Mad Props To The U.S. Postal Service

It's easy to be sociable when you live in my apartment building, for rare is the week you don't get the opportunity to knock on a neighbor's door, hand over an envelope and say "This was in my mailbox. I think it's yours."

But last night broke my personal socialization-opportunity record. I've been checking my mailbox scrupulously of late, anxiously awaiting the arrival of my U.S. passport (which I don't need to visit Quebec City this August, but do need if I want to return to my home in the freedom-loving United States).

I found three pieces of mail, not one of which was mine or my boyfriend's. For that matter, no two envelopes were addressed to the same apartment: I found a cable bill for the guy across the hall, a credit card statement for the guy right below him, and junk mail for his neighbor next door.

Obligatory Gen X Nostalgia Over Michael Jackson And Farrah Fawcett

Last week a church near my office held a “strawberry festival” to raise funds for its acclaimed music program. I was there in the guise of Local Journalist On Duty, snapping photos of wholesome teens eating shortcake and toddlers getting their faces painted while collecting quotes from various adults about how the strawberries are extremely tasty and for a good cause. (I could post the story I filed that night, but you should probably just wait for the movie version.)

Little did I know that 3,000 miles away, a wealthy and insane celebrity who never knew I existed was breathing his last breath. But as I left the strawberry festival and started walking back to the office, I ran into the staff photographer, who told me Michael Jackson had died.

“Really?” I said. “Damn. I feel sorry for [the guy who does layout at the paper]; he already had the front page set up for Farrah Fawcett’s obit and now he’s got to fit Jackson there, too. I think—goddammit!”

I’d just stepped into the crosswalk (which had the white “walk” sign glowing) when a car sped around the corner at high speed, completely oblivious to the red-haired pedestrian. I jumped back onto the curb and the car missed hitting me by maybe five inches.

So I can honestly say I felt strong and unpleasant emotions within seconds of learning Michael Jackson was dead. However, I completely disavow the notion that as a member of Generation X I’m somehow obligated to take it personally when people like Jackson and Farrah Fawcett die.

"These people were on our lunchboxes," said Gary Giovannetti, 38, a manager at HBO who grew up on Long Island awash in Farrah and MJ iconography. "This," he said, "is the moment when Generation X realizes they're grown up."

Thirty-eight years old and he’s just now realizing this? Gary, you are doing it wrong: Generation X grew up and lost its innocence when Kurt Cobain died, remember?

Not that it matters to me. Celebrity news does not concern me; economic news does. And the economic news is still grim, so I have been researching ways to invest some of my savings, but not in risky markets like housing or manufacturing or banks.

So I've been checking out the Franklin Mint website, so I can be the first to place an order when they put their inevitable Michael Jackson commemorative collectibles up for sale.

Here’s how it works: every month I’ll pay the low low price of only $29.95 and receive a Genuine Bone China Thimble, each with a hand-designed portrait of the King of Pop’s awe-inspiring life: The “Ben” Afro! Jackson 5! Moonwalk! The first nosejob! The Lisa Presley Marriage TV Interview! The second nosejob! Duet with Paul McCartney! Burning hair and a Pepsi! Order this lovely limited edition collectible 25-thimble set, and receive this handsome wood-veneer display shelf absolutely free.

Then someday, in a few years, if I'm ever broke and really need the money, I can sell the whole set for under $100 on eBay.

Maybe We Should Have Listened To Anita Hill

The Supreme Court has ruled in an 8 to 1 decision that school districts can NOT strip-search students suspected of possessing Advil:

The Supreme Court said Thursday school officials acted illegally when they strip-searched of an Arizona teenage girl looking for prescription-strength ibuprofen.

In an 8-1 ruling, the justices said that school officials violated the Fourth Amendment ban on unreasonable searches when ordered Savana Redding to remove her clothes and shake out her underwear.

Redding was 13 when Safford Middle School officials in rural eastern Arizona conducted the search. They were looking for pills — the equivalent of two Advils. The district bans prescription and over-the-counter drugs and the school was acting on a tip from another student.

Clarence Thomas cast the sole dissenting vote:

In a dissent, Justice Clarence Thomas found the search legal and said the court previously had given school officials "considerable leeway" under the Fourth Amendment in school settings.

Officials had searched the girl's backpack and found nothing, Thomas said. "It was eminently reasonable to conclude the backpack was empty because Redding was secreting the pills in a place she thought no one would look," Thomas said.

Thomas warned that the majority's decision could backfire. "Redding would not have been the first person to conceal pills in her undergarments," he said. "Nor will she be the last after today's decision, which announces the safest place to secrete contraband in school."

