyed detective, ducking out from under the yellow tape.

After deciding not to become part of the ensuing crime scene by grabbing latex gloves and running to the injured, I watched from the fire escape as cops, ambulances, and unmarked Caprice Classics sped onto the scene. Within 10 minutes, the injured were whisked away, possible suspects were taken into custody, and the entire 9th Avenue was closed off, turned into forensics playground. It was 5:30 am. And I was thoroughly and undeniably awake.

It was as if my DVR was sputtering to life, in a Frankenstein sort of way. We ARE what we eat; could we also beCOME what we WATCH? Perish the thought. DVR, TiVo, and Netflix give us anonymity. Gone are the days of perusing Blockbuster, pretending you're renting that cheesy exercise video for your "roommate" or that Review of the Brazilian porn industry for a "class." You want the entire series of Beverly Hills 90210? No problem. Only a random Netflix employee in a Queens warehouse will know your secret.

Watching the chilly interrogation of a homicidal psychopath, or the autopsy of a stabbing victim on tv gives us the comfort of distance. Detective Olivia Benson won't really die at the hands of a suspect - she's just a character. I won't really lose my lunch from observing cranial surgery gone wrong - I can turn the channel. But when it comes to real life, there's no cathode ray tube to protect us; no one-way tinted glass through which to watch a crime scene unfold on your block in the dark, chilly hours just before dawn.

But I can't help myself. Dangerous. Death-defying. Gruesome. Creepy. Paranormal. Bring it on. I'll just make sure my latex gloves are nearby, or that my remote control is stocked with fresh batteries.

--In memory of Fausto Lopez: 1966-2006--

Yiddish for Dummies

I may be infatuated with my therapist, but at LEAST I am not a schmuck in the Bush administration.


http://www.vidlit.com/gandl/



schmuck also shmuck (shmk)
n. Slang
A clumsy or stupid person; an oaf.

The Elephant in the office

Uncomfortable situations come in all shapes and sizes: perhaps your creepy mailman asks if you have a boyfriend. Or maybe, as you check out at the drugstore, the cashier asks for a price check on Ex-Lax. Or maybe, just maybe, you come to the realization that you must tell your therapist you have a crush on him. I can just hear it now... "Yes mother, I met a boy. He's adorable, dreamy in fact. He's a doctor by day; professor by night. He can finish my sentences before I think of the endings. He's smart. Self-aware. Got a killer smile. He's sensitive. Cultured. He just, gets me. Oh, and one more thing. He's my therapist." GASP!

I rehearsed my lines, while walking briskly across 42nd street, dodging hazards like obscenely tremendous umbrellas and dangerously meandering pretzel carts. There was an autumn chill to the air; that, coupled with stinging rain made for an uncomfortable schlep across town - "Listen, Dr. "Smith," I think about you in ways that are..unprofessional." - "I have to sell organs to write you checks, but I want to come here every Tuesday. Forever." - "Look, I know you're married and all, but...." Two more blocks. Ok. CLEARLY none of these were going to work. But I had to bring it up. The elephant in his office was growing larger by the session. Dumbo would surely start to nudge me off the couch with his steadily inflating presence. And even if I had funds to spare, I wasn't about to start subsidizing animal therapy.

The elevator doors opened; I could feel my heartbeat quicken - my left atrium detected the sudden widening of the blood vessels, and adjusted its pumping speed. I could turn around; run away; pretend I was sick; forget I had an appointment. But the challenge was already set. If I could get through this, I could surely do anything. I had to be in therapy purely for myself, NOT so I could engage in endless witty banter with someone so off-limits, for so many reasons. As I entered my favorite little midtown office, I was enveloped by comfort and ease, books, soothing lights, soft steady rain pelting the window. There was chatting. Laughter. Jokes. Sarcastic remarks. Toss of the hair. Yikes, was I flirting? "Tone it down!" the voice inside me screamed. I fidgeted; scanned the room for a distraction. (His beautifully pressed black pants, subtly highlighting toned muscles below? The simple gold wedding band on his finger? The way the light hit his lovely almond skin as he laughed... NO, NO! NO! FOCUS!) We got down to business. It was now or never..

