Friday, November 28, 2003

From George Soros' Atlantic Monthly Article, "The Bubble of American Supremacy"

...Even so, September 11 could not have changed the course of history to the extent that it has if President Bush had not responded to it the way he did. He declared war on terrorism, and under that guise implemented a radical foreign-policy agenda whose underlying principles predated the tragedy. Those principles can be summed up as follows: International relations are relations of power, not law; power prevails and law legitimizes what prevails. The United States is unquestionably the dominant power in the post-Cold War world; it is therefore in a position to impose its views, interests, and values. The world would benefit from adopting those values, because the American model has demonstrated its superiority. The Clinton and first Bush Administrations failed to use the full potential of American power. This must be corrected; the United States must find a way to assert its supremacy in the world.

This foreign policy is part of a comprehensive ideology customarily referred to as neoconservatism, though I prefer to describe it as a crude form of social Darwinism. I call it crude because it ignores the role of cooperation in the survival of the fittest, and puts all the emphasis on competition. In economic matters the competition is between firms; in international relations it is between states. In economic matters social Darwinism takes the form of market fundamentalism; in international relations it is now leading to the pursuit of American supremacy.

Not all the members of the Bush Administration subscribe to this ideology, but neoconservatives form an influential group within it. They publicly called for the invasion of Iraq as early as 1998. Their ideas originated in the Cold War and were further elaborated in the post-Cold War era. Before September 11 the ideologues were hindered in implementing their strategy by two considerations: George W. Bush did not have a clear mandate (he became President by virtue of a single vote in the Supreme Court), and America did not have a clearly defined enemy that would have justified a dramatic increase in military spending.

September 11 removed both obstacles. President Bush declared war on terrorism, and the nation lined up behind its President. Then the Bush Administration proceeded to exploit the terrorist attack for its own purposes. It fostered the fear that has gripped the country in order to keep the nation united behind the President, and it used the war on terrorism to execute an agenda of American supremacy. That is how September 11 changed the course of history.

Exploiting an event to further an agenda is not in itself reprehensible. It is the task of the President to provide leadership, and it is only natural for politicians to exploit or manipulate events so as to promote their policies. The cause for concern lies in the policies that Bush is promoting, and in the way he is going about imposing them on the United States and the world. He is leading us in a very dangerous direction.

The supremacist ideology of the Bush Administration stands in opposition to the principles of an open society, which recognize that people have different views and that nobody is in possession of the ultimate truth. The supremacist ideology postulates that just because we are stronger than others, we know better and have right on our side. The very first sentence of the September 2002 National Security Strategy (the President's annual laying out to Congress of the country's security objectives) reads, "The great struggles of the twentieth century between liberty and totalitarianism ended with a decisive victory for the forces of freedom—and a single sustainable model for national success: freedom, democracy, and free enterprise."

The assumptions behind this statement are false on two counts. First, there is no single sustainable model for national success. Second, the American model, which has indeed been successful, is not available to others, because our success depends greatly on our dominant position at the center of the global capitalist system, and we are not willing to yield it.

The Bush doctrine, first enunciated in a presidential speech at West Point in June of 2002, and incorporated into the National Security Strategy three months later, is built on two pillars: the United States will do everything in its power to maintain its unquestioned military supremacy; and the United States arrogates the right to pre-emptive action. In effect, the doctrine establishes two classes of sovereignty: the sovereignty of the United States, which takes precedence over international treaties and obligations; and the sovereignty of all other states, which is subject to the will of the United States. This is reminiscent of George Orwell's Animal Farm: all animals are equal, but some animals are more equal than others.

To be sure, the Bush doctrine is not stated so starkly; it is shrouded in doublespeak. The doublespeak is needed because of the contradiction between the Bush Administration's concept of freedom and democracy and the actual principles and requirements of freedom and democracy. Talk of spreading democracy looms large in the National Security Strategy. But when President Bush says, as he does frequently, that freedom will prevail, he means that America will prevail. In a free and open society, people are supposed to decide for themselves what they mean by freedom and democracy, and not simply follow America's lead. The contradiction is especially apparent in the case of Iraq, and the occupation of Iraq has brought the issue home. We came as liberators, bringing freedom and democracy, but that is not how we are perceived by a large part of the population.

