I moved among them, trying to get as much information as I could. I was not the only one; dozens of reporters, ranging from amateurs with small hand-held devices to crews with professional-grade videography equipment were all honing in on the rag tag group that for the past 10 days has called Liberty Square home. The spirit of reporting was even more infective than the revolutionary fervor that is supposedly alive at LSq, and before I knew it, I was approaching people for their stories: “I’m a blogger. Can you tell me…?” At one point I got a little carried away and called myself a journalist. Luckily the subject was doped out or just plain nuts so he didn’t object to what was clearly not true.

But why shouldn’t I be a journalist for a week or a month? What’s going on right now is damn inspirational… what I mostly can’t believe is that there aren’t more people out there, spending every minute they can trying to bring some publicity to Occupy. All we’ve been hearing from the past two years is fringe right-wing groups taking to the street. Finally there is some loud discontent coming from liberal voices, and young ones too. It’s fresh and exciting and PATRIOTIC. We have the right to assemble, and march (but only on the sidewalks apparently) and to take up the pen, which is mightier than the sword, and we have the right to be listened to as well. People are fighting for that, and I love it. Now just lose the weirdo art collective costumes and zombie makeup so that I can take you seriously, please.

Some photos:

"A conversation with the top 1%"

"zombie makeup" has no place. get it outta there.

Nick Kristoff has given some suggestions of where the protesters should direct their demands: a bank tax, for one, and anti-speculation regulations. Many protesters are choosing to target the crippling food production and distribution system in the US; Kristoff points out that the top 1% of our population owns more wealth than the bottom 90%.

I usually prefer to not align myself with groups that don’t have a clear agenda that I can understand and intelligently describe. Certain media sources are claiming that Occupy Wall Street will fail because of a lack of focus. They claim that the protests so far have just been incoherent noise, that Occupy’s grievances are not partnered with a clear set of demands.  And yet, I’m convinced.

I have a $200,000 education, several years of job experience, and I speak the main language of the fourth most populous country in the world. I’ve applied for dozens of positions with compelling cover letters and enthusiastic follow-ups, and have not had a single interview since May. When I do get a job, it will pay barely enough money to support living in any major city in the US. I grieve that such talent be undervalued. I grieve that our income gap is more severe than in developing Latin America in the 80s. I grieve that I’m from the luckiest and most fortunate classes in America and that most people are far worse-off than I. I grieve that there is never enough money to satisfy the greed of the richest people. I grieve that there is never enough power for those who seek it. I grieve that our politicians find it more important to be the dominant voice than to work together to help our country pull itself out of the muck of this recession. I grieve that the United States is founded on the most beautiful and hopeful set of principles of the world and we squander our resources on war.

Riding the subway home from my 8-hour shift at a high-end olive oil retail store in the Chelsea Market, I and my fellow train-mates were solicited by a young man. People ask for money on the subway all the time; it’s no sign of the recession. But this kid, who claimed that he had just gotten off work as a line cook, had a pregnant fiancee and no home, was obviously educated. “I wouldn’t wish this on anyone… this is the most humiliating thing I could imagine,” could have been part of an elaborate scam, but if so, certainly an eloquent one. Con man or not, if you have to ask for cash from New Yorkers on a subway (a VERY tough crowd), you’re probably not doing too hot. I gave him a buck. And I grieved for him.

It’s time to make some noise.

“Ask me questions about acting,” was how he started the class. “The first class can be a little tense, so just fire away.” It was like day one of freshman year all over again for me. I know how to be in a class, but an acting class? We weren’t even on stage and I already felt vulnerable.