And so I came clean.

Forty-five minutes later, I left his office into the rapidly darkening night, and waited for the M104. I was in one piece; the world was still here; rush hour traffic crept by; no fainting spells had ensued, nor was I still searching for a vacant cave into which I could crawl. Yes, I pictured his warm smiles, analyzed his soothing reaction, remained befuddled by his professionalism, but felt an odd sense of relief wash over me, slowly forcing out the embarassment still occupying my conscience. I reached for my newspaper and flipped to the Real Estate section, immediately drawn to an in depth piece about bedbugs. With horrid fascination, I read about long battles with terrifyingly stubborn and invisible bedroom invaders. And suddenly I knew I was gonna be okay.

Karma [police]

The other night, after waiting 15 minutes for a bus, I reluctantly settled into the plush vinyl seating of a cab, on a journey southward to the LES to finish a viewing of, naturally, The Last Temptation of Christ. (Oh Willem Dafoe, how you frighten me). Frustrated by the lack of foot room (these Crown Victorias are monstrous, how can I, the only backseat passenger be squished?), I glanced down to inspect. To my surprise, I discovered a mysterious laptop bag, containing among other oddities, the laptop itself, maps, a speeding ticket, pages of haphazardly scrawled notes, and a crisp hundred dollar bill which I, pre-holiday-repentence, did not pocket. (Would have been a rather fallacious way to enter the Day of Atonement, huh?)

With extra luggage in tow, I arrived at my friend's apartment, so near the East River, he may as well have been wearing a lifejacket and polishing oars. "Ok. Before Christ graces us with his presence, I have a fun activitiy," I blurted out before even saying hello. Finally. All my Law and Order watching would pay off. I could call CSU for fingerprint dusting or hair analysis, or page the medical examiner for urgent DNA results. I could investigate credit card receipts and hack into Apple's computer registration system. Hmm, maybe I'd gone too far. Time to reel in the ship I sail called "USS Delusions."

We got right down to business, bubbling with glee at the task ahead of us. Papers were strewn about, maps unfurled, notepads inspected, as we tried to trace John Doe's whereabouts. He had rented a car in California and driven along the coast. He had horrible handwriting, favored red pens, and had just attended what seemed to be a big board meeting in Manhattan. A turkey sandwich had been purchased. Many business cards acquired. Some cds lay unopened. An ipod shuffle sat idly. I inspected the computer's contents, while my friend was lured off course by the ipod. "Don't do it," I warned, "He might know we plugged it in! We'll be ruined." Like delivering a speech at a school assembly, naked as if in your standard nightmare, our inspection seemed like a violation; exposure; a breach of unspoken trust. But we couldn't stop here; we were the primary investigators assigned to the case. DNA evidence was catalogued. Enterprise rent-a-car contract was decoded. Emails were infiltrated. The DVD player hummed barely-audible sweet nothings in the background; Christ would have to wait.

At 22:47h, the Case of the Missing Bag was officially cracked, and somehow, my empty Brooklyn lager was replaced with a fresh one. The victim? Head of an independent West coast record label (who definitely needed a handwriting lesson). He had been here for a meeting, and after having one too many dry martinis in the West Village and a sour phonecall that ended with the shouting of an expletive, he must have foolishly and absentmindedly abandoned years of hard work. (Ok, the last sentence was James Frey-ized...but doesn't it sound plausible?)

Later that night, as I sat in awe watching [SPOILER ALERT] Jesus die a bloody death for all of humanity's sins, I couldn't help but feel like a hero myself. The next day, emails were exchanged, I gushed about music, a meeting was planned on 6th Avenue, and many coincidences were discovered - we actually had a friend in common, and would both be in the same block of Manhattan on the same day. I could feel my good deed points piling up. Yesterday, I received a big white package, filled with heaps of cds, and records galore, including an LP never before released to the public.

So here's the recipe for success, happiness, rewards, luck: do your part, pay it forward, believe in good, put yourself in others' shoes, follow the humble Jewish carpenter and become a martyr for humanity's sins . . . for the karma police are out in full force. Especially in the West Village.

