As my pre-post internet search for "nostalgic songs" would suggest, nostalgia is a very personal thing. Every similar list I came across was radically different from the last, in terms of genre, time-period, etc. Therefore, perhaps most of what follows is only relevant to my own, narrow experiences, but hopefully there's something here to which you can relate. ***
"Losing Haringey," by The Clientele
Remember those long, contemplative walks? Remember that feeling of 1982-ness: dizzy, illogical, as if none of the intervening disasters and wrong turns had happened yet?
"Slide," by Goo Goo Dolls
Remember consolations?
"I Will Remember You," by Sarah McLachlan
Remember the last time we saw each other? I've long associated this one with graduation day...
"Fast Car," by Tracy Chapman
Remember forgetting it all to wild exhilaration?
"You Get What You Give," by New Radicals
Remember the 1990s: Beck, Hanson, Courtney Love, Marilyn Manson? Remember what the Staten Island Mall looked like back then?
"Green and Grey," by New Model Army
Remember the one who got out, sold out?
"Drops of Jupiter," by Train
Remember your best friend always stickin' up for you? The best soy latte that you ever had?
"Late Night, Maudlin Street," by Morrissey
Remember moving away from the street you grew up on?
"Post World War Two Blues," by Al Stewart
Remember your youthful idealism? Which way did the 60's go?
"Talent Show," The Replacements
Remember how cool we all thought we were in our younger, dumber years? (Hon. nostalgic Placemats mention: "When it Began," of course)
When I received the phone call confirming my employment, I
was in the dressing room stall of a thrift store, trying on the only pair of
jeans they had in my size: a shapeless, ugly pair. I had taken everything out
of my pocket and slipped off the pair I was wearing when the phone began to
buzz. Human resources had, quite literally, caught me with my pants down.
“We have made some tough decisions,
as there were many strong candidates for the position,” and I gulped harder
than a thirsty wino would beaujolais, “…but we’ve decided to give you a shot,”
and I saw myself sink to my knees in the mirror before me.
Should the offer come, I had intended to say something
dignified and graceful, such as:
“It is with enthusiasm, humility and the
sincerest gratitude that I accept your offer.”
Instead, I said, verbatim:
“Oh, thank you so, so, so, so much!”
I was with a friend at the time, and after receiving the job offer, Rusty
Nails, Washington Apples and various other cocktails that I do not remember
followed. My first action upon getting home the next morning was to cancel all
those daily job notification e-mails that clog my inbox: slaying Monster,
zapping ZipRecruiter, deconstructing CareerBuilder and clipping StartWire.
I don't think I'll miss spending my mornings filling-out online job application forms...
Since then, two new ruminations have crept into
my mind, and now, with the rain pitter-pattering outside and a tepid cup of tea
on my desktop, I have been trying to contend with them. The first is the
flipside of my former fear of failure: the thought that I might actually “make
it.” What does this mean for me in relation to others of my generation? The
news media constantly warns us twentysomethings that we will fare significantly
worse than our parents. We are the precariat. In my mind’s eye, economic
circumstance is a fault line. As it rips open, we all dangle from the rumbling ledge, and regardless of hope or cynicism, there is not enough rope to pull
everyone to safety. Some will be swallowed by the gaping chasm. With the
cruelty of context considered, if I am saved, how should I feel about it?
The second musing is less abstract and more classically anxious: What if I fuck
up? This is, after all, a temp-to-perm position, and I have been given ninety
days to demonstrate my worth.
When I was a psychology Masters student, I learned that cognitive therapy works
– and it does indeed work – by challenging a client’s deluded, distressed or
otherwise faulty fears with whichever of their past experiences contradict
those worries. I learned during this time that, when I am
given a challenge (such as a dissertation in a topic that I had never before
formally studied), I put my all into it.
Thus, however cocksure it might sound, the answer to “What if I fuck up?” is “I
won’t.” So there.
As I walked the road to Coney Island welfare office (I walk to avoid paying the metrocard fare), I thought about a recent debacle involving a job offer. It was with an "alternative," private employment
agency that was looking for youngsters with
strong social sciences backgrounds. The interview went about as smoothly as a jalopy car on a pebble beach,
but my interviewer liked me enough and I was offered a clerical position the following week. I accepted. Then, and
only then, I decided to research the company and, with horror, I discovered
that it was founded and run by an anti-welfare right-winger hell-bent on
using state money to undermine our country's meager asssistance programs. I sent
them an embarrassed, frustrated e-mail rescinding my acceptance.
The experience reified the major personal dilemma which will inevitably haunt my twentysomethings: are there any jobs out there for which I am qualified that both pay a living wage and mesh with my
ethical principles? Unfortunately, “business ethics” is an oxymoron, and most
jobs in the private sector will involve undermining or hurting someone else: the end result of competition is one winner and a sinkhole-full of losers. Not
slipping on a tie and acquiescing to this state of affairs ensures starvation, and yet, my attitude to joining "Corporate America," at least for now, remains similar to that of many
anti-fur activists:
And so, with my savings slumping inward like a dead man’s
eyeballs, I panicked and began looking up food pantries and homeless shelters.
This is, for the most part, an overreaction– but there is something to be said
about the Alphaville lyric: “preparing for the best but expecting the worst:
are you gonna drop the bomb or not?”
Although budgeting is always on my mind, I am keen on “keeping up appearances,” as in meeting friends at
bars, buying rounds and tipping appropriately. Such admittedly-irresponsible behavior probably relates to my
Jewish upbringing, as the stereotype of the “cheap Jew” persists, and my
parents always emphasized tipping heartily, probably as a direct result of this stereotype.
Little luxuries are also essential. These include the occasional $1.89 can of
seitan. In truth, I could probably survive on four or five $0.75 cans of beans
per day, but such a miserable, gaseous fate would appeal only to the rare Le Pétomaneamong us.
Coffee, whether instant, tinned or in the form of an
airtight brick, is another one of those necessary luxuries. Along my aforementioned walk, a jovial, mustachioed
gent smiled at me and said, in the type of more-Italian-than-American
Brooklynese accent reminiscent of those found in (forgive me) the Super Mario Bros. franchise:
“The diner. Over there. For you! For the coffee!”
“Uh, thanks!” He walked by quickly. I did not have my
morning coffee – how on earth did he know? Clearly, this encounter was kismet, downright
magical: the heavens themselves wanted me to get a cup of delicious, home-style coffee. I peeked through the diner window and saw somewhere warm,
old-fashioned and wood-grain: the kind of place where all the customers order
waffles, and where all are served by a smiling, red-lipped waitress who always carries an expensive-looking pen. I perused at the menu. A coffee
would cost me $1.30: not much more than in any given bodega. I hesitated,
thinking that, if I had the money in change, I would buy the coffee. I had only
a few dimes and a quarter, but fate
wanted me to buy that coffee, and so I broke my own set of conditions.
I told the young waitress
about the happy customer and handed her a five dollar note.
“Yes, we know him. He sat over there,” said the waitress, gesturing over the
partition where she poured the coffee.
It was good coffee: slightly burnt, but certainly worth
one-thirty.
