A Jejune Look at Politics and Strange Bedfellows

I am now well into my thirties (so much so that if my life we're the brilliant TV show Thirtysomething, I'd be living in the second season; you know, where everyone is still kind of cute and shiny but starting to get cynical about and even bored with their own dreams? But, I digress...), and I am only just learning how extremely naive I am.

For instance, I have never thought of my childhood as particularly halcyon or sunny, but I had no idea the sexual politics at play within my own family. Eww, right? Over the years, as my father has lost more and more of his mind, and my brother has become more nostalgic about his "crazy childhood," and my mother has slightly released the valve on all her swallowed repression, I'm learning that things may have been going on that I had no idea were going on. I should clarify - I'm not talking about incest or anything, I just never thought of my family members as having thoughts or feelings beyond those I attributed to them. As someone who has often hubristically considered herself the smartest person in the room, let alone the most perceptive and cynical, you can understand how shocking it is to learn I'm the most clueless person in my tiny, ridiculous clan. But there it is.

I'm also only just learning that sexual politics in general get past me. I'm completely oblivious to most innuendo and ulterior motives regarding penis size, sadomasochism, swinging, sugar-daddyism, etc. On more than one occasion, a stranger has asked to take pictures of my sandaled feet "for research" or "to get a sense of the toenail polish the kids are wearing these days," and it was not until about the third time - after it had happened at the Eiffel Tower in Paris, and then on the lawn at the Washington Monument - that I even considered I might be attracting foot fetishists. And I still don't really believe that such a thing exists - not really.

What's worse, politics in general get past me. I once asked my first boyfriend who his favorite American president was, and he laughed in my face. They were all crooks and liars, he said. Even Kennedy? I thought (but dare not speak it). That was 16 years ago, and I only just realized (after reading the excellent book Nemesis, about how Ari Onassis was behind RFK's murder) what an idiot/puppet JFK was, and that even Bobby was hideous (not to mention Jackie). I've now decided that everyone in politics and/or with a certain amount of money/influence is probably a bastard (even so, I still love you Billy C.). And still, I'm probably being extremely naive.

Which brings me to Jersey City. We found our house in Jersey City after looking at numerous places in Brooklyn, Queens and Manhattan. As soon as we saw it, we said, "Wow, we can get all this, a couple of blocks from the train, for this price?" That's all we thought about. We've had various friends who lived in Jersey City, we knew it was cute and getting cuter - not as much as Williamsburg, but certainly in line with other places in Brooklyn we had seen (and definitely more than some, like Bushwick!), and closer in proximity to Manhattan than all of them (except for those in Manhattan, of course).

What we didn't know about (or at least I didn't) were the politics. Turns out, JC is known for corruption - mob-related and otherwise. Anyone who knows anything about JC or corruption - mob-related or otherwise - will know that to have missed this is to be pitifully, pathetically, ridiculously naive. We're talking hayseed from the Mayberry era. Again, there it is.

I consider myself a proud Democrat (more proof of my guilelessness), but not when it comes to local Jersey City politics. Calling yourself a JC Democrat is like saying you are a bloated, ineffectual idiot who misses the political charms of Jimmy Hoffa or Boss Tweed.

And it's an extremely political city. Even the most minor district races inspire sign posting the likes of which I have never seen. If you don't have a candidate's poster hanging in your window or yard, you eventually will. Stumping is not voluntary, and there are no undecided front lawns - you are either against us (read: you take the time to find your pliers and tear the sign off your fence) or for us (read: you can't be bothered to take it down even years after the race is lost).

We bought our house from a member of a political JC Irish Democrat family whose brother, a local sheriff, was living in the home before we moved in. Truly a man of the people, this sheriff really took the time to go out and shake hands with the everyman, specifically those among the city's crack-addled population. He was even kind enough to invite a few into his home (I won't go into the specifics of how we know this, but you can imagine). So, after we moved in, when we found out he was actively stumping for a particular candidate in the mayoral race, we decided to go another way.

And that's why we voted for Jeremiah Healy. Even after Herr Guitar met Healy outside the PATH train and he didn't seem particularly compelling. Even after it was reported that Healy was seen sitting naked on his front stoop one evening - during the campaign! As long as he wasn't the sheriff's choice, Healy was our guy. And then he won. And even when, at a recent community meeting regarding what to build on a former Superfund site, he came bellowing in like an asshole, asking questions merely for the sake of asking and then saying he didn't have any time to stick around for the answers, I had faith that he might not be a complete embarrassment.

Until last weekend, when Healy was arrested - not calmly taken in for questioning, but thrown to the ground and MACED - at Bradley Beach for getting involved in someone else's fight. The reported details are sketchy. But what about this naked stoop-sitting mayor isn't?

All of this makes me either want to run for the hills (preferably, the Sierra Nevadas) or run for office. Should I, an outsider with major gentrification hang-ups, try to fix the system from within? Or is that just extremely naive?