It turns out, other people felt vulnerable too. When we were asked to one-by-one sit in the lone chair in the spotlight and give 30 seconds of introduction, I heard, “I have awful stage fright,” “I turn all shades in front of an audience,” and even, “I’m terrified right now.” Luckily my voice didn’t break when I said that I wanted to get over some of the performance anxiety I’d had while playing violin. I didn’t mention that I stop breathing when I have job interviews, or that I got dizzy and started to see black spots when the teacher introduced this very exercise.

the view from astoria

“Good. Very good. Thank you.” Our leader was already mentoring us. We: an Asian from California, a bottle-platinum veteran actress, a doctoral student already losing her voice from fear, a male model, “Ben from Queens”, an opera singer, students of Italian, Chinese and French origin, and a 50-something Italian New Yorker (Vince) in a dark suit who conjured up an imagine of Andy Garcia from City Island.

On the way home, I felt brave. I wanted to move to New York, so I did. I wanted to take an acting class, and I am doing it. I took a risk and I’m scared, but I’m going to make it work. If I could do all that, surely I can write a silly blog post.

I’m down at the Jersey Shore for possibly the only rainy week all summer. Not that I don’t like indoor activities, but the Monsoon 2011 ins getting to be a bit much to handle. Luckily got a few hours of sun yesterday and I was even able to take a dryish sunset saunter down the beach.

At the particular moment of this solo walk, I was feeling unusually sad… Maybe being by the coastline is making me miss Indonesia or maybe it was just one of those periodic collapses of spirit that make the happiness all the more enjoyable.

In any case those funny little birds that exist at all mid Atlantic beaches were scooping for an evening meal. When the wave goes out, they run as fast as possible into the wet sand and frantically forage for critters. But apparently these little guys cannot swim because as soon as the wave comes, they book it back towards drier land. Back and forth, skittering in a ridiculous pattern just to avoid getting wet or using their wings, which would no doubt be the more graceful option.

I must have watched these godforsaken birds for 20 minutes as the sun went down. There was something so amazingly absurd in what they were doing, and for lack of a better life-related extended metaphor, I just felt so so glad not to be those little birds spending their whole lives running away from a little bit of water.

It’s happened a few times recently that I or one of my friends have been telling a story and inserted just that remark: “That’s just like the Sex and the City when Charlotte… and lunchtime… and AHH!” This is fun and all, but it occurred to me that women my age were all watching Sex and the City before we were having sex, or really even having relationships of substance.

Which means that instead of finding Sex and the City funny because it reflects a real life experience, I’m finding my real life funny because it mirrors the show. Creepy.

TV shows like Seinfeld and Sex and the City were created from bits and pieces of things that happen in real life. In fact, I believe the creators of Carrie and Samantha and the gang sat around a table and exchanged stories until they came up with an episode. We like these shows because we relate to them; these things or variations of these things happen in real life.

But what I’m talking about is an exact reversal.

Obviously social media affects our lives. But didn’t it used to be that we affected social media more than the reverse? So that the shows we watched reflected our interests (TRL? hello.) and jobs and families instead of our interests coming directly from the TV/internet screen.

It’s not necessarily bad, and it’s certainly not a media-wide phenomenon. But when I hear someone say, “She totally want to BE Kim Kardashian!”, it makes my skin crawl.

Finding some parallels with a group of self-centered comedy-inclined friends is harmless, and taking some advice from sexually liberated successful career women could even be beneficial. But if reality starts to reflect the kind of people who have made TV careers out of being rich, surgically sculpted, and trashy (even though most of them APPARENTLY write books now), I’m going to puke.

I will, however, wholeheartedly endorse real-life situations that remind me of Glee; anyone for spontaneous singing and dancing in unison in the middle of city streets? I will meet you in Queens on Sept 1.

It’s a good thing I preempted the newest Dow dip by sending in a job application to Spotify, my new favorite company, nay entity, in the world. Actually application is a generous word, since it was more like a piece of fan-mail; unrestrained in a way that you would only write to Penelope Cruz or George Clooney, someone with whom you know you stand absolutely no chance.

“…I have searched for a job prospect that could make my heart beat with excitement…” Did I really write that in a cover letter?! [checks Word doc., shakes head in embarrassment].

It’s not that I don’t truly have those feelings about Spotify (just as I know your amor for Catherine Zeta-Jones is pure, deep, and true), but this is the sort of love-at-first-sight confession that just does not get you a second date. When did I get so desperate?

