By emily
Grade: A for idea, F for word overuse and abuse

In his 1876 nonsense poem The Hunting of the Snark, Lewis Carroll describes an expedition that sets out in search of the titular elusive, undefined beast. Nowadays, snark is a lot easier to find -- in fact, the word itself is downright overexposed. 'Snarky' has quickly become the Paris Hilton of the dictionary, replacing ‘hip’ and ‘edgy’ as the favorite copout for aging ad execs who seek to convey the youthful coolness of whatever they’re selling. They seem to think that it means something along the lines of ‘bad-ass.’ The word has also become popular among literary types, who most often use it when implying that someone whose review they don’t agree with is voicing their opinion in an immature, unfair, self-aggrandizing way. To Heidi Julavits, ‘snarky’ seems to mean nothing more or less than ‘mean-spirited,’ with an undertone of ‘I’m telling! Moooom!” Others use it to mean “spunky” or “snippy” or “nitpicky.” Far from undefinable, the mythical Snark now suffers from a surfeit of contradictory definitions.

So what is and isn’t a legitimate use of the word? Well, we can start by looking it up (yes, welcome to my Safire moment). The dictionary is clearly wrong, at least in terms of common usage. It says that snarky (from snork, to snore or snort, Dutch or Low German origin) just means “irritable or short-tempered, irascible.” Huh? I always thought it pretty much just mean “funny meanness.”

Snark, in the sense of the TWOP slogan (spare the snark, spoil the networks) is corrective, constructive, necessary, and often hilarious. I am a big supporter of the concept. I just think we should give the poor word a break. It has become like the pair of shoes you thought were so cool and special until Urban Outfitters began stocking them, everyone bought a pair, and you had to stop wearing yours. Yes, ‘snark’ is the Nike Dunk of 2004. So let’s all spare the snark for a while, or maybe create a decoy word that will spread like wildfire around the internet and finally infiltrate the mass media. We will know we have succeeded when the word is in a Starburst ad and in The Believer magazine on the same day. I like 'clutchy,' with its echoes of Francesca Lia Block. Or maybe you can come up with something. Please do, because I’m serious about this. I am banning the word (not the concept, of course, because we would have to take down the site) from the Universal Review. Take that, ‘snark.’

By Guest Reviewer Rachel

Grades: A for Home Depot, C for Giant, D for Ikea: Average: B-

OOOHHH! The self checkout is a harsh mistress! How I love her and hate her! Our first meeting was at my local Giant Food store (Have you noticed that Giant has changed its logo from the big red Gothic "G" to the weird 70s-style G in the rectangle? What's up with that?) in good old Silver Spring, MD. What joy! What fun! It had been awhile since I had heard that melodic scanner beep and here I was, getting it without having to slave away in some degrading retail position. (Editor’s note: I agree that the beep is enticing. But don’t self checkout machines seem like a harbinger of the scary totally automated future? Not that I will miss my fake, awkward interactions with the checkout people. Except, I will miss the girls at Duane Reade who are always laughing and saying dirty comments about their manager.)

Now, if you’ve seen people using these things I bet you’ve wondered the same thing I did: what is preventing everyone from stealing? The short answer is: nothing. They TELL you that there are secret cameras watching the checkout so that, if something is amiss, an employee will step in. But is anybody really watching? Is anyone really stopping me from ringing up a big bag of avocados as Idaho potatoes? No, they are not. At least I don't think they are. I'm certainly not going to try it. My shoplifting days ended in the lingerie department at Hechts. (editor’s note: Rachel, did you steal those silicone outplant things there? Remember when you brought them over to B's house and we all took turns walking around with Peg Bundy cleavage? If you still have them, can I borrow them for my dead-Adriana costume next Halloween?)

My next encounter with this fiendish vixen was at Home Depot where things ran very smoothly for me, but not for the other patrons. Plus side:unlike at Giant there is always someone there to help out.

