Jewelry Store Commercials; or, Gender Relations at the Mall

I know, I know, it's no secret that jewelry store commercials are effed up, and it's not even a secret WHY.  But still...I can't deal with them, especially now that we're in full-on Valentine's Day hysteria.  I don't think anyone who has spent any time working on gender and media will find any of this groundbreaking, but I just have to write it out.  My screed is in two parts.  Both take on gender, but the first concerns mostly narrative and performative absurdity, and the second concerns ideological assumption.  


FIRST: A rant on narrative in the most recent Kay Jewelers ad.



I can't find a video online yet, but for now, the basic premise: A couple is walking through the mall.  They head into Kay Jewelers. Man says, "We're just looking, right?" Woman insists, "Of course." They look at diamond rings. The jeweler explains these special certified diamonds. She tries on the ring. OMG it fits. Man says, "That's because I already got it sized." Knees. "Will you marry me?" She looks surprised. 



WTF? 


a) This is absurd, because who goes to try on rings and then is surprised about a proposal? I think the jig is up. 


OR b) Taking into account the fact that he's sort of standoffish about ring shopping at the beginning, this is still absurd, because his way of not tipping her off to a proposal is to act like he doesn't want to get engaged and vaguely imply that she's pressuring him? And, to be fair, she's dragging him to a jewelry store to try on rings despite the fact that he's expressed his unwillingness to get engaged yet? I hope you guys are very happy in your passive aggressive marriage lol.

My friend Alex pointed out,

"I can't believe your biggest issue with this isn't that the guy is proposing to her IN A KAY JEWELERS! Who does that? Especially since all other of their commercials are about a guy surprising a woman with something he bought there by himself, so based on what we know from these it's narratively inconceivable that these characters have shared some sort of 'special moment' at a Kay Jewelers prior to this proposal, which would be the only possible justification for proposing in a place that probably smells like the Auntie Anne's Pretzels inevitably being sold next door."


Hahaha fair.  The mall part DOES bother me.  But I guess it's all part of a really weird consumerist-heteronormative imperative anyway, so why quibble, intellectually speaking?  If you're going to symbolically buy a marriage, why not at a mall?  I mean basically the assumptions here are out of control, but the biggest one is that it's a man's job to propose, even if it's possibly based on a woman's demand, and it's his job to buy her a big assed rock in order to seal the deal. Her end of the agreement is to act surprised and dewy-eyed.  


I want to be clear that I don't really feel one way or the other about the practice of proposing with diamond rings.  I think people should do whatever they want on that front, and I can't say I'd hate it.  I don't think the act itself is inherently evil or unfeminist or superficial or whatever else.  What I'm objecting to is the imperative.  The taken-for-granted and compulsory nature of such symbolic performances.



SECOND: A rant on ideology in the "He went to Jared" model.


The current object of my indignation is the kind of commercial that basically says, "DEAR STRAIGHT MEN: YOU MUST FIND A SUITABLE FEMALE TO MATE WITH AND YOU MUST BUY HER JEWELRY OR SHE WILL BE PISSED AND YOU WILL DIE."



a) We'll just get the macro one out of the way - again, really gross consumerist-heteronormative cocktail going on here.  Apparently jewelry is only for straight people, and almost entirely for women.  If it's not for your wife/fiance/girlfriend, it's for your mother or grandmother.  And jewelry equals love, people!  They won't know unless you buy them shit.  You're a bad partner or a bad son or a bad grandson if you don't buy them shit.  Better get your ass to the mall.  (Note: I have no problem with jewelry.  I love jewelry.  I'm not pretending I don't buy stuff, or that I don't like getting stuff.  I have some awesome pieces of jewelry from my significant other that I adore.  But I don't think I should need them in order to know the state of my relationship.  I'm not trying to be smug or superior or to play the "I'm not a dupe!  I'm not a dupe!  You should know that about me!" game.  I do indulge in symbolic consumerism.  I just think it's important to think about all the assumptions that go along with it.)