Dreaming

My friend has dreams. Dreams of slow and deserving fame; of belting out musical epiphanies and revelations through tunes we can only imagine; of being on stage, blinded by hot lights in concert-like hues, her mouth resting tentatively against the cold metallic gridded orb of the microphone, as she soaks up the palpable energy of thousands of fans spread out before her, like a colony of swarming insects; of concentrating NOT on the microphone's stench of last night's beer, old cigarettes, and remnants of all the depressed, idealistic, visionary, auditory geniuses that have come before her, but rather of being carried away by melodies and smart words she is about to unleash onto thousands of human sponges waiting to be enlightened.

Except she is in her pajamas. Depending on the season - either a silly orange silk Vietnamese outfit, or some semblance of plaid flannel pants and a simple tank. This isn't the outfit she planned. It's all wrong. She should be wearing jeans, some sort of hipster footwear, stripes on top. A hoodie with snaps. A patch perhaps. A nerdy tshirt from her Jewish summer camp in the 80s. Some kind of leather or silver bracelet. Eye makeup. A vintage necklace from her grandmother. A brooch from Morocco. Courduroy. Nursing a beer. No wait, sipping her flask, full of whiskey. It's all wrong. She can't perform barefoot, in flannel.

Then she wakes up. Just in time.

The un-sing-a-long

Me: For God's sake, it's not a sing-a-long.
RB: Uh, hello, it's Westside Story. The crowd will no doubt, break into song.
Me: Ok. Whatever. But we're advertising it as just a neighborhood movie showing. It does not include the words "sing-a-long," or anything of that nature.
RB: Fine. Just be prepared for some Maria-costumes, and "I Feel Pretty" imitations.
Me: Whatever.
RB: I'm gonna sing. You're annoying.
Me: You are.
RB: See you at the rumble.
Me: Fine.

TONIGHT in Hell's Kitchen: September 26, 7:15, FREE SHOWING OF WESTSIDE STORY. May Matthews Playground, between 9th and 10th Avenues, enter on 45th or 46th streets. Bring blankets, chairs, snacks, friends, Maria costumes, ONLY IF YOU MUST. Sponsored by neighborhood residents, and the 45th Street Block Association.

OPEN TO THE NEIGHBORHOOD. And, well, ANYONE, except um, area prostitutes. Not that there's anything WRONG with that... it's just, well, there will be children present.

The Hunt

At the end of The Silence of the Lambs, rookie agent Starling finds herself in a musty, pitch-black basement, face-to-face with her uber-creepy nemesis Buffalo Bill. Though armed with a loaded gun (and that Jodie Foster pursed-lip intensity), Starling helplessly darts her big blue eyes around in the thick darkness, hoping her instincts will tell her where to point her loaded weapon, while Bill watches her struggle at arm's length distance, through night vision goggles. It's the ultimate psychological thriller moment.

According to recent observations, there are Buffalo Bills roaming all over New York City. They are brown. Or grey. They are small. They eat peanut butter and chew through garbage bags, and run around in ovens, as if they long to be forever confined to tiny spaces with no exit. They keep you up at night with their rustling of plastic bags, and munching on crumbs, leaving you to clean up triangular piles of shredded something before you leave for work. They can fit through holes you don't even know exist, and invite their little friends over for a midnight party, at your expense. They are immune to sticky traps, steel wool, cheese (manchego AND gruyere), and have learned to defy both gravity and genetics by climbing up furniture and thoughtlessly scampering across 400-thread count Egyptian cotton bedspreads. They crap everywhere, making you wonder if you have eaten lots of rye bread, carelessly spilling caraway seeds in odd places like your closet. They aim to terrorize. They are mice. And in this city, they're smart.

My friend "Charlie," has just returned from battle. (As a [slightly paranoid] precaution, names have been changed. For all we know, our Big Apple mice are now literate, and will use this blog entry to seek sweet revenge.) Charlie vs. The Mouse began with the standard signs: droppings in corners and strange places, chewed up wood chips, faint sounds of scampering feet in the night, and offensive garbage bag invasion. The traps were laid, but the first few nights were rather sleepless, after all, it's difficult to fall into REM sleep when music and lights are on. "Can you hear those footsteps over my music? That's the loudest mouse I've ever heard! [Sigh. Moan. .. inaudible cursing..] What am I gonna do," cried Charlie one night during a 1 am emergency phonecall. It had been many days with little paws in the night; she was starting to get desperate. And bleary-eyed.

