Pardon My French

When I was 8 years old, I drafted my will in the back of my “diary,” a beat up Oakland University composition notebook that I wrote in almost every night before I fell asleep.

I vividly remember sitting up in my top bunk bed, in my Laura Ashley floral pattern themed bedroom, drafting a last testament that involved my parents, sister, a few friends from school, one or two other neighbor kids and all of my prized possessions.

What I most clearly remember is what I assigned for my sister to receive in case of my tragic and untimely demise: My purple Tamagatchi (for those who weren’t a parent or child in the 1990s– this is a hand-held computer pet), my Samantha Parkington American Girl doll (including all of her party dresses and shoes) and my entire, massive collection of “Goosebumps” books.

I’m willing to guess that a psychiatrist would say that my choice reading material that made me such a morbid little kid, but I like to think that I always had a weird fascination with the things that go bump in the night.

One time I actually heard my mom refer to this time in my life my “weird stage”–and I guess that might be, depending upon how you look at it. However, I do think there was something important happening here: I was reading and it was inspiring me to create something of my own. Yes it was a death document, but it was creative, innocent and amusing (at least, to me it is) nonetheless.

“Goosebumps” books were the best because they told stories about kids my own age faced with strange and supernatural situations. My parents would buy these books for me as a treat–if I was off to spend a long weekend up north or if I had done well on my last report card. I would often devour them in a matter of hours and would be left hungry for more.

Once, I came home from a neighbor kid’s house late one night and I was grounded from reading! (I clearly am and have always been a huge nerd.)

I bring all of this up because recently, my sister brought this gem of a photo meme to my attention and that I think it accurately depicts my inner, dorky, fourth grader to a T. I just had to document that it exists.

I had a lot of pre-conceived ideas about what it would be like to spend time at a day spa. TV had me imagining myself in a bath robe, lying in a recliner chair, my skin coated in a cool green goop, cucumber slices over my eyelids all the while listening to “The Very Best of Enya.”

As fate would have it, that’s not quite how things are done at traditional Korean spas.

A few months ago, my friend Holly bought us a Groupon to a day spa called Naturaspa: an afternoon of soaking in a jacuzzi tub, drying off in a sauna and a relaxing massage and body scrub. Time got away from us, though, and this offer was scheduled to expire within days. We made the decision to head over late one Saturday afternoon.

I met Holly inside the lobby of the huge building and we followed a series of hallways and elevators to the area of the spa designated for women. (Fun Fact: There’s a separate spa for men.)

At the front desk, we struggled a bit with the language barrier as we checked in for our body scrub and massage appointments. After they found our names in their appointment book, we were each handed a key with a number on it (mine was #9) and a corresponding numbered plastic container that closely resembled the bins you put your carry-on luggage and shoes into when you go through airport security. These bins each contained two towels and a bathrobe.

Because we experienced some difficulty with even basic communication, other than a woman pointing her finger in the direction opposite of where we came in, we had no idea where to go.

We shuffled down a narrow hallway, just completely captivated by how brand new and immaculately clean everything looked. I remember mentioning aloud how I thought that this spa might be a nice place to take my mom and sister when they came to visit.

We found the locker room and numbered storage locker’s without issue, put robes on over bathing suits and started looking for the massage rooms. Right away, we both noticed that there were a lot of people wandering around the locker room stark naked, without a care in the world. I smiled to myself, thinking about how my Michigan upbringing included lockers room full of teenage girls going to great lengths to ensure that we fully covered ourselves up as we changed after gym class and swim practice. (Man, the Midwest is prude!)

While looking for these private rooms, we noticed that the sign on the door leading out to the spa mentioned that no clothing of any kind was allowed. It wasn’t until another we talked to another English-speaking white girl (an ethnic spa veteran, it turns out) that we really understood what Naturaspa was all about.

It boiled down to this: We were at a naked spa. If we wanted to use any of the spa’s amenities: Jacuzzi tubs, steam sauna, dry sauna or any of the number of “Jade” and “Clay” rooms, we would have to go in our birthday suits. Because we were signed up for massages and body scrubs, that meant that we would again have to be completely naked AND share a room with other naked people who would also be receiving massages. Those bathing suits and bathrobes were gonna have to come off.

