Open Letter I

Dear Downstairs Neighbor,

Hi! I'm super-glad that you have a cell phone, like a responsible adult. And I'm also super-glad that you have T.Mobile -- I've heard nothing but rave reviews of their service. And hey -- nothing wrong with leaving your phone set to the default ringtone!

I am, myself, unable to leave a phone on any ring setting, or vibrate setting, or any setting other than "completely silent-church funeral-meeting-mode," because a.) I'm afraid it will go off in class, or maybe while I'm walking and I have my headphones on and b.) my constant texting, emailing, &c. pretty much ensures that audible notifications will annoy the shit out of my immediate companions.

But HEY! Some people like the notification! Some people have to get the call the first time! Gotta know when someone's calling you! And take that call! Or maybe judiciously screen it!

And that's fine! Ring, ring! It's your social life! Beep! Popularity just texted you! And (*twinkle*)! -- looks like opportunity just left you a voicemail!

You know that T.Mobile jingle? The one they use in their commercials? Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh. That one. The weird kind of proto-arpeggio you'd idly finger on a piano in a deserted hotel ballroom.

Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh.

Downstairs Neighbor, I don't begrudge you your popularity --

Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh.

-- and I'm glad that you have friends and they're either trying to urgently reach you or maybe you have a lot of bill collectors or --

Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh.

-- something like that, but could you please --

Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh.

-- possibly, maybe, like, switch it to vibrate --

Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh.

-- or, though I know it would violate many of the eponymous rules in that copy of The Rules I saw you reading the other day --

Duh-duh-duh-DA-duh.

-- just take the fucking call?

Love, Conditionally,

Your Upstairs Neighbor

p.s. Remember when my roommates and I used to joke about your terrible singing and limited repertoire and imaginary band, and then by total coincidence we happened to be dining at a venue where you and your band performed? And you were covering "Son of A Preacher Man" and "Boogie Fever", and it felt just like I was sitting at home? And then you slipped onstage and screamed into the mic? That was a great fucking night.

Etiquette of the Deluge

Not to sound like a hillbilly or anything, but recently I've been running around in shoes more than usual -- or maybe I've just noticed them more than usual -- and the time I've spent in them has underlined some important lessons.

(n.b. this is coincidentally my second footwear-related post. It's not a trend 'til three. And no, this will not be a blog about footwear.)

- Do not wear Vans slip-ons in a downpour. Especially on UCSB's campus, where the visually flat plazas and walkways reveal themselves to be several inches off-level when covered in water. Don't get me wrong, they're plenty water-resistant...until you step into an ankle-deep puddle, then they just become plenty absorbent. The rest of my day, between classes, was spent in a deserted corner of the library, attempting to discreetly air-dry my sodden socks. It felt like I had stepped not only into a puddle, but also into a science experiment, one of the middle-school ones with the demanding names ("How Many Pounds Of Water Can A Pair Of Vans Slip-Ons Absorb?"). So that was Wednesday.

- Unless you have previously broken them in, do not wear Red Wing 931s in a downpour. Though they are 8 inches high, and have very good traction, and are completely waterproof, and are great quality, it felt like I may well have been wearing boots that had been fashioned from stovepipes. The best part about wearing two pairs of socks to protect your feet from "stiff" boots is that the socks also serve to protect your shoes -- from the bloody, bloody stumps your feet have become by the end of the day.

- Unless you plan on almost eating shit hilariously for the entire short-but-seemed-long walk from your house to the afterparty for the Santa Barbara International Film Festival, do not wear Cole-Haan jodhpur boots with straps after a downpour. Though it was admittedly not raining at the time, the rain had rendered those little berry things that litter the sidewalks of the Upper East very very soft, to the point where just a few steps through Mother Nature's own minefield had completely re-soled my boots with a layer of slime. Combine that with the few berries that had remained hard and it was like wearing banana peels and trying to traverse a river of ball bearings.

- Unless you plan on drawing a lot of attention to yourself even before you fall down flights of stairs, do not wear brown lizard-skin cowboy boots in a downpour. The boots in question are rather old and have seen some wear, particularly in the heel. But they're waterproof, by God, so it's off to class I went. Well, firstly, I'd forgotten how much noise the damned things made -- I might as well have been wearing spurs from the looks I got -- but then I actually opened a door, set a foot inside the building, and then fell backwards through the door when my leg shot out from under me. And then I went from "guy wearing cowboy boots [but it's raining and I'm wearing rainbow rubber boots from Urban so I won't judge]" to "guy wearing cowboy boots...but not for practical purposes. He can't even walk in them!" In short, I became the person I hate -- not an uncommon trend by any means, but no less desirable by virtue of happening frequently.

The unwillingness of Southern Californians to adapt to rain has been discussed, by funnier and generally better people than I (Tony Toni Tone, I'm looking at you). But I honestly can't get over how people just. can't. hang. For example: an umbrella increases your personal diameter.

I know you're five-two and weigh maybe -- maybe -- ninety pounds, but imagine that you've suddenly ballooned, and now have to seek out your True Religions in an 135" waist. The circumference of your ass, in that hypothetical situation, is the actual circumference of that fucking umbrella you've raked across my fucking face three times, with the charmed third time being the one that pulled my glasses off and deposited them onto the bike path we're waiting to cross.

Ahem.

Now, people like the young lady above are more than made-up-for by the occasional spectacles seen on campus in the rain (ha, ha, optometry joke...ha).

But no, for serious, the Mary Elizabeth Winstead doppelganger with the Tory Burch riding boots and perfect bangs who executes a picture-perfect pratfall in the library foyer? The girl with the inside-out umbrella who, cursing a blue streak, broke something and sent the umbrella's fabric canopy peeling entirely off the skeleton and into a nearby planter? Watching other people contend with the Attack Of Unaware Bitches Wielding Umbrellas? Priceless.

One final word: I know, I know, function is paramount on rainy days. I've had to carry a few embarrassing umbrellas myself. But if you have any choice at all in the matter, avoid the following:

- golf umbrellas with the six-inch spikes at the top (yes, I know they're called "ferrules" and no, I didn't have to look that up, and no one knows what a "ferrule" is anyway, so I'll use it in a sentence: "It's really unfer(rule) that you just poked out my eye with your Augusta National Logo Umbrella.")

- car-branded umbrellas, and if you really must, don't be embarrassing. For example: the small black umbrella that clearly came with your car (3-series BMW): fine. The white golf-style umbrella that came with your car (Cadillac): no, not because Cadillacs are particularly inferior cars (well, I mean, they are, but that's not why), but because, like your gigantic car, your gigantic umbrella interferes with everything. I bet you enjoy the fact that your car came with an umbrella, but I bet you'd enjoy advance planning a little more.

- logo umbrellas. These can be funny when done right, but they seldom are. It's the same twinge of sympathy I get when I hear someone loudly expecting more than they've paid for (e.g. imperious on the train): for God's sake, if you're going to be an asshole, then pick a worthwhile topic. Likewise, if you're going to be a complete bitch because you've spent money on an umbrella, don't be a Burberry lemming: go old-school and get a custom-made Pickett or something. It's an unfortunate fact that the right to bitch is commodified these days -- but even more unfortunate is that most people think the price of admission is so low.