Pardon My French

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.

I was at work, in the middle of happily writing my Facebook’s Birthday story when I received an excited call from my sister.
My mom, who was in town for the night, had just hit for $1,500 on a two cent slot machine at Soaring Eagle Casino.

When I talked to my mom moments later, she said the entire casino came to a complete stop when the machine’s bells started ringing and the lights began to flash. A manager and a few other staff members walked over to her, checked her identification and one by one, counted out 15 $100 bills into her hand.
For as far back as I can remember, my mom has always held the philosophy that when she wins, we (my sister and I) win, too. She said each of is were going to receive a $100 bill. It was a promise that she filled the next morning after some coffee and breakfast at IHOP.

We made a quick stop to pick up Court and mine’s paychecks at Warriner Hall before heading to 5/3 bank. Apparently, last year, I made arrangements to have my CM Life checks direct deposit. My business at the bank was to confirm that funds had in fact been deposited into my checking account. But since I was at the counter anyway, I decided to break my $100 into $20s. The teller stared at the bill for what was probably a solid 30 seconds before telling me he’d “be right back.”

At first, I assumed that perhaps it was protocol. All banks seem to become paranoid when they are given large bills. But after a few minutes had passed, I knew something as up.

A woman came through one of the side doors, extended her hand, introduced herself and then asked for me to come into her office.
Immediately, my mom piped up from behind me. “Is this about the $100.” She probably looked like a nosy customer and they ignored her. It took a moment to explain to these people the origin of the bills and to verify that this woman was not a complete random.

As we were shuffled into this lady’s office, she immediately explained that the money was suspicious, but also that she didn’t think that we had a printed these bills out of our basement.

As she laid my $100 out on her desk, I immediately saw what she was referring to. Benjamin Franklin’s face, the watermark that can usually only be seen when it is raised to light, was clear on the surface of the money.

Another one of the bills seemed disproportionate. The rectangular shaped frame that encased the green coloring, Franklin’s face and information (like the serial number) had very little paper on it’s outside toward the top, but much more toward the bottom.

Five of the 100’s were suspicious.
At this point we were told that it was a possibility that they were counterfeit bills that had already been reported that were accidentally still in circulation. If this were to be the case, then my mom would still be given the $500 and the teller would be out the money.
We moved offices where a woman dialed The Secret Service to check the serial numbers of the bills. It turned out that none of the bills had been reported to the offices as suspicious.

This is my $100 bill:


Notice how the sides of this one are uneven:

You can see Benjamin Franklin’s face on the surface of the money:

That’s when the woman told us that they would be sent to the Secret Service for investigation. If they were found to be fraudulent, the Secret Service would destroy them and my mom would be out $500. It was a chance my mom didn’t want to take. She told this woman she was going back to the casino. I was surprised when she looked relieved. It was something the bank no longer had to deal with.

So we go back to the casino. I’m thinking we’re going to go show someone a receipt and they’re going to exchange the money. Nope. My mom goes straight to a cash machine, puts in the hundreds and swaps them for $20s. The only one the machine wouldn’t take was my $100, the one with the Franklin face visible on the surface.

To resolve this problem, my mom went over to a slot machine and slid in the money. To my surprise, it was accepted. My mom hit the “cash out” button the second it lit up and a receipt popped out. She exchanged her receipt for $20s, then we walked out.

Now that I think about it, there probably wouldn’t be an incentive for my mom if she were to have taken the money to the management. Because she didn’t address the problem the moment the money was handed to her, because she didn’t notice that there was anything wrong with the money, she probably would have lost her money. I’ve heard stories about people being screwed out of $20 and $50. They came back to the local businesses where they received the bogus bucks and weren’t given an exchange.

Because there’s no incentive to saying anything, I wouldn’t be surprised if this wasn’t the first time this has happened. And I have to wonder just how much counterfeit money is floating around in Mount Pleasant.

We did a story a couple of weeks back about counterfeit money, but not about how people that are unlucky enough to be handed one of these bills are screwed out of money. I talked to the Lifers about. We want to have someone interview my mom. It will be interesting to see if anyone else has had a problem in the last year.

Washington, D.C. was basically a proverbial punch in the face.
I watched a drug dealer get violent, a man get mugged, another have a heart attack and a police officer shove a middle aged woman. All within 48 hours.

The inauguration attracted people of all walks of life. From all over the country they came to play a role in the beginning of what is such a profound chapter in American History.
Never in my entire life have I seen so many people, millions of people in the same 2 mile radius. It was an experience that even now I am having trouble describing with words.

For the most part, things went well. I got to see a good amount of the city. I was a part of a major historic event. I got to see Frank.

I came to D.C. knowing I wasn’t going to see Barack Obama. Everyone on staff knew this. We didn’t have the media credentials that could get us up close beside The Associated Press, The Washington Post, CNN or The New York Times. This didn’t matter because we came for a different story– the culture of this event.

My story immediately jumped out at me the second I wandered out The National Mall last Tuesday. Hundreds of thousands came to see this man speak and so few of them actually did. People stood on the tops of the great wall of portajohns, bending this way and that so that just maybe, possibly they could get a glimpse of what was happening on a giant TV screen a quarter of a mile away. If you came to watch him actually swear to god and give his speech, you were better off going back to your hotel and watching it on CNN.

The photos and story aligned perfectly. But, our Editor in Chief still wanted a short piece on the inaugural speech, so I wrote it up, intending for it to stand as a sidebar. It made sense, that is after all why all of those people were there.
Imagine my disappointment when I visited CM-Life.com the next day to a huge AP photo of Barack Obama at the Capitol. You know, the same photo, alongside the same story that ran on the front page of every other newspaper in the country.

I was upset. At that time I felt like it was a waste that we even went– why bother sending reporters if you’re just going to yoink your material from the web? Why did I even bother trying to get a unique perspective?
Not to mention there were a few really stupid typos that got through that should have been easily caught by the staff as well as some some really terrible headlines.
My least favorite was the line that was plopped atop my column: “A Witness to History: Glad I brought a notebook.”

1.) If this was an attempt at cute, it failed miserably.
2.) I am pretty sure I went to D.C. with the intention of doing reporting while I was there.
3.) I always carry a notebook. Always.

I don’t know, I just found it demeaning. We addressed my concerns and got everything out in the open.

Here’s my coverage if you’re interested. None of it got 4-stars even though I think it’s probably the best work I’ve ever done. It is worth noting though that some people–Garret, our Managing Editor–did argue on my behalf. It’s also the most page space I’ve ever covered– both the front page and the front of Lifeline.

Here is what I considered to be the top story (Ran on A1)
Here is what actually ran above the fold (Ran on A1)
Here is my culture piece (Ran on B1)
Here is my column–the one with the demeaning headline (Ran on B1)