Read more here.

Wednesday, November 26, 2003

On Our Merry Way To Pumpkin Pie 11.26.03

Tomorrow is Thanksgiving and in the spirit of things, and because I enjoy procrastination, I decided to look up pumpkin pie lyrics. I mean pumpkin pie recipes, a pumpkin pie is beautiful but I can’t go so far as to call it a song.

I lollygagged about making the pie. But better that way, since my mother made it home while I was in the preparation stages. The reasons why I want to make a pie are twofold. First is for the sheer pumpkin goodness of it. The best fall vegetable, by far, bar none. The second is because since I have moved home, my cooking skills have diminished; they are not instinctual anymore. I have no rhythm about creating desserts, no sense about meats, no flair with vegetables. I have laziness and I’ll be damned if I’m ordering in all the time (no offense, Silver).

So in the beginning of the process my mother was kind enough to give me tips. Like grate the ginger over a plate instead of trying to get it into a small cup. I’m not always the swiftest. She also introduced me to the magic of egg whipping.

“Until peaks form?” I ask. “What does that mean?”

Apparently it means make your egg whites frothy and like the snowdrifts in Alaska, hiding the ptarmigans. Yes, Eben, ptarmigans exist. Fold into the orange mixture. Oven’s preheated? Wait, the glass pan is in the oven, resting from its last use, cleaned and heavy and deep and brown. It’s already been heated. Should have checked it before, oh well. It leaves the oven and into the sink.

Now here is something I intuitively don’t do. Not because I think of the possible dangers, but rather that it just seems like an unnecessary thing to do. My mother gives the assist, puts the pan in the sink. I am placing the pie in the oven. She is turning on the water, cold. This is not a good idea.

Simply because the pan exploded.

That is not hyperbole.

There is a bang and then there are brown glass squares and rectangles, at least a half-inch thick, over the floor. They flew in the air and about the sink. They are in a heap in the approximate size and shape of the original pan. They are around my mother. None of them hit her, I guess. None of them hit me. The water still runs and we hear the sound of a couple more popping. Pop. Pop. Pop.

p.s., the pie is looking good but will be saved for tomorrow; my brother and I got my mother dancing to the funk (Give Up The Funk by P-Funk, Hollywood Swinging by Kool + The Gang, Baby You Bring Me Up by the Commodores, Rock Steady by Aretha, Soul Music by Curtis) which is a great way to make her feel involved and loved and fun as mothers like to; and I am going to run to the effing grocery store which should be cruddy.

Tuesday, November 25, 2003

On Today's $400 Billion Medicare Reform...

Although it will cost $400bn over ten years, the new bill provides far from universal coverage.

Only about one-third of drug costs will be covered through a complex formula that includes premiums, deductibles, and a gap in coverage once drug costs reach more than $2,250.

Under the new plan, private insurance companies will operate the new prescription drug benefit on behalf of the government - just as they do now under private policies called "Medigap" for seniors who may have company health plans with drug benefits.

And Congress promised an $86bn subsidy to big companies to ensure that they continue to offer such benefits to their retired workers.

The bill also gives an extra $25bn to rural hospitals, helping to gain the votes of Congressmen and Senators from the smaller Western states.

More on BBC News.
Double-Edged 11.25.03

Well, my first presentation of the semester is over, and it's pure relief. HJ is in town from SD, MC Shiv is in town from SF (sorry I didn't know you were at bOb's on Saturday, maybe we would have met up). And Bad Santa premieres tomorrow. And Dave and his Dhol Collective are doing Basement Bhangra tomorrow, check it out before midnight at SOB's.

But, there is also Tom Cruise's Last Samurai, official site here. Take a look! Have a good laugh! If you believe Tom Cruise as any kind of samurai...

Here is a list of people who are better suited to play a samurai than Mr. Cruise.