We didn't see Charlie for nearly another week. The battle consumed her thoughts; strategies took up full time residence in the left hemisphere of her cerebrum. Much free time was spent wrestling furniture away from walls, purchasing high-tech traps, searching meticulously in the dark, for secret passageways, and zoning in on specific areas from which she was sure the evil sounds were emanating. To add insult to injury Charlie discovered to her horror [and delight] a fake mouse, rather a cat toy, leftover from previous tenants in the far corner under her bed. The ensuing hilarity was stopped short by the discovery of droppings on her kitchen countertop, the one sacred place we thought mice weren't allowed to rest their filthy little paws.

Then one dewey morning, just as the sun peered over the East River, the mouse made a fatal mistake. It seemed the chopped meat was just too tempting. (The expensive Spanish cheeses, and meat at $9.50 a pound had made Charlie even more resentful of her ungrateful invaders.) The red shelving unit muffled its footsteps, but Charlie had developed super-human hearing, able to hear even the faintest of rodent movement. The time had come. It was now or never! Running at full speed, Charlie flew across the kitchen armed with a broom. THWACK! BAM! (Further evidence of the battle would show up throughout the day, in the form of a large tender bruise to Charlie's right forearm). The footsteps were silenced; rustling was no more; the only sound came from NY1 on TV, as Pat Kiernan read the morning's headlines.

Squeamish readers, avert your eyes... run to your mommies! There was blood. There was an appendage. There was faint movement, which, upon further investigation, turned out to be involuntary nerve twitching. Death was imminent. After the flood of adrenalin dissipated, Charlie was left to face the reality of disposing of a messy, deceased rodent. Luckily, there was a voice in the hallway. Charlie managed to convince her unsuspecting neighbor to gingerly sweep up the remains of her intruder, and furtively dispose of it. But Charlie didn't let down her guard just yet - the crime scene was quickly disinfected, the furniture put back in its place, and fresh traps were laid, just in case a rodent recon mission was ordered. Then the sense of accomplishment arrived in full force, and she had battle scars to prove it.

Suddenly Charlie was free. Like an uncaged bird, she rejoined society and once again felt she could invite friends over for a leisurely dinner, or wine in the backyard, without worrying that they would suspect a mouse invasion, after seeing cheese on the floor, or bulky containers of steel wool, or a broom next to the bed. It was bliss.

The bliss lasted 48 hours.... then faint scampering reared its ugly head.

Was it another mouse?

A monster under the bed?

In this fair city, we may never really know what lurks behind our walls. Or in our ovens.

Save The Little House!

When I was young, one of my favorite books was The Little House, by Virginia Lee Burton. I was reminded of this recently, while at Barnes and Noble, browsing through the bargain section. (Fear not my faithful readers, I haven't abandoned my beloved Strand or Biography Bookshop, but working in tourist-filled East midtown limits my lunchtime bookstore options). Suddenly, there she was, in all her nostalgic glory, on the 2nd shelf, oddly sandwiched between Ancient Mayan Paintings, and Celebrity Motorcycles. "YESS!" I squealed, startling the suit-clad man next to me, who was flipping through The Bartender's Guide to Aphrodisiacs. If I may be trite for a moment: This children's book, while full of wonderfully basic illustrations, isn't simple in its message. It's a tale of gentrification gone wrong. Perhaps Ms. Burton wants to illustrate the story of last year's infamous West Side stadium debate?

The book tells the tale of a quaint house in the country. As time goes by, her neighboring homes are dismantled, only to be replaced by highways, bridges, factories and skyscrapers. Once a gem in a fresh air oasis, the little house struggles to stay afloat, her gentle crossbeams now wedged between dirty smokestacks and the cold steel foundations of tall towers. (Robert Moses would be so proud). Needless to say, there is a happy ending, not unlike that of The Lorax, for children should be sheltered from the ills of society. (Insert sarcasm emoticon here).