At this point I realized that it’s a good thing that 1.) I’m open-minded, 2.) I’m secure with myself, and 3.) Holly and I are such good friends.

We ventured into the spa area, wearing nothing but our flip flops, passing other naked bodies as we walked, and pretended like this was the most natural thing in the world for us to be doing.

As we entered, we noticed the small enclosure, where there were at least two dozen people lying on massage tables. Each was being aggressively rubbed down and massaged by chubby Korean women, all of whom were wearing matching black bras and panties.

We presumed that we needed to wait our turn and stood nearby, trying not to make eye contact or awkwardly stare at anyone in the massage area. After a few moments, one woman in the standard issue black bra/panty uniform came over and pointed at the showers to convey that we would first have to rinse off.

So we wandered over, washed with soap and water, and a few minutes later were back in position one: waiting for our massages.

Another Korean spa employee came over to us and indicated that we weren’t getting it. We needed to back over to the showers and stay there until we were called. Embarrassed, we walked back over to the bathing area and each obediently took a hand-held shower head off the hook.

After several minutes, I was pretending to be cleaning myself (I had finished earlier!), when I heard someone yell “NUMBER 9!” with a heavy Korean accent. My locker number! So, it was… my turn? I stepped apprehensively in the direction of the massage area and stuttered something about how I might be the number 9 that they were looking for. A member of the spa’s staff, her soft stomach exploding over her black bottoms, grabbed my by the arm, lead me into the massage enclosure and then pointed to the table where I was supposed to lay down.

As soon as I got situated, she dumped a bucket of warm water on me and started forcefully scrubbing my body with a sharp sponge. I winced in pain. This was not the gentle body exfoliation I had imagined when I forked over my $40. I didn’t feel relaxed or warm and fuzzy inside. When fully analyzing my situation, I felt like this was what showering in prison might be like.

It took a little while for me to phase out my surroundings and to just try to enjoy the scrub and massage; to just completely let go. Who needs that top layer of skin, anyway?

When the scrub was over, some 25 minutes later, the massage began. It was overall much more comfortable and relaxing– I just had to adapt to the buckets of water being dumped across my body every few minutes (to get rid of excess oil) and the fact that the masseuse would slap my leg whenever she wanted me to turn over. She was really good at what she did as she managed to work out my muscle knots and every bit of tension in my body.

After about a half hour, she put a green cucumber mask on my face (this was very cold, as though it had just come out of the fridge), washed my hair and then said something in Korean to let me know that she was finished.

I sat up feeling light headed and a bit high. She was clearly used to this reaction and gave me her hand in order to help me pull myself to my feet. With a goofy smile on my face, I wobbled my way back over the showers. I liked the tingly feeling on my skin and how smooth my arms felt– It made any pain I felt earlier completely worth it. I felt like a new woman.

We spent another hour or so hitting the hot tubs, (avoiding the ice baths) socializing with other naked people, and exploring the spa’s dry and steam saunas (both of which I found to be way too hot to tolerate) before we grabbed our towels and hit the locker room.

Overall, I view my visit to Naturaspa (AKA: The Naked Spa) as a truly cultural experience and a unique way to relax and bond with my friend Holly. Aside from a pretty gnarly yeast infection (oils are always a risky business), I regret nothing.

Finally, from this experience I learned that when buying a daily deal spa day pass for a friend or family member, you should make sure you Google it first. Your best friend, Mom or grandma might not be into getting naked with a bunch of strangers.

It was only after I made the cross continental move to Los Angeles, Calif. did I actually begin to fully recognize the historical and cultural significance this town has on contemporary society.

The famous HOLLYWOOD sign can be seen from the rooftop of my apartment building. Members of famous rock bands grew up down the street from me. I’ve seen different celebrities wandering around my neighborhood and it’s not unusual to spot filming crews for TV shows, commercials and movies.

Even though this place is my home now, I still haven’t really gotten around to visiting any of the traditional tourist attractions– I have yet to go to any of the museums, Grauman’s Chinese Theater, Disneyland or Griffith Park Observatory.

However, I have visited the house where Leno and Rosemary LaBianca were stabbed to death by members of Charles Manson’s followers, later called “The Manson Family”, in August of 1969.