Val Kilmer
Sir Ian McKellen
Hugh Jackman
Your Momma
Dikembe Mutumbo
Tea Leoni
Winnie The Pooh
Ron Jeremy

Friday, November 21, 2003

Floors With Pillows 11.21.03

Back in the old school a kid could fall asleep any damn where he pleased; the WU was filled with couches and ugly yet functional comfort spaces from the dorms to the classrooms. Everywhere you went, some '70's style lounge-couch invited a body to lay down and take a load off-- remember the long black leg extension psychiatrist office chairs from Olin?

I'd love one right now. My eyes want gravity to take over.

Thursday, November 20, 2003

Time Trial 11.20.03

This is a comment on another person’s blog, a person who shall remain URL-less, after Gully asked me what I think of her use/ questioning of terms for people of the African diaspora (I would guess); she asked about using “Black” and “African-American” in her post.

A piece:“I'm somewhat fascinated by the interjections some people can get away with using. if I added "mm!" or anything like it to the end of my sentences, I would sound like a fool. is that because I'm white, or because I'm young? or is it something else altogether, like my hyperliterate eastcoast speech patterns? maybe it's just because I don't have a cool grey suit?”

plus the question: “someone tell me once and for all, am I allowed to say this? Is African-American better or does it sound hopelessly PC-pretentious?

{the block parens [] are for comments added for clarification after the email was sent to Gully.}

which of BLOGPERSON's questions are we talking about? [she can't say "mm?" that's not] because she doesn't have a cool grey [Amtrak] suit. her “hyper literate east coast patterns” comment [simply] borders on pandering and egocentrism and pretentiousness. note, of course, this is me and this is where i run afoul of some people, i see these problems/ issues where they do not, so this should all be taken with a grain of salt. blaming something on being young is certainly, by the way, more valid than blaming it on something as wide and vanilla (so to speak) as race. f*cking come on. people are not that simple.

as for her pop-up question, hm. i hate being pandered to, so african american is silly. but. again, grain of salt. personally, when crackers are talking, and i don't at all mean all white people but i mean people who obviously have very surface interactions with other people not only black folk (i call myself black. i ain't never been to africa. you're more african american than i am, gully), then they can signify themselves by calling black folk “african-american.” i think black is much better. and i think when you get to the point of having to ask, anything you say might be misconstrued.

i think it's insulting to always have to be described; sometimes it's okay, sometimes it's necessary, but don't you think it's a little goofy to always be the outside option? that one AFRICAN-AMERICAN. that one BLACK FRIEND. perhaps i have my own "thing" but i think it sucks to always be marginalized in print and in person, and to have all other people assumed to be white until proven otherwise. i like to not know their race. i'm not so different than anyone else.

i suppose if BLOGPERSON is pointing out the way someone talks, or the clothes they wear, you can certainly point to their subculture more accurately. one can fall back on their race; i think "black accent" or "black/ ghetto/ urban" wear is a misnomer but it's understood, for example. note, again, i am a big fan of controlling our language a little better. though... now that i think about it, there is a fine line between being a responsible talked and erasing everyone's ethnicity; that's important too. this should not be a color-blind world, it has lots of color, and our cultures make us strong, interesting, and even funny. and variations of white are color too. i prefer to hear "that italian kid" next to "that black kid" and "that preppy east coast girl," i can certainly deal with that those archetypes because they're not posited as the many against the fractured dusky masses.

that's a rant. i know.

but if someone is going to describe a woman as “cheerily bossy,” and put black on it i might suggest that they simply say nothing; i don't see the point in pointing out the difference. black is a visual, a color, of a train conductor she probably never saw, a voice on a loudspeaker. i guess BLOGPERSON wants us to see some sort of nanny-esque, aunt hattie from gone with the wind image, [I know, that’s reading into it—how about a “sassy momma image?” that might be better, especially in light of this blog’s comment about being treated like “disobedient children.”] which is fine. she can describe it as “nanny-esque,” in fact. i'm not a kitchen cleanser commercial and i don't talk [cheerily bossy] and neither does my mother and i think we are both black. that's what we put on the census.

also note that despite the tone i don't think that question is annoying especially from friends and double especial from good friends. i just want to spell out my line of thinking because it is not necessarily intuitive to some people. and anyway, this is just a tale about her trip home, really. right?