Now before you exit my blog out of frustration with my randomness, on your quest to seek out other worthwhile web-rants (to heartily digest, in between creating excel spreadsheets, and batching invoices), I bring this children's story up for a reason. As a proud resident of Hell's Kitchen, I fear our little neighborhood is quickly being squished between modern glass highrises and spacious 24-hour banks. This construction frenzy is happening, right before our very eyes...

A futuristic eatery called Q-Thai has recently opened on Ninth Ave, in close proximity to Pam Real Thai Food, Cozy Thai, and Yum Yum Bangkok I AND II, as if there's a sudden shortage of Thai food in the area. I now find myself trudging much further to drop off my dry cleaning, as not one, but two local establishments have recently vacated their stores, due to rising costs. In their wake hang dejected FOR RENT signs, beckoning The GAP or Starbucks. ["Let's expand our markets; let's blanket the city," exclaim enthusiastic CEOs during sales meetings.] A small antique store on Tenth holds one last weekend sale: Clearance: 75% off all items, it boasts, with a heavy heart. Pseudo-fast-food chain Chipotle now fills the space where The Cheese Shop used to peddle its wonderfully smelly wares, and two luxury high-rises have just been finished, one on Ninth, and the other on 52nd. You might be amazed to know that VYNL, El Centro, Hell's Kitchen, Xing, Eatery, Therapy and Fluff (a bakery which opened and closed within 6 months), are all owned by the same street-swallowing company. Is that considered conformist dissidence? Can such a concept exist according to the laws of physics?

Galaxy Cafe, a beloved neighborhood diner with an outerspace theme and bad linoleum, has tacked up our most feared sign: "Thank you to our dear customers, for 32 years of loyalty. See you in another galaxy." One by one, as if by peer pressure, all the stores between 54th and 55th have closed, leaving broken radiators, dusty windows and a gaping hole in the financially escalating real estate market. Knock down walls, and it becomes the perfect space for a Best Buy or heaven forbid, Wal-Mart. Two weeks ago, my friend discovered a "secret" bakery on 47th, with hearty soups, garden seating, and fresh scones. The next day she went back with a friend, ready to purchase at least a dozen cookies. The bakery was closed. The sign was down. Kitchen supplies in boxes and crates. She actually shed tears.

Oh God, make it stop!

MBA students study this phenomenon: in a monopoly, businesses can sell a lower quantity of goods, for higher prices, thereby increasing sales. Can Hell's Kitchen be moving towards the new reality of standardization? But where will we get our fresh fish? Our cheap baked goods? Will they take away Tagine and Siberia too?

Obviously, Hell's Kitchen is not a little house, being squished by skyscrapers and factories. But the lesson is real. Is the once eclectic Manhattan becoming a generic playground, spitting out of its assembly line, neon-filled, trendy, expensive stores that all look alike and have a soundtrack for purchase near the register? As for the mom-n-pop dry cleaners, antique stores, awkward bakeries, and random diners... where are they going? To that dark place in the washing machine that sucks up our socks, never to be seen again?

So here's my message to you, dear readers: go on an adventure in your neighborhood. Support your local laundromats and Mexican bakeries and little establishments that make our cities diverse and colorful. Because unlike The Little House in the story, The Little Hell's Kitchen in the city can't be uprooted and transported, via flatbed truck, to a new lot in the country.

The Celebration continues..

After posting my "Celebration" rant, I came across a fascinating 24-minute video, produced in 1967 by the Disney Organization. This film, featured on Waltopia.com (a comprehensive award winning site about Walt Disney's original plans for EPCOT), is the last film Walt Disney made before his death. Sounds kinda eerie, doesn't it?

If you have ANY interest in the bizarre and intriguing theories behind the hulking Disney Corporation, I urge you to visit this flashback to 60s-era informational videos. My favorite part was the music.

Watch Walt's Last Film.