Next stop Ikea. Now the Ikea setup in College Park is a little
different. There is one self-checkout area with four registers. There is also a monitor there; two, actually. One who seemed to be a boss of some kind who just sat in front of a monitor, and another who reminded me of the awkward teenage character on The Simpsons and did all the running around. Having observed him having to do all the work for half the people in self-checkout and also having to do a price check for me for some blinds that should have been on sale, I can state for a fact that he was definitely doing the work of four people. So although Ikea is saving some bucks, the unlucky employee who works that position pays the ultimate price. When my blinds didn't ring up correctly I felt like an ass wasting the register just standing there and gave it up, so I had to eventually get back in a regular line which took another twenty minutes. But the scanner is so much fun! Beep! Beep! Beep!

By B
Grade: A+

The other day a Jew For Jesus sat next to me on the subway. You can always know a Jew For Jesus because they tend to be dressed very wacky (for instance in a coat of many colors) and the first thing they tell you about is how they are an artist of some sort. Don't bother asking what kind of artist because next they will give you a real tarradiddle about how they started going to church because they love music. Jews for Jesus all love music; at least that is part of their sales pitch. The one that I recently spoke with was a rather saucy earth mother type who was obviously not ever Jewish in the first place-- maybe once a hippie but not a Jew. They are not the same despite what you might have observed at Emily's synagogue.

In general when someone tries to give me religion I tell her that she needn't bother; I am Catholic and I love Mary even better than I love God so save it. This time, however, I changed my tactic because i've discovered that no evangelical likes to hear about Mary. It just gets them going. They would rather that you worship the devil because at least Satan does not have a vagina as far as anyone knows.

Since I was drunk and feeling ponderous, I actually took the woman at face value. I gave religion some thought-- like maybe God would be a good idea although certainly not the Jew For Jesus type of God. Finally I decided that I don't need religion because i have sad love songs instead.

What I believe in is when you think you hear the sweet, clumsy guitar of someone you once loved, like they are in the next room playing for you, but it turns out it is just "the ra-di-ooo."

that is a religious experience. how can it not be?

I felt that I should share my belief system with the Jew for Jesus next to me. Partially because I thought she might think I was so retarded that i did not deserve to be saved (God hates retards) but partially also because I was actually being totally serious. And she did say she loved music. Maybe I would be able to convert her! Anyway, fat chance. She started quoting some nonsense from something called "the bible" which was not technically the true Bible but some Jew For Jesus fakery. I stopped listening to her. I was listening to a secret telepathic radio station that plays Karen Carpenter at all times. It is a little like praying except with a deceptively peppy but actually devastating horn section.

I believe that sad love songs may be the point of everything. I am not joking with you. Like maybe it was a cave man or cave woman who hummed a primitive bar of "I Will Always Love You" and that was where evolution took a leap and cave man became actual man. And now the entire job of humanity is to keep them spinning. We wake up and eat (or in KC's case don't eat) and go to work (if that is our thing) and make money and everything just so that someday we can fall in love and then out of love and someone can write a sad song about it and thus perpetuate a weird alternate circle of life. even if you keep it all to yourself, it still goes into the cosmic pool and then one day, as Lisa Loeb memorably discovered, you will "turn the radio on, turn the radio up," and find that "some woman is playing my song!" or you will write a girl a letter with everything you meant to say and it will fall out of a hole in your old brown overcoat. and you know what happens after that. Yes. Someone will find it and make a song out of it and your girl will hear it on the ra-di-o. woah. on the ra-di-o.

What is with the radio? Or the ra-di-o? Why is it so important in so many of the great sad love songs? Is there some kind of secret message that we are supposed to be understanding here? I am thinking that maybe one day the clock radio will wake me up in the morning and it will not be Howard Stern. It will be, oh, say, Dionne Warwick singing HEARTBREAKER or something like that. And from the tinny, staticky speaker, an angel will emerge, two fingers slightly extended. She will look just like Dolly Parton but with bigger breasts and more makeup. i don't know what happens next because i am not privy to all cosmic knowledge-- only some. But whatever it is it will be important. It will break my heart and it will be gorgeous. This is all very Angela Chase of me. I know. But.