Wednesday, November 19, 2003

/Ribbit/ 11.19.03

Somehow all my “bad” dreams (they’re not so bad, there are no cold sweats, no twitching, no music by Journey and Europe tribute bands, and I wake up, without marks on my body) seem to occur in a school, a large school with lots of corridors. It’s not always the same school. But it’s always attached to a mall. It’s always the afternoon. Someone is always unseen that I’m chasing, or perhaps they’re chasing me, or I’m late—

Last night is no different. This time I am late for a play performance, for about ten people in an auditorium (high school plays in my school certainly sold out better than that), with a cast of 8 or so. The only problem is of course I don’t know my lines, nor do I have an appropriate outfit. I am running through the mall. But this has nothing to do with the outfit, of course. I am running through the hallways and no one is there.

My co-star is Shev. I think. She’s a little more severe, less sweet than the MC Shiv B I know. But I am ready to simply perform in shorts—or underpants in this case. It’s a dream, I barely know what I’m thinking, so I drop my pants—

And I’m wearing tighty-whiteys. Not the classy green boxers (which are real, in my drawer right now) I intended but a pair of faded, ill-fitting, junk-revealing, cotton-pulled-taut-over-buttocks draws. Surprisingly, I am not that embarrassed, it’s part of the day. I get some pants on—

But it’s not like I know my lines. I don’t know why. Apparently I have had lots of time. We’re backstage and we can’t find a copy of the play so I can quickly memorize or bring it onstage with me as a prop. We step outside and we decide to improvise our scene, Shev and I. She’s a little frustrated, and for some reason, there is, in the distance, what looks like real people climbing up the sides of a New Orleans style plantation mansion to reach some woman who is on a difficult to reach verandah. I like to spell verandah with an “h.” I also like Kate Chopin but that’s neither here nor there. It's in that link.

I am watching these people do their thing and Shev is trying to feed me lines; we end up changing the scene. It’s a phone call where we pretend to be on one couch but in two different places; at the end of it we’re supposed to reach out to the other, the imaginary line being the middle of the couch as it might be on television, and almost touch each other, as if we can break this imaginary wall, but of course we can’t. That would disrupt the theatrical physics.

This dream has no significance but I wanted to drop in some content—I know Gully is bored. And also for Erica and Baby Sam, because I haven’t mentioned their names in a while. We have any new readers out there? Any old readers? Anyone?

I feel like the Looney Tunes conductor raising his arm and hearing… just the frog.

Saturday, November 15, 2003

Head Up. Eyes Open. Dine. 11.15.03

Apologies to J-Cap, A-a-Lice, and J’s birthday party; sorry to ButtaSammy for not checking out the DJ’s on East Broadway. I am tired, I need to collect some sleep. But here’s something I saw. I shouldn’t have laughed, but…

Leaving the subway at 14th and 8th I happen upon a man looking at the ground; whatever he was looking at was obscured by turnstiles and a metal border grate. I stopped to see what he was looking at, because he looked appalled. I thought I’d see nudity.

Instead, there are two homeless men splayed out, swaddled in mangy clothes, dead asleep, each with a finished bottle of Georgi vodka just out of reach of their hands. It was like a cheap movie, a doctored photograph, and I caught myself kind of… giggling. Or snickering.

“What IS this?” the guy said, pulling his hat over his stringy black hair.
“Man, I just don’t know,” I replied, speeding out before compelled to laugh more. That’s rough and it’s cold but that is such a scene I expect to see at 2.45 AM on Skinemax.


Dinner at Mirchi was good, once the almonds were removed from my dish; and Raycroft’s junior cousin Q was everything a teenager should be in the face of early 30-somethings (and this late 20-something), dismissive and sarcastic. Hey, I understand… we’re a little old to be exciting. Since they clamored for time,

Ruby: Why haven’t you written about us, Norman?
Nicky: Yeah, you didn’t mention my birthday party.

