monday number two

Today began another week of J-School. I'm inundated with work already, but I'm also having a lot of fun. I've already had two assignments where I had to go out into the street and find a story to photograph or record on video. I'm still uncomfortable pointing a lens at strangers because I don't want them to be uncomfortable. Two people were uncomfortable enough to refuse to let me record them. One professor told us that we have to try to be charming beggars and to use flattery if all else fails. Next time.

wait

So I'm trying to apply for a student loan. I called up a bank (one of the largest in the world) and requested information. My question was, "Can I apply for a loan on line?" Tony (maybe Tonie? Tonnie? Toni?) said, "Well, I'm not sure of the answer. Can you call back tomorrow between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. Eastern Standard Time?" And I said, "Well, no. Can you ask someone, like your supervisor?" And she said, "OK. Can I put you on hold?" And I said, "Yes, please put me on hold." And she came back and said, "Mam, I checked with my supervisor and he said that you'll need to call back tomorrow. You can also check our Web site to find the information." And I said, "Well, I was on your Web site and I couldn't find the information. That was why I called."

At first I thought that Tony was extremely unhelpful. Then I wondered if I was being unreasonable. Maybe 24-hour service isn't always possible. She did tell me exactly when I could call back to talk to specialists who can help me. I can wait 12 hours.

be like marty

Aside from our celebrity journalist deans and professors, we had our first celebrity journalist speaker. Marty Smith from Frontline showed us clips from his documentaries on Iraq, the Taliban, and Katrina and answered questions.

Marty is tall and frank. His work speaks to the kind of thinker, humanitarian, and craftsman he is. He is the kind of journalist I aspire to be.

vice-dean cheney

After a long day of orientation, I am poopered. In the end, I didn't do much. Didn't do anything really. Just sat around and listened.

The Vice-Dean of the Journalism School spoke at length. He was grave and entertaining. "Think of me as a friendly Dick Cheney," he said.

He told us about the mountain-load of work we can expect (Journalism School "will eat your life."); gave us tips on how to graciously excuse ourselves from parties ("It's midnight and my study group is waiting for me and they'll kill me if I don't show up."); warned us against drink, excess, and relationships ("Try to abstain from whatever you've normally been putting into your bodies.").

He made us giggle when he made fun of the business students who, like us aspiring journalists, are also on campus earlier than the rest of the students. "If you want to take a break and see great theater, go watch them outside. They're here for math camp. You can tell they're business students because they're all dressed up and carrying the same bag. They're doing bonding exercises, like throw water balloons at each other from ever increasing distances, to break down their high self-esteem so they can be taught something."

He made us pause when he introduced the next speaker then said (when we were about to give him applause), "Before you do it, get out of the habit of applauding the administration. We don't want our journalism students too respectful of people in authority."

He gave us hope when he assured us that everyone else is also terrified, but that we will also form close and lasting friendships. "It's ten months of hard work. So magic happens."

jitters are for sissies

School starts tomorrow. According to my deans and professors, I can expect to have classes Monday through Friday (starting at 9 a.m. each day); additional seminars, lectures, and workshops most evenings and weekends; and homework, projects, and study meetings during free time.

Am I nervous? Well, I figure why be nervous when I can stay in denial. It feels so much nicer.

little keys

Words are like little keys, and the process of writing is the process of unlocking doors.

silly story three

"The Story of the Shameless Sloth"

It is not unusual for people when they board a bus to want the entire row onto themselves. Oftentimes, however, there are enough passengers to make private rows impossible. Yesterday was such a time.

The bus was already crowded when I boarded but there was a seat available in the front row. I said "excuse me" and asked my future row-mate, who was occupying the aisle seat, if I may sit.

She threw me a scornful look and yawned her knees to the right to permit me to squeeze past. Then I asked, "Are those your things on the seat?" She looked at me with hatred and, with the speed of a slug, collected her umbrella and juice bottle but left the dirty napkin.

I wedged myself past her knees and sat, noting that half of her left buttock remained firmly planted on one-third of my seat. I didn't complain since I had more than enough space. But I did think about all the fun I was going to have writing about her on my blog.


The moral of my three stories is that there are silly people everywhere. We can't hope to escape them, but we can laugh at them.

silly story two

"The Story of the Unapologetic Boob"

On Tuesday morning a secretary from my doctor's office called me about a CT scan of my head I had recently undergone.

I explained that I had never had a CT scan performed on my head nor any other part of my body.

She then proceeded to accuse me of having undergone the procedure and declared the name of the CT scan specialist I had undergone the procedure with.

When I told her I had never heard of the doctor, she did not believe me, perhaps thinking that memory loss prompted the procedure in the first place. She asked me my name and when I confirmed that it was indeed Elaine, she became convinced that I was batty.