b) These commercials treat men like helpless idiots.  Poor, stupid men.  But if he goes to Jared, we'll totally pat him on the head and give him a treat.   Good boy!  Frankly, some of these commercials even imply that men are inconsiderate jerks (but only straight, cis men, since there's nary a non-hetero or non-cis to be found).  So there's offensive assumption #1: Men are stupid and inconsiderate.  But the back side of assumption #1 is that, by assuming that men will be unthinking and uncaring boneheads, these commercials not only insult men, they also sort of naturalize the notion that men are unthinking and uncaring boneheads in a way that essentially approves of it.  Like it's "normal" for men to be unthinking and uncaring.  Because they're men!  Duh!  We should all just adjust to their (supposed) self-centeredness and then maybe just give them easy instructions on how to avoid pissing women off on consumerist holidays. So there's offensive assumption #2.  So the big old offensive nutshell: Men are stupid and inconsiderate (ouch!), but they're allowed to be because they're men, and we should continue to reinforce, if not celebrate, this notion (wait a minute!).  


c) And, finally, these commercials perpetuate the notion that women are materialistic and demanding.  We want shiny things, and if you don't give us shiny things, you are in TROUBLE and we will NOT HAVE SEX WITH YOU, so you'd better GET IT RIGHT.  You are a bad, bad partner and a bad, bad man if you don't get it right!  But the most annoying part about this is that it upholds the SAME assumption as above - namely, that men are "naturally" unthinking and uncaring - but then implies that the only time women should combat this is when it's time for presents.  Forget asking that people think differently or behave differently or question their assumptions in everyday gender relations.  No no, let's accept the status quo there, but then designate specific days when we demand recognition through shiny things.  The problem is not that your mother and your wife and your fiance and your girlfriend often get the shit end of power relations.  The problem is that you haven't given them enough jewelry on holidays.  That's what they're mad about.


CONCLUSION


So basically now I've dissected these things to the point of ridiculousness.  I don't pretend that commercials for mall jewelry are the place where gender activism is going to happen.  The purpose of advertising is to symbologize.  Often, although not always, it works to flatten difference in consumers, even while it hyperdifferentiates products.  I'm not going to pretend capitalism - or propaganda, if you're feeling feisty - is something it's not.  I'm also not going to pretend that I don't participate.  But, even if I don't expect these commercials to be a place where gender is questioned, they are still a place where gender is done.  Maybe sometime it will become profitable to undo gender in commercials - and there are of course a few shining examples that unfortunately prove the rule - but even then it would be an uneasy form of "victory," one that would be more about capitalized consumer affinity than progressivism, let alone activism.  For now, anyway, the work of undoing is up to the rest of us.

Academic Troglodytes

Ugh. Another professor who doesn't allow laptops.

Seriously, it's not charmingly Luddite, and it doesn't make me "think you mean business." I'm adult, and I am not going to be playing solitaire during class. I don't need you tell me how to most effectively engage in classwork. If I zone out, it's my loss.

Yes, I know how to take handwritten notes, and yes, I did it for years. I still do it on occasion. So let's just drop the "students don't know how to takes notes anymore" hoo-ha. I'm all for teaching students scholarly fundamentals, but sometimes technology just...you know...makes more sense. Especially in a very complex class. Guess what? I can take notes more quickly on a computer, which means I don't miss half of what's said because I'm too busy writing what was said before it. Better notes = better work. Also, if I need to take two seconds to look up a detail that will make my comprehension, not to mention my comments, stronger, are you really going to begrudge that?

Let's also dispense with this "postmodern babies have no attention span and will float into never-never land at the sight of a flashing pixel" malarkey. I'm perfectly capable of paying attention in class, and even if I do have brief moments of disengagement, as everyone does, do you really think not allowing computers is going to prevent that? In fact, it might make it worse.

There is nothing inherently better about doing things the hard way, and especially not when the results are inferior. I cook from scratch because the product is usually better, and the work is gratifying. What's better about taking fewer notes with less detail, and, meanwhile, missing important information? People use computers now. You're going to have to wrap your brain around it. Everyone will be okay.

I'm not some frenzied progressive who thinks anything traditional is naive or stupid. I cling to certain academic fundamentals too, and yes, I lament the diminishing grasp on writing mechanics, grammar, style, etc., among some of the students I've taught (no, not all of them). And yes, having the opportunity to go to college is an immense opportunity that shouldn't be squandered. But you know what? Working in a way that suits one best is not squandering.