Yes, I do know that this is more than a bit morbid.

I read “Helter Skelter”, the story of the Manson case by prosecutor Vincent Bugliosi, the summer after my freshman year of college. I have since kept a close eye on the story, still following the lives of the people who were involved. There’s no other true-crime case that intrigues me as much as the Manson story. I decided that needed to go to these places where this history actually happened–the Tate-LaBianca houses, two of Los Angeles’ most famous haunted houses.

Street artist Banksy’s stencil of Charles Manson in a prison suit, hitchhiking to anywhere. Archway, London.

The house on Cielo Drive, where pregnant Sharon Tate and her dinner guests were massacred by The Manson Family, a crime that was committed 40 years ago last August, was torn down sometime in the 1990s. Another house, later called “The McMansion” was raised in it’s place.

But, the LaBianca house still stands. Renovated since the murders, the driveway is located in a different place in the yard and a heavy gate stands between the house and the rest of Waverly Drive. It also has a different address to keep away the curious.

And it’s located 10 minutes from my apartment in my neighborhood of Los Feliz.

Phil and I drove up the long, winding road looking for the house and immediately recognized it from the old black and white photos. Though I have read that people have occupied the house since the murders, I was still shocked to see that there were cars parked in driveway.

I parked Phil’s Ford Escape across the narrow street, just kitty corner from the LaBianca house. Phil waited in the car while I hopped out to take some photos.

The homeowners had padlocked the looming red gate with a strong silver chain. I noticed that no other house on the street had comparable security.

I loitered for a bit in front of the house and snapped a few photos. After standing there for a few minutes, I started to feel uncomfortable. We didn’t stay for very long.

The LaBianca house back then

The LaBianca house now


The address on LaBianca house was changed from 3301 to 3311 Waverly Drive.

Soon, I’d also like to go check out The Spahn Movie Ranch, the movie set where Manson and his cult lived during the late 60s.

There’s actually a “Helter Skelter” tour that takes people to the relevant locations, but it’s $50 per person and a 3.25 hour commitment. That might be a little bit much for me.

We’ve all seen them.
Photo essays of some of Detroit’s “best” shit holes in America’s most well known and respected news publications: the ruins of the vacant Packard Auto Plant and Michigan Central Station, the rotting skeletons of abandoned homes that were long ago burnt to the ground, the urban prairies–”wildlife” that’s slowly taking back the city and urban farming.
These are supposed to be the representation of what Detroit is like.

As Vice Magazine’s Thomas Morton so wisely noted earlier this summer in his article “Something, something, something Detroit: Lazy journalists love pictures of abandoned stuff”, because depicting a city that appears to be decaying from the inside out, from the local government to the face of the rubbled landscape, that get all the hits on news websites, these sensationalistic stories therefore prioritize those that have actual newsworthiness.
“There’s a total gold-rush mentality about the D right now,” Morton writes. “And all the excitement has led to some real lapses in basic journalistic ethics and judgment.”

To create some relevance here, what got me all fired up about this subject was my discovery of a TIME article called “Detroit: The Death — and Possible Life — of a Great City” earlier this afternoon.
“So, is this your thing now TIME?” I thought to myself, half kidding, as I scrolled past a photo captioned ‘abandoned homes in Detroit.’ “Write that same old Detroit stereotypes story every couple of months?” My jaw dropped when I realized that this was EXACTLY what the magazine is doing.

Without commentary from any locals, historical experts or city leaders, and using exclusively demographic information that appear to be lifted from a Wikipedialike source, TIME writer Daniel Okrent blogs from the first person perspective, as though he were an expert on the historical timeline and current state of the city. But, he’s certainly no expert.

While he claims to be a “Detroit native”, Okrent moved out of the city for an education at The University of Michigan and from there moved out of state the first chance he got, in the 70s– it’s pretty safe to say that he didn’t experience the ups and downs of living in Detroit duringthe last 40 years. His recent return to Detroit to pose the hypothetical question “Could we regenerate a city, and regain a sense of who we are as Americans?” is like a slap in the face to the people who actually live here.