I think it’s the lack of feedback. These days, everyone is too busy to even give your proposals a proper rejection. “We’re sorry but due to the high volume of applications we are not able to respond to every person.” After I’ve poured my heart and soul into a cover letter and suitably tweaked my resume to exaggerate my knowledge of Drupal core, you can’t even send out an automated response that says “Sorry, good luck” ?! Maybe I didn’t go to Yale or Wharton, but I’m smart, accomplished, brave, and I’ve just laid myself bare trying to convince you to hire me. Say something.

Please?

If there is an appropriate analogy in the social sphere, it would certainly be dating-related. What happened to good old asking-someone-to-coffee… and responding? Text messaging and emailing are so impersonal that people find it easier to just blow off the invitation altogether. One of my friends never received a response to an email to a guy, though he had initiated the contact. “Oh you emailed back too soon; you should have waited a few days,” was her male friend’s advice. Seriously? At least make an excuse. At least respond to the pathetic text message thread that YOU started to say, “Sorry something came up.”

It’s almost like we’re so primed to be disappointed that it’s a race to reject the other person first. Those of us who have been applying to jobs and fellowships and schools and getting turned down, or not offered enough to even live on, might be the most vulnerable. Spotify is going to reject me, if they even go so far as to acknowledge my existence. I know this. But I’m not going to let it affect my personal life or my self-esteem. Hell, the way unemployment is looking for 20-somethings, my odds are much better scoring a coffee date than an interview. New strategy: asking Daniel Ek out for lunch.

re: age is just a number; I still feel this young

Today’s thoughts:

A funny thing happens after college… age ceases to exist. Except in the company of alumni, where class might become an indicator of social circles, the only digits usually exchanged between new acquaintances are cell phone numbers. A certain grouping into life phases seems to take priority over age: friends who are married with kids, those with serious careers or salaried jobs vs. floaters (using that word in the best way possible of course) who are still trying to figure out what, where, and who they want to be.

To cut to the chase, I’ve been telling people that I’m 25 when they ask for my age. I’ve claimed a quarter century in two separate blogs and may have even filled it out on a form of some sort. My sister Michele has been on my tail about this–”You are NOT twenty-five!”–and today my mom joined the case. “What’s with this twenty-five crap?” she asked me in a particularly vulnerable position a.k.a. trapped in the car with her driving.

me on left... how old am i?

So I’m not really 25 yet. I was born on October 18, 1986 (save it in your planners, folks) which makes me 24… and three quarters. Rounding up seems to make sense to me in the same sense that, as I explained to my mother, you wouldn’t say that something occurred 9 or 11 years ago, but a decade ago. Twenty-five is such a big number that it makes 24 seem kind of nit-picky. Mom disagrees: “Not that it’s all about me, but you being 25 makes me older you know.”

I guess I still feel like a little kid in more than a couple ways, and inflating age is one of the classic kid methods of appearing more mature (though it never works, does it?). These are such uncertain times for us in our 20s; I feel like we can’t or don’t want to follow our parents’ model, and yet don’t have a clear idea of where our own life milestones are going to land. How do we know that we’ve reached adulthood?

Added to the general confusion of being a young person in an economic recession and generational swing, I feel as though I’ve just missed out on two full years of development. Living in Indonesia helped me grow in very important personal ways, but the actual knowledge and skills that I gained there are seeming very applicable to finding a career in the U.S. Not to mention having to re-socialize to this country (biggest change: does no one talk on the phone anymore? What is with the text messaging to relay important information?!). I feel lost. Young.

When I say I’m twenty-five, and I’ve said it so many times now that I almost believe it’s true (don’t the Japanese count the day of actual birth as your first birthday?), I’m actually sticking out my chest and saying with unconvincing huffiness, “I’m an adult! I know what I’m doing. I don’t need your help.”

The thing is, it’s a lie. And not just the number. I have no idea what I’m doing and I do need all the help I can get. I guess everyone knew that already though, and I was only trying to convince myself.