Also, if you really do have a problem with advanced students not paying attention, maybe you need to take a peek at your teaching methods?

It basically comes down to having enough respect for graduate students to let them work the way they need to. It's condescending to insinuate that I have the attention span of a squirrel on meth. I didn't choose to go into a PhD program on a whim, or because I find this kind of work uninteresting. Moreover, I didn't GET INTO a PhD program by being a crappy student. Sure, there are plenty of grad students who zone out. Their problem. I'm here to do my work, and I don't need someone telling me how I'm allowed to process information.

Bally Total Fitness, aka the Corporate Panopticon

Have you ever walked into a Bally Total Fitness? It's a super creepy technodystopian cult. Everyone facing the same way while subsisting on weird powdered nutrition and making repeated Sisyphean movements while staring zombiefied to Bally-sanctioned TV and wide-smiling propaganda. Must...enrich...the body instrument...for...service to the fatherland. It's all very Teutonic or Prussian or something.



Discipline and Punish.



Everyone's checking out what everyone else is doing. Everyone is aware that other people are looking. So they push harder to prove their dedication. This isn't, by itself, a terrible thing, but it's all totally effed and creepy in the recycled air of this corporate fetish club run by the fitness industrial complex.

Names that come to mind: Jeremy Bentham, Michel Foucault, George Orwell...and you know...those other guys.

Heil Fitness!



I know that fitness clubs are bullshit. I know they find every way possible to screw you out of money. But I had 2 months before I had access to the university gym, so I just joined. You have to pay for 2 months minimum. (But they have no contracts now so you're not locked into a membership you don't want! Isn't that so very GENEROUS of them? EXCEPT THEY HAND YOU A CONTRACT AND A CONTRACT ID #. But there are no contracts.) Anyways, I knew canceling would be a bitch, so before I even signed the non-contract contract, I made very sure to grill the rep on exactly how to cancel and when to cancel to avoid getting billed for another month. She told me I just had to cancel before the new billing cycle, which starts on the 15th of the month. I just had to call. But I couldn't cancel in the first 2 weeks because that's the promotional period or whatever. So basically I was like, okay, so I have a 2 week window to cancel.

BULLSHIT.

Because she failed to tell me that I have to send a certified letter in the mail to the corporate offices to cancel my membership. It's the god damned digital age, and they want snail mail. Bullshit. PLUS, she failed to tell me that they need 10 days' notice to cancel. Plus the letter needs time to get there. So basically my 2 week window just went down to like 2 days. But of course I didn't know this. So I called my local club about canceling today, and they even told me, "Call corporate and they'll do it over the phone."

So after being bounced around to different corporate numbers, and not even being transferred to membership services, but being told to hang up and call another number (wtf...again, it's the digital age...you can't connect all the calls on one system? Of course you can. More bullshit and run-around), I can't even talk to a person. Membership services has like 4 automated options, most of which are about making payments. I push the key for membership cancellations, and all it says is that you have to send a letter. Umm, quoi?

So I called my local club again and bullied the drones to let me speak to the general manager. At first he reiterated that I need to send a certified letter in the mail, because the corporate office can't cancel over the phone because they "don't have the technology yet." BWAHAHAHAHAHAHA. I actually laughed at him. At this point he gave in and admitted that this is bullshit and that HE BELONGS TO A DIFFERENT GYM. He's worked for Bally for many years, and he's the god damned general manager of a location, and HE BELONGS TO A DIFFERENT GYM!!!!!!

So finally he told me to choose the option for auto-debit on the membership services menu, because that actually sends me to a person (because they'll talk to you if it means taking more of your money). So I press 3 and get transferred to a billing representative. This is the gist of our conversation:


ME: Hi Bally, I need to cancel my membership, and I'm really not going to play this run-around game. Just do it.

BALLY REP: Umm well you need to send a letter in the mail to corporate.

ME: Yeah, umm, that's bullshit. It's 2010. Don't believe you. Cancel it right now.

BALLY REP: Well, okay, I can cancel it right now. But I'll need to collect another month's membership fees.