I believe in George and Tammy. I believe in the sappiest harmonies and a dying girl on the drum set. And exactly three chords because there's no reason to get fancy here. I believe in the radio. The Jew for Jesus moved seats when i started singing.

By emily
Grade: ?

A jumper splatted onto the pavement outside my office building today. Seriously. I came out of the subway and saw the police tape, coroner’s van, and gaggle of onlookers and my first thought was that they were shooting an episode of Law and Order, but the dearth of telegenic cops and the suspiciously real vibe of horror tipped me off to the truth of the situation. This occurance struck me as highly creepy and surreal . . . sort of like last night’s episode of Six Feet Under.

Now I have to decide where to hang my “Most Callous Segue” award. Anyway, yes, did anyone else think that last night’s episode, in which David is kidnapped by a psychopath who, it is clear from the get-go, is going to almost but not quite kill him, sort of overstepped the bounds of the show? Especially the part where he was forced to smoke crack? I don’t know, I mean, I enjoyed it and was highly entertained (as my fellow audience members can attest; I was doing that annoying thing of giving high-decibel updates about the onscreen action, i.e.: “OH MY GOD! HE’S SMOKING CRACK!”) but I just feel like the show was kind of straining for an Event to hang its plots on. And also, is David the stupidest person in the world? He behaved as unintuitively as a character in a really bad horror movie. Um, David? Here are the rules of staying alive: we do not pick up hitchhikers, no matter how needy we feel. We are immediately and automatically suspicious of everyone who asks us for money. Especially if they mention a “grandmother.” David acted like a total retard and also missed a bunch of opportunities to run. Is this really in keeping with his character? I thought Nate was supposed to be the one with the death wish.

Ew, death.

By emily
Grade: C

Oh nooooo. Vh1 has caught up and is now eulogizing a decade during which I was fully pubertal. Fuck. Does this mean that I’m old? I feel kind of torn about watching this show. On the one hand, I do indeed love the 90s. If there were a 90s oldies station (just wait!), I would totally listen to it. Pearl Jam seems great compared to the MTV bands of today. Fuck, that’s exactly the kind of thing I promised myself I would never say as an unhip old person! I am a 22 year old geezer! “Turn down that terrible noise, you little whippersnappers!” What is going on here? Setting aside the question of ‘what is up with pop culture’s general nostalgia fixation?’ for the moment (the future seems so bleak that we are seeking refuge in the past, is my best guess), I just want to talk about the giant generation gap between me and today’s teenagers.

Recently, Lolapallooza was cancelled due to total lack of interest. Some speculated
that this was because the kind of people who are young and hardy enough to tolerate sustained exposure to porta-potties (teenagers) no longer listen to the kind of bands Lolapallooza organizers had booked (good ones). Today’s teenagers comprise a generation that is officially called the ‘Millenials’ and semi-fraudulent research seems to indicate that they are more conservative than my generation – a generation, by the way, that exists only in my opinion and which I would term ‘Gen X’s little sister who was always trying to tag along with her.’ Hmm, maybe I need a catchier name. Back to those Millennials, though -- William Strauss and Neil Howe, authors of Millennials Rising, call today’s young adults "America’s new conformists," observing that they "believe in security rather than radicalism, political order rather than social emancipation, collective responsibility rather than personal expression."

This may or may not be the case, but regardless, it seems probable (judging from TRL). So I'm just going to go with the assumption that everyone born after 1981 is generally brainwashed and sucky. During their formative music-tastes years, they were being assaulted by boy bands and Britney, which has somehow predisposed them towards Republicanism and overproduced faux-emo now. I have this horrible suspicion that they are watching Vh1 I love the 90s and making fun of how dumb the 90s were! And so am I, but they are not allowed to. It’s like how no one is allowed to call your mom a bitch but you.