Well, Dame Ruby Curly Locks bounded into the place very red, and wearing a thermal which is an excellent fashion statement. She also asked me a question with a great interviewer’s voice and I found that very fun. Nicky Marie Super Smile sat across the table smiling and at times (as usual) deadpan. Her party, two months ago, it was tight and in a lounge that unfortunately exploded into toolish LI’ers. Nicky is also an OC watcher and we will have to enjoy Mischa and Peter “Eyebrow” Gallagher together at some point. Nice to meet you, James. “Brought together by Friendster” is excellent fortune.

The Looney Tunes movie was pretty decent. I finally found the song I’ve been hearing but have been unable to identify (it’s by Junior Senior). Joan Cusack and Heather Locklear shined as usual. In Arroz’ car, on the way home, we listened to Jay-Z’s Black Album. I would advise you to go out and buy it. If you want to hear Jay-Z introducing each track like it’s God’s gift to the earth (when it’s closer to the environmental value of plastic, as far as we know). If you want to hear strained beats and rap pomp. If you want to hear stale beats from the Neptunes and Eminem and a jack from Trick Daddy. If you want HOVA’s breathy vocals or you think he’s trying to seduce you over the telephone. If you want to hear Jay-Z say not only “I killed my dog, I crushed your cat” in a song, but have that song’s chorus be a perfectly sung “Justify My Thug,” buy this album now.

Yeah, but I’m not joking. Proving once again you can sell sh*t in sheep’s clothing.

Thursday, November 13, 2003

The Trees Waved Like Reeds 11.13.03

While I was out shopping for my brand new kicks (these black Pumas that have soles like cleats) and rocking sunglasses to protect from flying twigs and children, a tree branch, at least twice my height and probably more, and about the girth of Pico’s Johnson (ladies, feel free to attest) collapsed on my brother’s car.

To be fair, it doesn’t look like it just fell on his early 90’s Mitsubishi whatever. It looked like it broke its tree branching foot off in the hatchback a/k/a the car’s ass. With some G-Unit fury! Broken in two, shards everywhere—and that’s just the tree branch! A whole bough, leaning into the street, pointing like the head of a fallen elk. The car itself seems to have no bruises beyond the completely shattered back windshield; I approached it gingerly with a black lawn bag and some masking tape (I couldn’t find the duct tape).

(It’s somewhere here, somewhere.)

A guy with his son in the passenger seat of his grey SUV took the time to slow, stop, and express his shame over what had happened to my car.

“It’s not mine,” I said, struggling with cold fingers to loose a five-inch length of yellowed tape. “It’s my brother’s.”
“Well,” he replied, turning back to the road, “he’s not going to be happy.”

I only grazed a cube of glass once, struggling to hold the makeshift tarp down and protect my brother’s car from the elements; the forecast called for rain. There’s no reason to really worry; this car is one of the cars my brother works his semi-amateur mechanic magic, not worth more than $2000, probably not more than $1000. The neighbor a house away drove in, walked by, looked, went inside.

Kids walked by close to see. The last of the tarp still bucked and writhed with each wind gusts, but it looked secure. The wind strained the tape but the tape stood firm. I was on my neighbor’s property—my brother parked his car in front of her lawn—and I break two pieces of branch with my hands, my feet, my whole body. Branches cracked like bones. Brittle bones—what I remember from arboreal science, treeology, whichever, that color on the inside the tree is unhealthy, a sign of rot. Which partly explains why half the tree fell in the first place.

I looked up and the trees swayed like reeds; leaves neatly packed against our gate, windblasted. Empty boxes have toured the neighborhood only to deposit on top of the pile of leaves. The sidewalks swept clean and imprints of former leaves dot the white concrete. I got my first splinter, while in a fit of manly branch stomping. Of course I said, “splinter,” and went back to my task, until I could break no more. Now, the bough was sizable enough for the garbage men to pick up on Friday.