ME: WTF? WHY? I've paid for 2 months and used LESS THAN ONE.

BALLY REP: Well we need 10 days notice to cancel, and by that time, it will be a new billing period.

ME: First of all, I was told I could cancel right away over the phone, so that was obviously a lie. Second of all, why do you need 10 days notice if you can cancel right now?

BALLY REP: Well it takes 10 days for us to process the cancellation.

ME: BUT YOU'RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW.

BALLY REP: (confused) Well...we need 10 days notice.

ME: BUT YOU'RE DOING IT RIGHT NOW.

BALLY REP: Well I can only do it right now if you give us another month's membership fee.

ME: BUT IT'S BEFORE THE NEW BILLING CYCLE.

BALLY REP: But we need 10 days notice.

ME: For what!? You're cancelling the thing RIGHT NOW. What are the extra 10 days for? So you can reflect on the cancellation?

BALLY REP: Umm I don't know...I just need $29.

ME: I hate you and you're stealing from me. This is racketeering. Tell your bosses they'd fit right into Chicago politics. Just charge my credit card and I never want to speak to anyone at your company again.

BALLY REP: I need your credit card number.

ME: What do you mean you need my credit card number!? You have it! You autodebit the shit out of me!

BALLY REP: Well I don't personally have it.

ME: AHHHHHHHHH!


I mean, I did apologize to her, saying that I know that she's not the one who creates the policies. And then I pulled out my super passive aggressive shaming techniques. "I'm sorry that you work for a company that doesn't give you the tools to do your job effectively." I love saying that. I mostly say it because I know that my call will be listened to by higher-ups because they pay attention to the crazies and angries. It gets out my aggression at the company while letting the poor drones know that I don't blame them for their complete lack of authority. I've been there. I've worked in plenty of retail and customer service jobs. I know what it's like to have your hands tied by corporate policy. That being said, I'm not just going to bend over because her job sucks.

So, Bally, you have my extra $29 dollars. I hope you get a paper cut and die of gangrene. You suck. Or, in Orwellian Newspeak, you are double-plus ungood.

My Indian Feud; or, Why Indian Food and I Are in a Fight

I’ve recently been trying to convince myself that I like Indian food. I’ve never been a fan, and I think that’s silly. There’s so much good Indian food out there, especially in LA, and it’s relatively cheap. I should be loving Indian food.

There are approximately 87 Indian restaurants within a one-mile radius of my apartment. They taunt me.

Every few months I get up the gumption to try Indian food anew. I get really excited about it. I ask friends for advice on what I should try. I am totally positive I am going to have an epiphany and love this shit. I WANT to love this shit. This never happens.

It’s not that I don’t like any Indian food. There are a few things I like very much. Samosas, obvi. Those things are mad-style tasty. I also tend to enjoy the stews, like lamb korma, etc. I could eat a metric ton of the various forms of naan and parathas. The desserts are awesome (even if I tend to find that if there are 6 desserts on the list, 5 of them will be some variation on starch-milk-cinnamon). I’ve also been known to dote upon the odd pakora or two.

However, in general, my tongue and my stomach just say no. My taste buds revolt once Indian food goes in my mouth. I think part of the problem is that I suspect that I may be one of these so-called “supertasters.” Basically, supertasters perceive bitter and sweet tastes more intensely than the average person. It’s genetic, and it’s related to the reasons why people like or hate cilantro or fennel (I hate both). Supertasters tend to prefer salty snacks, because the extra salt covers up the bitterness that exists in processed foods. Of course, maybe I’m not a supertaster and I just like potato chips. Whatever. All I know is I don’t like coriander (which is the seed of cilantro – other countries use the name “coriander” for both the seeds and the leaves), and I don’t like fennel seed. Both problems for Indian food. I also don’t enjoy curries all that much (I like some of the milder yellow curries). This seriously cuts down on my options. I can take these ingredients in small doses if there are other flavors surrounding them (for example, I like samosas even though there’s usually coriander inside, but there are lots of other notes and a nice buttery, starchy base). But, if there’s more than a bit, it’s all I can taste.