Conclusion: I love the 90s so much that I wish we were still living in the 90s, back when Vh1 played bad music videos and not clip shows designed to make young people feel ancient and weary.

By emily

Grade: A-

This chamomile tea is awesome. I think it might just be the best I’ve ever had. And not only is it tasty, it’s free of GMOs, whatever the fuck they are. So is the incense that I’m currently burning, which is handmade from a blend of pure, natural essential oils. Yes, I’m burning incense. Actually, according to the package, I’m doing so much more: I’m “participating in a centuries-old tradition that uses the aromatic properties of medicinal herbs to promote relaxation and quiet the mind.” I’m thinking about cracking open a soy yogurt. Yeah, I feel like somebody’s tunic-wearing weird hippie aunt -- but it feels great! In fact, it feels . . . healthy.

The only downside of living a block away from Greenpoint's superb health food store is that I am tending to give them about 85% of my paycheck. More than once I’ve contemplated taking a part-time job there, for the free groceries and also because the cashiers always look like they’re having so much fun. I admire their teenaged high spirits, even though I suspect that most of the time their giggly comments during our interactions translate to something like this:

Me: Um, it’s a debit card?
Cashier: Mm-hmm. (in Polish, to bag girl) This girl is back again? What is wrong with her?
Bag girl: (in Polish) Yeah, what is this, the third time today? Her outfit is so weird. Hey, let’s play Tori on the PA again.

I’m just irresistibly compelled to spend money there. For starters, it’s not a chain, so you don’t feel like you’re perpetuating some kind of Whole Foods-style shiny-happy-corporation fakery. And all their products are just so enticing. If I had unlimited funds and pantry space, I would probably want to purchase each and every one of them. It’s like “I will buy this bag of rice chips – it’s good for me and the future of sustainable agriculture!” or “These cookies are organic, with recycled packaging – hence, healthy.” Maybe I am an addict and I’ll have to go through some twelve-step where I renounce The Garden and have to do some sort of Super-Size-Me style rebound. Because if this gets any more intense, I might have to start doing yoga again and you know it is just one baby step from there to that sustainable-living commune in West Virginia. I think they’re also polyamorous. Maybe I should run out and get some cheez doodles.

By emily

Grade: F

Right now I am watching a miserable-looking girl carting handtruck after handtruck full of heavy cardboard boxes around. She isn’t getting paid and, as far as I know, she isn’t doing it because she has a deep love of manual labor. She’s doing it because she’s an intern. She could be doing the exact same rote task as an office temp for $11 to $15 an hour, but she’s been sucked into this city’s bizarre intern culture, where it’s okay to lug boxes and empty garbage for free as long as someone has convinced you that it’s a learning experience. Does anyone else think that this is fucked up? I guess it’s no secret that I do, even though I have to admit that my many, many internships did indeed help get me to where I am today (never mind that 'where I am today' includes a brand-new anxiety disorder). Now that I’m on the other side of the intern divide, I’ve been thinking of posting one of those superfake craigslist ads so I can hire an unpaid intern as my personal assistant. The intern can help me to write a million dollar grant for a performance piece where I explore notions of ‘femininity’ and ‘body image’ by wearing a different fancy designer outfit every day. Also, the intern can do my laundry and scoop Raffles’s litter box so that s/he can learn more about what it’s like to be an adult. Because that’s what internships are for, right? They’re supposed to teach college kids how to be responsible and professional, isn’t that it?

Oh wait, no. Turns out, internships are a HUGE SCAM.

The scammiest is when your school insists that you need to get college credit for doing an internship so that in effect you are paying (your school) in order to work for free. But mostly internships are just a way for businesses to save money. Of course, in the best-case scenario, the intern actually learns how to do something useful, makes valuable connections, enhances her resume in a meaningful way, and goes on to a paid position in the industry or maybe even gets hired by the company she interned for. I’ve only heard of this happening once, and it seemed like one of those fanciful NY myths, like the one about your friend of a friend who only pays $500 for her roomy East Village one bedroom.