And does everyone have a creepy family, or is it just me?

No One Can Eat 50 Organic Dog Treats

Cutest Hillbilly Puppy Ever! 

One of the best things about working on the Upper West Side is the parade of freaks you encounter every day. I mean that in the most loving sense possible.

Up here, a preponderance of middle-aged Jamaican ladies window shop while strollering their surprisingly white offspring. Centuries-old rich widowes attend Weight Watchers meetings and confess that the most effective dieting trick is standing in the nude and looking in a mirror, and admonish anyone who admits to having a menstrual cycle as "showing off". Reality TV castoffs confab at one of the 3,000 local Starbucks outlets. Hyper-polished teenagers evaluate the few calories they have allowed themselves to consume that day while in line at Cold Stone Creamery. Doormen at the Dakota building suffer an endless stream of tourists trying to get a picture of the ghost of John Lennon and Rosemary's baby (HR calls this "Dakota fanning"). And the likes of Frances McDormand and Calvin Klein casually browse through Urban Outfitters.

Most importantly, first wives and trophy wives alike take their precious pups to Canine Ranch, the new "doggie spa" on 72nd Street. Apparently there is another Canine Ranch about 10 blocks away, and one in the Hamptons. I think this is a brilliant location strategy - ensuring that there is always a Canine Ranch where you need one.

Canine Ranch offers boarding and grooming and a "dog barkery" (a play on dog bakery, it's the cleverest pun I've heard since Canine Ranch!), but it also sells lots and lots of adorable stuff for the most fashionable UWS doggie. There are elaborately bedazzled t-shirts and designer fleece hoodies, there are faux fur leashes, there are chew toys shaped like cell phones and sock monkeys, there are even clocks made of books featuring famous fidos such as Lassie and Benji.

And there are treats. The aforementioned dog barkery notwithstanding, there is an ice-cream freezer full of stuff, and there are Newman's Own organic dog treats.

Now, we all know that I love my dog, Angus. He is a sweet, adorable little friend and I am very proud of him. But, let's face it, he's eats cat shit. He eats baby shit. He'd probably eat his own shit if familiarity didn't breed contempt. And this is not a starving dog. No, cat shit and diapers are treats that he must sneak to get. Soiled napkins and used tissues are secret indulgences when HG and I aren't looking. He spends most of his waking hours hanging out near the trash can - at one point in the hopes that someone would pop the lid, until he went and learned to pop the lid on his own. A walk is not just a walk but a hunt for discarded chicken bones. In short, this dog eats shit. And I defy anyone - in any tax bracket - to show me a dog who doesn't.

Mr. Newman, I sympathize with your cause, I enjoy your salad dressing and salsa, but I must object to your organic dog treats. My dog gets enough organic, and it isn't pretty.

Sure, Paul Newman will likely counter with the argument that Angus is not an uptown dog, that he is, in fact, something of a hillbilly.

It's true, I'd admit to Paul (at this point, I think, we'd be on a first name basis), Angus literally comes from country trash. He was rescued from some dumpster in Kentucky, where (animal cruelty alert), according to the boarder, people throw a bunch of dogs in and then gas them using a hose from some rusty old El Camino's tailpipe (I don't know that it's always a rusty El Camino, but I think it's safe to assume as much).

Egad! Paul would cry out (those famous blue eyes beginning to tear up), what kind of monster could do that to a trashcan full of dogs?

I can't even imagine, I'd say. And if you've ever seen Angus as a puppy, you'd be even more horrified. I didn't think it possible for something to be this cute... uh, other than you in Hud, of course.

Thank you, he'd say with a smile. I did have a certain way with denim, didn't I?

Yes, but we are getting off the subject, I'd counter.

Oh, right, he'd recall. Right! Where do we find these murderers?

Calm down, I'd say, patting the sweet old man on the shoulder. That's not the subject either. The subject is your ridiculous, overpriced gourmet dog biscuits. I know the proceeds go to charity - in this case, animal-related causes - but by selling them, aren't you encouraging the kind of crass consumerism that is antithetical to everything your work is about? Have we as a culture become so celebrity obsessed that our dogs must eat like Paris Hilton (not her dog, Tinkerbell, but Paris Hilton herself, who famously created the Four Dog Biscuit a Day Miracle Diet [TM])? True, Angus's obsession with trash and feces may have something to do with his bad childhood, but I don't think so. I think dogs are there to eat what we drop on the floor and don't want to sweep up. They are meant to lick our babies' hands clean so we don't have to sully another washcloth. It is their nature to rid our streets of unsightly stray Chinese food leftovers. Should we deny that nature by shoving an expensive, tasteless biscuit in their mouths so that our neighbors might see that we have a little money saved?

ZZZZZZZZ, Paul would respond, having obviously nodded off during my tirade.

Just another day on the Upper West Side.