He’s not actually writing from the perspective of a true native. He’s focused on fulfilling his own agenda, keeping people across the country comfortable through maintaining their ideas of what Detroit is like. While his voice is that of a martyr, he’s not actually doing anything to help rebuild the city. There’s no suggested plan of action to clean up or rebuild the city– there’s not even any words of encouragement. He just wants to retell the same story that’s been told a thousand times before.

What continues to frustrate me is that there’s not even a place on TIME’s website for me to comment on why this is unfair and unethical journalism.

In an AutoMK article called “TIME comes back to Detroit”, it’s reported that there’s a whole team of TIME reporters and photographers actually stationed within the city. Because it’s en vogue, TIME Magazine decided to buy a house in an old-money neighborhood to serve as their Detroit Bureau during this “Assignment Detroit Project” for the next year. Interestingly enough, this isn’t the first time TIME has had employees in Michigan and for similar reasons.
“Until about ten years ago, they had a whole editorial and advertising team in the cushy Detroit suburb of Bloomfield Hills. Then, a decade ago, they left, tail between their legs, afraid of sinking auto advertising revenues and lonely for their even-more-cushy Manhattan high-rise,” the article reads.

It continues: Rampant gang and crime that was prevalent through the 80s and 90s has dramatically decreased, the murder rate has dropped below the average of most major U.S. cities and there has been a rebirth in business entertainment.
“However, for someone just coming back to the city, it’s hard to see the improvement, so, like TIME Magazine, it’s much easier to apply a story line to a situation rather than put things into context,” it reads.

TIME is in The Motor City “because Detroit affects all of us”, they claim, while all the while The Detroit Free Press has been doing a stand up job with it’s coverage in the last couple of years. What this TIME in Detroit business is really about roots back to the fact that the national media loves to dump on this city from the safe sidelines. It’s like they’re fascinated with the city collapsing in on itself, but don’t want it to actually involve them.

For three weeks, I worked as a temporary employee for hipster chic clothing store Urban Outfitters.

Desperate for a job, I applied to just about every place of business in the area this summer. But, of all the places where I submitted my application, I never thought for a second that I would ever receive a call back from Urban Outfitters. I didn’t consider myself “hip” enough to work there.

In an online essay I stumbled upon today, Urban is accurately described as having a specific style. “A style that will fit anybody, but it is not for everybody. It has more to do with metropolitan hipsters, with action, with movement, with incontinence, brightness.”

On the application, inquiries about my education came second to off the wall questions like: “who are your main fashion influences?”

Everyone employed on the floor of UO wears high end fashion and are covered in tattoos. They are self described elitists, and if you don’t look like them, hang out with the “right” people, wear the “right” brands or listen to the same music as they do, you are not worth their time. I’m a recent college graduate without an income. My last clothing purchase was a graduation dress, before that, I don’t even have a guess. I choose my friends based on how they make me feel– the conversations we share, whether or not I feel I can trust them. I don’t have cable, I haven’t illegally downloaded music in over a year and I go to local cafes to get online. So, you do the math. I don’t fit in there.

But, there was a lot of dirty work to be done these last few weeks. Heavy lifting, many trips up and down the Freddy Kreuger movie reminiscent basement stairs, rack organization, keeping the store looking pristine clean– it was the kind of work that called for temps. The current staff didn’t want to get sweaty, mess up their hair, smear their green eyeshadow. They hired 30 people, even if we weren’t the Polaroid snapshot of what it means to be hip and we did the work for minimum wage.

The Ann Arbor Art Fairs bring in suburban folk from across the state. The local culture disappears during this time- you see fewer people with dreadlocks and purple hair and suddenly everywhere you look, there are colorful striped polo shirts and Wal-Mart shoppers riding Amigos. This middle class crowd likes to wander the streets and buy “art”– kitchen ware-like salad bowls and Biscotti jars, wiry jewelry, cheap sunglasses and T-shirts. There really isn’t a more perfect time for Urban Outfitters to have a huge sale.

Clearance items from UO locations from across the state, New York City and Santa Monica, California are shipped to the Ann Arbor store. A 60-foot-long tent is erected in the front of Urban and orange 50 percent off stickers are stuck to a majority of the store’s usual very expensive stock. In other words, the store is full of people all weekend.