It’s not just the taste, either. It’s actually the smell that’s worse. If I smell Italian sausage cooking, I have to leave, because the smell of fennel seed literally nauseates me. My stomach doesn’t quite like the smell of curry or coriander either. So, I can’t really stand to be in an Indian restaurant, because even if I’m not eating these things, the place always SMELLS like these things, and it puts me off. So, if I get Indian food, I usually get takeout, which is, of course, not the best way to judge cuisine.

My biggest problem with the taste of Indian food (at least the Indian food I’ve tried, the “authenticity” of which I can’t really speak to) is that a lot of it tends to be lacking in base notes for me. All I taste are top notes (and many of them). I’m missing a brightness, a well-rounded attack on my palate. Again, I think it may be this “supertaster” thing – I overtaste the spices, and they dwarf the other flavors.

But, the other night I decided to try Indian food again. This time I went for Lawrence of India, because it got excellent reviews for its former location. I’m not very knowledgeable on the different regional cuisines of India, but this place is a southern Indian restaurant. They even serve beef, because the owners are from a Christian part of southern India (big crucifix on the wall, btw).

I was totally optimistic about Lawrence of India, if only for its hilarious name. I wanted nothing more than to love this place and have a new favorite takeout option. I ordered a bunch of things so I could take a broader survey and really give this stuff a chance.

I also wasted $25. The only thing that was good was the samosa. The lamb biryani was fine I guess. The keema naan was blander than bland and extraordinarily greasy. The pakora and the onion bhaji were DISGUSTING. How can you make fried vegetables and onions disgusting? They tasted rancid. The pakora didn’t look like any other pakora I’ve seen (not that I’m an expert). Instead of fried little pieces, it was like big globs of who-knows-what vegetable something, and it looked more like soggy tempura than pakora.

First of all, this place did itself absolutely no favors from the beginning. I ordered the food, and they told me 20 minutes. I walked in after 25 minutes, because I like to give them time to make it, but I don’t like to wait too long and have my food be cold. The food wasn’t ready, which, you know, fine. I waited at one of the tables. And waited. The owner brought me an iced tea, which was lovely. I’m thinking, okay, the dude is nice and this tea is delicious, so I’ll just be patient, and maybe the food will be worth it. 35 minutes after I ordered, the owner told me my food was ready. But when I got up there, it wasn’t my food, but some other dude’s. The owner asked what I ordered, so I told him, and he looked confused.

Then I saw a post-it with my order sitting on the desk, not having been entered into one of the order tickets. He quickly covered it up and told me my order was coming in two minutes. I asked, “Really two minutes, or fake two minutes?” He confidently responded, “Really two minutes.”

10 minutes later, he came over to me and said, “Okay, I lied.” “Yes,” I said. “I pretty much figured that out from the beginning.” Then he gave me some story about how everything was done except the keema naan, and that as the cook was finishing it, he accidentally flipped it into the garbage can. WTF? I just said, “Uhh, whatever, how much longer?” “I’ll check,” he says, “because I don’t want to lie to you.” How charming of him.

Finally they give me my food. 55 minutes after I ordered it. I didn’t get pissy. I just oozed disappointment. Like a parent shaming her child, not with yelling and punishment, but with the simple statement, “I’m disappointed in you.” The food did not do anything to restore my confidence in the possibilities of Indian cuisine.

I had such high hopes for you, Lawrence. You’ve let me down. How can I trust you in the future?

Getting Stuck in a Beckett-esque Nightmare

So I've been looking for a particular chile so I can make some Peruvian food, so I called a Latin market in West Hollywood to see if they have it. What transpired was nothing short of an absurdist one-act. I have to think this guy was messing with me, because there's no way this could be for real. This was definitely not a language barrier issue, FYI.

DUDE: Hello? [Note: I get really pissed off when you call a business and they just answer with "hello." Say the name of your business so I know I didn't just call some rando's cell phone. I shouldn't have to ask you if this is the right number.]

MOLLY: Uh hi, is this Catalina Market?

DUDE: Yes.

MOLLY: Okay, I'm looking for a chile from Peru, called ají amarillo.

DUDE: Who?

MOLLY: No no, I'm looking for a yellow chile, from Peru.

DUDE: What's her name?