I'd be more sympathetic toward Thomas's argument if they were searching for, say, a miniature nuclear bomb in the girl's underwear, but think about the implication of his argument: strip-searching multiple innocent people -- children, no less -- is, in his mind, preferable to letting the occasional person get away with Advil possession.

Whatever happened to "innocent until proven guilty," Justice Thomas? Do you seriously believe "the right to keep your clothes on in public" is yet another right Americans must abandon in the name of the War on Drugs?

The Bad Decisions Of My Youth Finally Pay Off

I hope y’all enjoyed yesterday’s Summer Solstice, especially you poor devils down south where, according to the Weather Channel, temps have been in the high 90s all week with humidity rates to match.

O you poor sweltering souls! I empathize. I remember those days. They’re why I left Virginia after college and moved the hell north, and all week it’s paid off bigtime.

It’s been in the 60s here all this week. A tad on the chilly side. On the first day of summer I carried a light jacket when I went to Northampton, Massachusetts, to see California Guitar Trio in concert.

This is exactly why I moved north. Moving to New England was absolutely worth it.

Great Moments In Euphemism

As a member of Generation X, I spent my entire young adulthood hearing the media tell me my generation would be the first in American history to have a lower standard of living than the previous one (read: Baby Boomers), which makes me feel especially disenchanted to read stories proclaiming the devastation the economy hath wrought upon Boomers’ retirement plans.

Behold this one in USA Today. Or don’t. Chances are you’ve read this story already, with only slight variations: lots of Boomers who appeared to be in good shape a few years ago (or as recently as last year), now find some combination of lost jobs, lowered wages, reduced retirement plans, and all the housing-bubble fallout have forced them to keep working (assuming they can even find jobs) rather than start their long-anticipated retirements anytime soon.

But the last three paragraphs stood out:

Christine Neilson, 58, a teacher in Indialantic, Fla., had planned to retire at 62. Now, she expects to work until she is 65 or 66 because her salary has been frozen for two years, and her retirement savings have taken a nose dive.

"We have to look at retirement differently," she says. "They always say that if you are going to work in retirement, do the things that you love to do. So I'm not going to complain. I love teaching."

Baby Boomers such as Neilson may change retirement. "They may re-create themselves so that they can do something that is productive and still earn a paycheck," [financial planner Sheryl] Garrett says.

In other words, not retire.

Dang Modern Kids, With Their FaceTube And Their YouBook And Their Hula Hoops

I have an old pay-by-the-minute cell phone: no long-term contract, calls are 25 cents a minute, and I have to buy 20 dollars’ worth of minutes every three months whether I use them or not. Mostly, I do not – at last count, I’ve got over $300 worth of unused minutes on the account. I use that phone so rarely I don’t even know my own cell phone number, though I’m pretty sure there’s a “9” in it somewhere.

It’s a huge phone by modern standards – almost an inch thick – and since it lacks a folding cover to prevent the buttons from pressing themselves against things in my purse, I store it in a hardshell sunglasses case where I also keep a piece of paper with my cell phone number written on it, and my boyfriend’s cell phone number, and my boss’s from two jobs ago. (I told you, it’s an old phone.)

But I recently dragged my cell phone out of retirement – by “retirement,” I mean “the very back of the cluttered desk drawer where I finally found my cell phone” – because one of my part-time freelance gigs requires me to make occasional daytime long-distance calls I won’t make from my work phone. My voicemail box was completely empty – apparently the phone company deletes old messages after 18 months or so – but I was surprised to see a few recent text messages waiting in an inbox.

I deleted them immediately, since only spammers would send a text to that number. I’ve never sent one, partially because I prefer e-mail for written communications but mainly because the amount of money my per-minute cell phone would charge to send even a tiny message is insane.

And it’s not just my phone that charges a fortune for text messaging – we’ve all seen the occasional headlines about teenagers running up insanely high text-message bills, and the high cost of text messaging is now the subject of hearings on Capitol Hill.

Consumer Reports reported that text messaging is overpriced.

[Consumer Advocate Joel] Kelsey emphasized that text-message files are very small—with five hundred of them containing less data than a one-minute voice call, he says. Further, Kelsey points out, there’s been an “explosion of texting” in recent years, with carriers reporting up to a six-fold rise in text transmissions within just a few years.

“Carriers should be experiencing economies of scale and sharing that savings with consumers,” says Kelsey. Prices are discounted heavily for text messages bought in monthly bundles that typically run into the hundreds. But carriers have steadily, and in lockstep, raised the price of sending single texts.

As CU has noted, less than four years ago rates to send a text message were 10 cents per text at the nation's four big wireless carriers: AT&T, Sprint, T-Mobile, and Verizon Wireless. Each company then raised rates to 15 cents, then to 20 cents.