My secret love affair with emergencies

So it turns out, I have a big burly emergency services worker, trapped inside my book-reading, heel-wearing 28 year-old female body. For years, my worker-boot clad parasite has been forcing me to watch shows (with the disclaimer unique to channels like National Geographic and Discovery Health, Warning: Due to the graphic nature of the following program, viewer discretion is advised) like Paramedics, Dr. G: Medical Examiner, and even hour-long specials of Mystery Diagnosis. I have scared away both roommates and boyfriends, with my incessant thirst for new medical shows that would make a cheerleader squeal with horror.

And so, in an attempt, to release this burly lumberjack of a demon (who leaves his uniform in a smelly heap in the corner, and never puts the toilet seat down), I turned to the exorcism team at New York Presbyterian Hospital: Emergency Medical Services. If I couldn't beat the demon, I was gonna join him.

I was a bundle of nerves on the first day of class. The crudely drawn map, directing me to the EMT training center, consisted of a few lines and squares, loosely indicating the Emergency Department, somewhere between 68th and 71st streets. "Hi. I'm taking an EMT course here and can't seem to find the classroom," I asked one of 4 information booth attendants. "Not sure what to tell you," she retorted, as I sheepishly presented my failure of a map, "but I can direct you to the Emergency Department. Down this hall, make a left. Through the double doors, 2nd right, then up one flight, another right, 2 lefts, down a hall..." I suddenly felt light headed. Damnit! I was going to be late to my first class. I had it planned oh so well; had even had my yellow pages-like textbook sent to me, in nerd-like fashion, a week before class. After navigating past surgeons in green cotton shoe coverings (who, I should mention, eyed my bacteria-laden civilian clothing suspiciously), and long white corridors with names like Wing F8gX, and Bldg 6A-1.5, I found myself outside again, in the cold air, on the other side of the building. How can this be so complicated? Just as I began to hear the demon cackling, I was hit by the comforting non-organic light of the glowing "EMERGENCY" sign. Alas, I had made it to freedom.

The ambulance bay.

Three weeks later, during our first hands-on practical, I was foolish to believe that with, what I thought were my sculpted biceps and defined deltoids, I could lift the back end of a 150 pound stretcher, while pulling the levers to collapse the hydraulic wheel barrels, into the back of the ambulance, with a [pretend] patient strapped in, and once safely in the vehicle, giving the cold steel bed the needed tug-slide-pull necessary to click it into its safety lock. (I can just hear the prosecutor now, "Did you or did you not suffer from delusions when you hastily attempted to lift Mrs. Brown into the back of the ambulance, whereupon your failure to activate the lever with your right hand, while tying a safety knot with your left, while securing a nonrebreather mask, caused the stretcher to fall to the ground, inflicting unnecessary blunt force trauma to the patient's internal organs? Members of the jury, this is a clear case of delusional, faulty weight training, negligence.") Seems the demon did not prepare me for heavy lifting.

Ah but, three months into training, nightmares of courtroom accusations and being swallowed by long sterile corridors of the hospital maze are merely a glimmer of the past. Knowledge is power, my friends. I have grown to love the sound of an idling 32-valve, V-8 ambulance engine, the cold bell of a stethoscope, my scoliosis-inducing book of state protocols, and obscenely expensive highlighters with fancy little post-it dispensers. I practice my Spanish with the corner deli coffee man. EMS Dispatch staff waves to me when I walk through the Ambulance bay. We students are now allowed to call Craig, one of the Paramedics, by his nickname, Biscuit.
(Cue cheesy montage music). Mine is a tale that would warm even the heart of a prison warden.

You best start running, demon.

A Celebration of Homogeny

Today I would like to talk about a phenomenon: the idealogical metropolis that is Celebration, Florida. "A safe town you can let your children roam through without worry. The closest thing to Heaven on Earth."

Think The Truman Show, minus camera crews and a giant cloud-covered ceiling, and what you're left with is a horribly pastel, deathly homogenous, corporate-run city in beachless central Florida. Granted, I was reared in Omaha, at the Eastern edge of landlocked Nebraska, bordering the muddy Missouri river, just beside bustling Council Bluffs, Iowa. But I'm proud to report, though Omaha is sprouting large tentacles of tree-barren Midwestern sprawl, its downtown has been resurrected, boasting a hip "indie" scene replete with old factory-turned loft-like apartments, eclectic non-Starbucks cafes, and a killer record label that could easily turn the NYC music industry into thick green mush.