Internships have the potential to be used for good, so we can’t ban them entirely. But because slavery is illegal, we should probably ensure that interns get some sort of compensation. Minimum wage would be nice, especially for people who are stuffing envelopes all day. Or, failing that, at least a travel and lunch stipend, so that people aren’t actually losing money by going to “work.” Above all, though, we should resolve to treat interns better, and I’m not just talking about not having affairs with them “for the worst possible reason . . . because [we] could.” Whenever we are interacting with an intern, we should remember that they, unlike us, are not getting paid to be here. They are our honored guests.

And to all you interns out there: don’t ever let anyone make you feel bad about coming in late and taking a bunch of fake sick days. Enjoy your carefree youth and don’t rush to become an ambitious, driven office slave. It’ll happen before you know it anyway.

By emily

Grade: B+

This is embarrassing to admit, but I used to have a little bit of a crush on David Foster Wallace, in spite of his long, stringy hair and vague Shannon Hooniness. It wasn’t his looks that drew me to him (although, no offense to everyone I’ve ever dated, I do have a thing for ugly guys). No, I had a thing for his sensibility. I liked his obsessive need to tell me every single detail. Sure, the footnotes seemed gimmicky even before everyone else caught on and started using them to ‘postmodernify’ their bad writing workshop story (like, if we’re supposed to read something, put it in the body of the text! If it doesn’t add anything, then why is it there?) But appendices and endnotes aside, I was deeply in like with his prose stylee. An important caveat here is that I was bedridden with a terrible flu and attendant high fever the entire time that I was reading Infinite Jest, so I may have hallucinated entire chapters of it. But I remember genuinely and, insofar as this is possible, unpretentiously liking it. And him. I bet he has a big pack of patchouli-scented MFA ladies chasing him around at this very moment, so I’ll stop talking about my personal tender feelings and get back to talking about his new collection of short stories.

I think it sort of boils down to this: at this point, anyone can write a classic New Yorker short story. The steps are as follows: think of some clever, quippy one-liners and an underlying Theme. Take some (typically middle-aged) protagonists. Maybe they are trapped in an unhappy marriage, or are dealing with the death of a child, or are contemplating unfaithfulness or terminal illness. Throw in a sordidly depicted scene of sex, death, or something else gross. Write the story, making sure not to be overtly cheesy but at the same time not to stray too far from subject matter that’s immediately familiar to the typical NYer reader. Close with an image – something related to the Theme, but not too closely. Focus in detail on describing the image, making sure that no concrete resolution is implied. Some people do this very, very well, and I enjoy their work. But it’s nice once in a while to read a story that has almost nothing to do with these conventions but still manages to be entertaining, which is why I liked Oblivion.

Many of these stories are barely even stories – they’re just sort of piles of facts. Somehow this is appealing, maybe because life often lacks a plotline and is more like just a pile of facts. If oddball structures and page-long sentences make you impatient, I suggest you skip to the end of the book and read The Suffering Channel first. It’s full of all the things we’ve come to expect from fiction, such as characters and dialogue, but still has that wow-this-came-from-the-mind-of-a-deranged-genius quality. It’s about a Midwestern man who, as one of the characters puts it, “poops sculptures out of his butt.” But it is also about the office politics that take place at a fictional People-type magazine as it tries to figure out how to spin the story. The magazine’s offices are housed in 1 World Trade Center, and the story takes places in the summer of 2001. I know it’s hard to believe, but somehow this is all depicted subtly. This story alone revived the ardor that the author photo had dampened. DFW, I bet you are married or gay or a huge player, but I just wanted to say that if you are ever in the neighborhood, maybe we could have coffee or something.