To CU, these text-message rates, along with exclusivity deals for certain cell phones, exemplify the need for “more oversight” into the wireless marketplace, to “determine if government intervention is necessary.”

It seems pretty obvious that yes, the cell phone companies are charging huge sums – and making huge profits – from text messaging as opposed to regular cell phone calls. Billing the occasional teenager – or even adult – $5,000 for a service that likely only cost them a few bucks to provide doesn’t win them slimefree status, either.

But I also see phones with unlimited text messaging plans advertised on TV every night, and I can’t be the only one noticing these commercials.

Once I talk through all the paid-for minutes on my cell phone, if I talk through all the paid-for minutes on my cell phone, I might switch to an unlimited calling plan, if it looks like I’ll make enough calls to justify it. Otherwise I’ll continue my pay-as-you-go scheme. It’s a hell of a lot more expensive for each individual minute I talk, true, but cheaper by the month when you consider how rarely I use it.

Same thing if I start text messaging. Right now, if some emergency absolutely demands I send somebody a text message I can do it, though I’ll likely pay around a quarter to send just a few lousy letters to the receiving phone. Still, 25 cents every so often is still cheaper than 20 or 30 dollars a month for an unlimited text messaging plan I’d certainly never use.

Sounds simple enough to me. So why, exactly, is government intervention in text messaging supposed to be necessary?

Damned kids need to get off my lawn. Or at least stop trying to regulate it.

Goth Fame Leadeth Not To Fortune: Spooky Synchronicity Edition

Raise your hand if you’re old enough to remember the days before music downloads, when you had to buy an entire CD ($15.99 or more) to get just one song you actually liked. These days I still have an ancient collection of one-song-wonder discs stored in their dusty jewel boxes on an out-of-the-way shelf in my room.

Last night I rummaged through the collection for the first time in years, and found a 1998 disc I’d all but forgotten about: As one aflame laid bare by desire from the band “Black Tape For A Blue Girl,” on a Goth label called Projekt Records. (Most Projekt bands and albums had names like that. Goths are capital-d Deep.) I saw Black Tape perform along with several other musicians at the Projekt Festival concert some Manhattan Goth club hosted around the turn of the millennium; I think that’s where I bought the CD.

My One Song on the album is “Russia,” which I set in my stereo to play as background music while I idly surfed the Internet. As the long, long piano riff started off the song, I turned my online attention to an article Emily Bazelon wrote for the New York Times about the plight of freelance workers in this recession:

On a rainy morning in April, Lisa Feuer took the subway to the Brooklyn Dojo, a martial-arts studio where she was scheduled to teach a mommy-baby yoga class. Outside, streams of water poured from awnings into the collars of passers-by. When she got to the studio, Feuer shook out her umbrella and picked out music from her iPhone to play for the class. But in the next 20 minutes, no one else showed up.

Lisa Feuer? Sounds vaguely familiar, I thought, as the piano solo dragged on and on. Only then did I remember how I never cared much for the song's slow beginning; back in the days when I included that One Song on mix tapes, I always cut the first several minutes off.)

All this flashed through my mind in a second as I continued reading the story:

When Feuer started teaching yoga four and a half years ago, when she was 38, it seemed like the perfect entree to a life of free agency. Feuer spent most of her 30s working for her husband’s goth record label doing publicity and promotion. When they divorced in 2005, she wanted a job that gave her some of the same independence that he had. “I’d watched my husband go into business for himself, and I felt like I could do it, too,” she said.

Goth record label? I pulled the liner-notes booklet out of the CD jewel box, at the exact moment the flute-solo part of the song began.

Behold: Lisa Feuer was the flautist in Black Tape for a Blue Girl. Her now-ex-husband, Sam, fronted the band and owned the label that published it. And I suddenly remembered speaking briefly to Lisa and Sam at the Projekt Festival, since it turned out we knew a couple of the same people there.

I hadn’t thought of them in years, or played their song either, until the exact moment I found Lisa in the New York Times as a freelance yoga teacher whose customers can no longer afford her services in today’s economy, and Sam mentioned obliquely as the guy paying part of her rent.

Even in her best years, Feuer was never affluent, but with child support she was able to live what she considered a middle-class life. This year, however, because of the classes and students she has lost, Feuer is on track to make as little as $15,000, a 30 percent drop from the past. But because she is underemployed rather than out of work, she is not eligible for unemployment insurance. She also doesn’t show up in the unemployment statistics.

She hadn’t shown up in my memory, either, not anytime recently. I hadn’t thought of the band, song or festival in years, until I dug out that old CD seconds before reading about the former flautist from the long-ago Projekt Festival now illustrating an economic trend for the Times.

Spooky synchronicity. For the musicians’ sake, I won’t play anymore of my One-Song Wonder discs until the economy improves.