Sometimes, during job interviews, the interviewer asks the interviewee about character strengths and weaknesses. Hands down, one of my best traits is my strong work ethic. This retail job was no exception. I showed up on time, did the best I could and before leaving my 8-hour shift for the day, I would always asked if there was anything else I could do to help. That’s probably why it was so insulting to be called “temp” (when there was a name tag on my chest) or to be continually ignored and waived off when attempting to make casual conversation with my co-workers. The pattern resumed as usual when I professionally inquired why I wasn’t paid (like everyone else) this past Thursday.

I spent three days badgering my supervisors, asking why I didn’t receive my paycheck via direct deposit this week and constantly pushing representatives at UO payroll. The problem was minor, an easy fix and one that shouldn’t have required so much headache. They have refused to pay me until next pay period. I’m lucky I have Phil to help feed me. If I didn’t, I don’t know what I would do.

I learned a lot about myself while working at Urban. 1.) Retail isn’t for me. 2.) I have some serious ethical issues pushing a capitalist agenda– I just can’t justify talking anyone into buying unnecessary stuff. Especially if it’s overpriced, like a T-shirt or pair of jeans from Urban Outfitters. We’re in the midst of a recession, people have families to feed, necessities that need to be paid for. People are told all day long to buy, buy, buy. Personal welfare comes first.

But, my Urban Outfitters education didn’t stop there. I realized how incredibly stupid the store’s sales model really is. Urban pays careful, special attention to the whole “hipster” culture. This includes all related youth subcultures: electronica & dance club raver types, those who enjoy experimental/crust punk/noise, hip hop heads (mashups), squatters, skateboarders, backpackers and whatever’s left of the indie rock, emo, goth, punk and metal head movements.

The vanguard hipster (never identifying, always hating the term) does not even consider buying clothes from the mall. They fall outside of the mainstream and therefore spend a lot of time digging through bins at thrift stores and boutiques, meticulously searching for unique pieces that help them to maintain their cultural aesthetic. The reason a vintage T-shirt from a thrift store is so great is because no one else has one like it.

Chains like Urban Outfitters, Anthropologie and American Apparel cater to the people who think that they are hipsters or want to be hipsters. They study what the kids in Brooklyn are wearing, recreate the look and sell it back. No longer an “underground” movement, the average person wants to be able to easily cop the look without the work. They market “fake vintage” tees, pre-ripped jeans, shirts that come with the lettering ink pre faded.

In some cases, I think these companies have missed the point. They’re capitalizing on a look that has been created cheaply, intended to be interpreted as ironic. These people are trust fund kids living in the city, attending college/graduate schools and drinking $1 PBR. They don’t have a lot of money. They pay $5 for vintage Levis, not $125 on BDG’s.

Remember those shark embelemed, multi-flourescent colored T-shirts and Bermuda shorts from the late 80s? They were sometimes decorated with triangle patterns? I remember when I was pretty young occasionally seeing them on overweight dads during the summertime. Even back then I thought they were hideous. In 2008, some kid in a thrift shop somewhere probably had similar sentiments upon discovery and so he bought it for 35 cents. Hideous= ironic. Hideous ON PURPOSE.

I hung up several pair of Maui & Sons board shorts and many a T-shirt during my time Urban. Urban Outfitters clearly has made some sort of agreement with Maui & Sons, selling some of their “vintage” merchandise for a lot more than 35 cents. Try $25 on sale for a T-shirt, in the $50 range for the shorts sale price. In my opinion, it’s a little too much to pay for something that was inspired to be worn on the basis that it was ugly. But, people STILL BUY IT.

The store also profits on Generation Y’s fondness for nostalgia. Maybe it’s a longing for a time when things were more simple, or perhaps our commercials, TV shows and Mondo Juice played a bigger role in raising us than we all initially thought. You walk into Urban, you can buy replicas of the stuff you had when you were little: “My Little Pony” and “Back to the Future” T-shirts, Nintendo belt buckles, Where’s Waldo? books, Run DMC Action Figures and Rainbow barrettes. My childhood is being exploited.

We’re a consumer group that will never have enough kitsche. Our generation keeps buying up the empty authenticity, the economy remains stagnant and all the while, Urban Outfitters still makes a $548.4 Million profit per year. The fact that these marketers know us so well is something I find absolutely terrifying.