"You came in on July 25 for an office visit."

"I haven't seen my doctor since 2006."

"But you came in and we referred you for a CT scan with Dr. [So-And-So]."

"I don't know who Dr. [So-And-So] is and I never came into your office on July 25. I was home."

"Our records show you were here on July 25."

"Your records are wrong. I was never there. Are you sure you're looking at the right patient chart? Or maybe you made the entry in the wrong chart?"

"Your name is Elaine [This-And-That]?"

"Yes."

"Is your birthday [blah-blah]-1954?"

"No. My birthday is [blah-blah-blah]."

"Oh. Hold on. Um. Sorry. Bye."

silly story one

When I was living in Peru, I heard many complaints from natives and expatriates about the bureaucracy of Peruvian institutions, the incompetence of Peruvian workers, and the laziness of Peruvian citizens.

Well, the same holds true of New Yorkers. Here are three examples of silliness I have been the victim of in the one month and two weeks since I have returned to live in New York.

"The Story of the Snaggletoothed Raven"

It all started two years ago when I bought a bicycle. I spent months searching for the perfect fit. I searched online, in used bike shops, and in fancy boutiques. I called stores in North Carolina that imported Pashleys and schemed to visit England to bring one back in my luggage. Finally, I bought a baby blue Ross cruiser refurbished by Recycle-a-Bicycle in Brooklyn and promptly had a metal basket installed in front while I continued my search for the quintessential bell, headlights, and helmet (and perhaps even a honey-tanned Brooks saddle).

I was infatuated with my new gadget. At last, I would be among the bicycle-riding crowd; I would no longer need to explain and apologize for my freak status as a Chinese who didn't know how to ride a bicycle. Yes, you heard right. I didn't (and don't) know how to ride a bicycle.

After a few lessons, and many more falls, I stopped trying. My excuse was that I until I found the right helmet, I couldn't ride the bike anyway, so I wouldn't. While I (half-heartedly) searched for a helmet, I stored the bicycle at work, in a file closet.

When I left for Peru, I still didn't know how to ride it and had no other place to store the baby-cum-bane. I asked my friends at work if it would be all right if it stayed in the file closet until I returned, next year. They said, grudgingly, yes, but hurry.

So I went to Peru and came back, the next year, to retrieve my bicycle. With Carlos's help, we picked up the bicycle, exited the office suite, and, doing the responsible thing, we went to use the freight elevator. After waiting and repeatedly ringing the bell for 20 minutes, we realized that the elevator wasn't going to come. We didn't hear the elevator belts move nor doors open and close from other floors, and we couldn't get back into the offices. In short, we didn't know why the elevator wasn't working and we were stuck in the small, windowless room, surrounded by four locked doors and one non-functioning elevator. We used our cell phones to call security for help.

That's when the snaggletoothed raven came swooping down on us and ruined my day.

She was incredibly tall, a giant with a big bust and big hips and a teeny, tiny head. Her hair was coiffed in a chin-length bob and eyebrow-length bangs and dyed in a shade so impeccably orange that it could only be a wig. (OK. She wasn't a raven, just a security guard, but she did have a snaggletooth.)

Immediately she informed us that we could not bring the bicycle down the regular elevators, how it was building policy, and that we weren't allowed to leave the room. She insisted that we should wait and that she was just on another floor and heard the elevator working. She made pronouncements into her hand-held radio in educated-speak like "they have been made aware" instead of human-speak like "I told them." And whenever she finished telling Carlos another rule we weren't permitted to break, she would swoosh around, tilt her head, and smile at me in a have-a-nice-day kind of way that made me wonder if I should have been making her aware of her snaggletoothedness.

"This is the building's policy. We have no control over that," she said.

"Well, that's obvious," I said.

"You are not permitted to transport the bicycle from the building other than via the freight elevator. You can leave your bike here while I investigate the matter further."

"Can't we just wait inside, where there is air-conditioning, while you find out?"

"No."

"But we just want to wait inside with the bicycle. We won't bring it down the other elevators."

"No. You may leave the bicycle in this room if you so wish."

"But I don't want to. Someone might take it."

"It will be safe. I assure you." (Snaggletoothed smile again.)

"Will you guarantee its safety?"

"It will be safe."

"But will you guarantee its safety?"

Thank goodness someone interrupted us. Jumping to the end of the story, it turned out that the freight elevator operator was on his lunch break (which meant whatever elevator sounds the security guard claimed to have heard must have come from inside her head). The company's division president vouched for us, escorted us to his office (with the bicycle), and let us keep the bicycle there until after the freight elevator operator came back from lunch. The security guard left us in peace. And finally, two hours after I came to pick up my bicycle, we were able to leave the building.

(This was a really long story. I'll continue with the other two examples in separate posts.)