Owned by the Walt Disney Company, Celebration was born in 1994 as a model American town, an extension of what EPCOT Center (Experimental Prototype Community of Tomorrow) was supposed to be (a "planned community built from scratch.") Walt Disney's original vision for EPCOT was that of a futuristic utopian society, to eliminate homelessness (all housing to be rented, not owned), noise (electric monorails overhead, and high speed motorways underground), and pollution (downtown to be encapsulated in a climate-controlled bubble). Unfortunately, Walt never had a chance to oversee his town-in-a-bubble, as he died well before EPCOT opened to the public in 1982. For political, social, and financial reasons (and, I'm sure, many a Disney conference room argument), EPCOT remained a gated tourist attraction, white geodesic dome and all. After all, people couldn't really live in a magic kingdom, could they? With leftover EPCOT land, Celebration emerged from a theme park (and a large corporate bank account), as a futuristic "learning resort."

I visted Celebration, FL once, with my family. Don't get me wrong, we weren't in the market for a new house, nor were we itching to indulge in the cuisine of one of downtown's "five acclaimed restaurants." Oddly fascinated by the idea of a company-owned town, and growing bored after 5 hours at Disney World (it happens, trust me), we piled in the ol' rented towncar and trekked the few miles to see what all this "new urbanist" hooplah was about. Thomas More, Renaissance visionary and martyr, coined the term "utopia" which is a pun meaning both "good place" and "no place." Incidentally, his vision lives on. In theory, I suppose this town could be utopian, but really, it just scared me. If you can hear yourself think, over the generic "soft jazz" that emanates from strategically placed speakers in the impeccibly clean downtown area, you can have your choice between 6 architectural styles for a home, a handful of schools, and very little in the transportation department (a cartoon-like trolley) if you don't own a car. All of this is accessible through The Front Porch, a Celebration-wide intranet service that connects you to others in your 96.3% white-upper-middle class pie piece. Two community associations who manage the neighborhoods, restrict what you can and can't do as a home owner, with the help of a thick binder of town "covenants" that residents must sign before moving in. Slip-n-Slide party? Forget it. Ruins the lawn. Adult swingers soiree? Heavens no! Poisons the purity of the community. Though I have no doubt, Celebration has its fair share of backyard pot smoking, extramarrital affairs, and seedy corporate extortion. Ah, but its all hidden behind the eggshell finish of the autumnal orange 3.5-bed Mediterranean-style villa, with heart-shaped pool (option 2). Though Market Street downtown has been carefully outsourced to Lexin Capital, the safe Disney-style music still wafts through the manmade lakefront and token grocery store, Goodings.

Oops, just dropped my FREE WILL back there by the elegant gated entrance.

I know, I know. If I was any more bitter, I'd be inducing peptic ulcers and rupturing stomach linings. It just felt very synthetic, empty, completely un-city-like. We've already allowed corporate America to invade our daily lives, but do we have to let it dictate our Gooding's grocery purchases, front lawn height, and local volunteering options?

But we trudged on. My sisters and I tried to expose the back edge of a wall; to find the place where stenciled outer beauty met sloppy inner construction and a faded Disney copyright stamp. But alas, we were unsuccessful. The town was real. Real bricks, real streets and real food. On a cheery note, lunch was tasty, the lakefront was a lovely place to sit while digesting, and the Celebration hotel was "delightfully charming" (boasted its website).

Towards late afternoon, our bodies grew tired from the humid air and lack of choice; the towncar waited patiently in the carefully laid out downtown parking lot. We left our newfound futuristic utopia behind, and headed back to highway 417, feeling that we'd caught a glimpse of another country, an extension of EPCOT's rather trite "World Showcase." While on the curving and unpredictable roads back to our less-than-perfect hotel in strip-mall laden Orlando, listening to non Front Porch radio, I swear I saw a drug deal in progress, which put me at ease.