MOLLY: No. It's a chile. From Peru. Called ají amarillo. A-HEE Ah-mah-REE-oh.

DUDE: I don't know.

MOLLY: Okay, well could you check?

DUDE: I don't know her.

MOLLY: Okay, it is not a person. It is a food. Is this Catalina Market?

DUDE: Where is it?

MOLLY: What do you mean where is it!? IS THIS CATALINA MARKET!?

DUDE: Silence.

Aaaaaand I hang up.

Ethical Conundrums That I Can't Reconcile Because I Frequently Feed Into the Ostensible Problem I'm Being Self Righteous About

KFC as ethical consumption? They've teamed up with the Susan G. Komen Foundation to sell pink buckets of chicken to benefit breast cancer research.

At first I thought this was a joke. Buckets of fried chicken as the symbol for a cure for breast cancer? In what world is this a sensible PR move for the Komen Foundation? I mean, they're certainly a hypermerchandised nonprofit. That's sort of their schtick - charitable proceeds funneled from retail consumer dollars. You buy this crappy pink mosaic Pier 1 candle, most likely assembled by exploited laborers in developing nations, and a portion of the profit goes to the Komen Foundation. I suppose it's not all that offensive in the grand scheme of things, because it's not like cancer research can't use all the funds it can get. Plus, let's face it, most of us buy crappy products assembled by exploited laborers in developing nations anyway. We may not necessarily have bought THESE products if they weren't branded pink, but I try to avoid getting self-righteous about sweatshop products when I very clearly shop at Target.

But, what is this odd cross promotion between fried flesh and medical research? EXTREMELY TERRIBLE-FOR-YOU fried flesh, the likes of which have been linked to various cancer risk factors! As the Facebook group entitled "SUSAN G KOMEN 'BUCKETS FOR A CURE?????" EPIC FAIL! SHAME!" reads,


PEOPLE SHOULD BE OUTRAGED! THIS IS NOT ONLY COMPLETELY INAPPROPRIATE, IT IS SUCH SHAMELESS CORPORATE PANDERING! DO NOT DONATE TO SUSAN G KOMEN UNTIL THEY RETRACT THIS PROGRAM.

BUCKETS of FRIED chicken. BUCKETS. For a CURE. A cure for CANCER. A cure VIA sales of hormone-injected, tortured, processed and deep-fried flesh & fat. Fried BREASTS, even. "Food" that may likely be a CAUSE of breast cancer. SUSAN G KOMEN: FAIL. FAIL FAIL FAIL FAIL. SHAME. FAIL. FAIL.


Okay, well, the corporate pandering part...this is not new. All of these charitable cross promotions do this to some extent. Does that mean that they don't believe in the cause? Not necessarily. But you can bet most of them wouldn't be participating if it didn't first and foremost boost their bottom line. Plus, tax credits.

But, the very disconcerting embrace between an organization supposedly committed to both preventative- and treatment-oriented medical advocacy and a corporation that serves as a metonymic index of the grossly misguided health choices frequently made in the United States...these are very strange bedfellows indeed. Or, at least they seem to be on an emotional level. Perhaps they're not so far apart at all. Logistically speaking, the only difference between KFC and the Komen Foundation is a 501(c)3 letter. Certainly we can make distinctions on a mission-based level, but I wonder how much this really ends up mattering with regards to how these brands are run and marketed.

Is it telling that this ostensibly charitable and health-conscious move by KFC comes the same week as the much-mediatized release of the Double Down, that most notorious of artery-clogging sandwiches with a near cult following - cheese, bacon, and mayo-based sauce sandwiched between two pieces of fried chicken. (Two breasts, no less - I like to call this the Tittyfuck Sandwich.) I have no doubt that there are items on chain menus that have far higher caloric and fat values. The Double Down is just so CONSPICUOUS. Teaming up with KFC during Double Downgate doesn't seem like a good PR move for the Komen Foundation, but could it be true that they are banking on the increased foot traffic promoted by the Double Down? Come for the Double Down, stay for the guilt-relieving ethical and health-conscious purchase? Are they hoping the irony won't register? Or that, if it does, it will simply be amusing?

Stealth Squirrels

So yesterday, I woke up to the following things:

1) My roommate screaming
2) A text from my roommate telling me that there was a squirrel in the living room
3) A phone call from my roommate telling me to be careful of the squirrel in the living room.
4) A squirrel in my fucking living room.

Now, how did this squirrel get into my apartment in the first place? No, we did not leave a window open. This fucker CAME DOWN THE EXHAUST DUCT over the stove, and then CHEWED THROUGH THE THICK METAL GRATE that covers the fan, and then dropped onto my counter. This was fucking MISSION: IMPOSSIBLE squirrel. He then proceeded to run around my apartment pooping and peeing on things. Plus he ate some of my peanut butter cups, so homeboy is dead to me.

At first, when I walked out there, the squirrel was just sort of like, la la la I do what I want. I'm in ur haus, poopin on ur shit. Then I tried to politely suggest that it was time for him to go chill with his other squirrel buddies. He was not havin' it. He was like that obnoxious friend who gets shitfaced, crashes at your place, pees all over, and won't get the fuck out in the morning. Only this squirrel and I were not throwing back beers together the night before. So I got a mop and tried to coerce him out the door. But no. He thought it would be better to run in the opposite direction and hide under the couch. Childish.

After many attempts, I engaged my third roommate to help. I told him to grab the Swiffer thing. He chose the pitchfork instead. Finally, a use for that fucking thing! I bought it as a set decoration for a stupid student film I made a few weeks ago and couldn't bring myself to return it because I got it from a sweet old man in his sweet old hardware store. So it's been sitting in the closet, waiting for Squirrelgate. So I've got a mop, and I'm slowly tapping the vertical blinds to coax the squirrel to come away from the windowsill and go out the VERY OBVIOUSLY WIDE OPEN DOOR TO FREEDOM. David was poised with the pitchfork to divert the squirrel away from the couch and outside. But, again, the squirrel did not see the value in this plan. He just ran under the couch again. And then David growled at it, and it ran back to the windowsill. Meanwhile, our other roommate is screaming her face off.

So, we called LA Animal Control. They said, "We don't do that." I said, um, escuzze? Apparently they "stopped dealing with wildlife in July." I don't...how...what the eff. So I said, what do you mean you don't deal with wildlife? You're Animal Control! WTF do you do then? "Dogs and Cats." Quoi!? Okay, so I've got a wild cat in my house. It is a rare breed. Called a squirrel. Come get it. She totally wasn't fooled though. So she gave me the name of a private contractor to deal with this. Uh huh, I see where this is going. So I call these dudes, and he's all umm, that'll be $175, kthxbai. I asked, for what!? $75 "service fee" and $100 to remove the squirrel. They were going to charge me a C-note to put a squirrel in a box and drop it 10 feet outside. And then $75 so they could go out for brunch after. Obviously these guys have some sort of deal with the city, and even though this was an odd moment for righteous municipal indignation, I was incensed. That shit is 'spensive. No thanks, I'll stick with the mop.

So finally we arrange furniture and boxes to create a path to the door. The squirrel is pissin' mad now (both in the sense that it was scared and angry, and in the sense that it was periodically pissing on things). It was making these awful sounds from behind the blinds, like "Chit chit chit! Chit chit! CHIT!" And I'm all, ditto, fucker. So I come at the squirrel with my patented blind sweep, and the thing runs in the right direction, but runs OVER the barricade. This dude is both moronic and stubborn. Then it hides under the couch again, and David growls at it again and shakes his pitchfork at it, so it runs back toward the window. I am between the squirrel and the window. Don't get between a squirrel and a window, cuz he doesn't care if you have a mop and he will divebomb you.

One more try, and the squirrel finally goes out the door and onto the balcony. MISSION ACCOMPLISHED! But then, instead of leaving via the phone pole, like every other squirrel in existence, it proceeds to freak out and run back and forth along the handrail and menace us. I don't think it was trying to menace us, but it was totally menacing the shit out of us.

So then we proceed to clean every surface in the apartment and pick up all the poo. There is a lot of poo. Luckily, squirrel poo comes in little pellets, so it was fairly easy. If you're going to have a wild animal startin' shit in your living room, you should hope it's a squirrel. You know, cuz of the convenient poo.