Running through the wind and into my house, inside, warm, radio, chocolate, typing, rest.

Wednesday, November 12, 2003

/I Too Appreciate Jessica Lynch's Opinion/ 11.12.03

It's amusing that the Statue of Liberty, after two years since the September 11th (2001) attacks, is still closed, due to the National Park Service's lack of protection dollars. Not saying that we could afford to spend the money... what with the stumbling recovery and the billions going to the non-war firefight in Iraq. Just saying.

Friday, November 07, 2003

/Dilate/ 11.07.03

This is no way to get any work done:

First wake up late, rake the leaves. More leaves than I think there should be, in yellows and reds and some in greens. Push some back and I know I haven’t been working out. Under the clouds and the wind, greeting the “hey buddy” guy who asks if I am interested in selling my house or if I know someone who is;

Trash bags are not to be found. They are bought at cheap cost, unfurled and fingered open, laid on grassy firmament, leaves shoved inside with hands. Hands, concurrently become dirty. Dirty from the driveway to the neighbors’ lawn and dirty from the front bushes to the street and sewers. Too tired from last night’s music-trade-make out with Pixel to do much more. Bags to the side, heavy, pendulous, dragging, loaded with wet leaves—and down on the curb for Friday pickup.

Race, shower, dirty fingernails. Still scrubbing in vain. Toss on the clothes; hope they fit, into the Brooklyn.

Lunch with Po-Bair. We think it is a good idea to have a drink before we get to studying/ work; she is a Brooklyn Pilsner, I am Rheingold. We catch up over Thai and I realize I haven’t seen her in so long I’ve forgotten basics. Basic basics.

Pick up Eben. It’s hours later than I want it to be. We find a cafĂ© a distance away. The place is okay and the woman at the counter is from Fargo-esque country. Sweet pound cake with apples on top. Coffee. Like-mindeds. The right steps to studying.

Except the background wasn’t background it was loud and blaring and we all recognized the Geechi Geechi Ya-ya-ya. Ce soir. The Moulin Rouge Soundtrack. A high volumes; we were near the speakers (where a wooden baseball bat also resides… hm) and suffering. The bleating sounds of danced up covers to Gloria Estefan’s Rhythm of the Night or whatever. Miserable. Writhingly. No work done. The player skipped when other cd’s were played. Also miserable.

And to the bicycle art opening (thanks Eben) with Nascar Anna and to Silver’s and some television and missing my ride home—and a long trip on the subways, seeing someone I haven’t in a year and a half—I think. I didn’t say hello to her—and not sleeping on the subways and standing on the bus and off into the rain—

A soft mist falls as the bus pulls out to reaches even further than mine with the sound of a blender two walls away. I stand, check my headphones, look for lurking in the night, check the lights of oncoming traffic and cross. My block is silent, sleeping. I am under the cover of mostly bare trees, walking between dormant cars and dormant houses, one or two with a television glowing blue in a living room. I can see the part of the sidewalk in front of my lawn, waiting for me.

And when I get there, my laptop heavy on my back, phantom aches coming on to poke at me in the morning, I see the path, once again delineated by the leaves from that verdammt tree on our property that thinks it’s so hardy it doesn’t have to drop its leaves until all the other trees are bare.

This is like an arboreal pissing contest. I know it. The tree knows it. I am frustrated, knowing that all the work I put in won’t show in a couple days’ time. At least I know it won’t take as long as it might. I turn into my driveway, looking at the firmament, already covered in yellows, patches of green peeking through in the reddish streetlight, wet with the mist.

Wednesday, November 05, 2003

Electioneering 11.06.03

Yesterday I walked into my house, a little damp from the mist, headphones hanging off the strap of my backpack. My mother asked me if I was going to vote. I told her I was thinking of not voting.

She shooed me out of the house with a swift “What’s that?” that meant more like “Boy, you better go to that polling place and do your civic duty!”

I found out that I was, apparently, STILL registered to vote in Brooklyn, though I called the voting registration folks twice last year to correct that.

I thought one thing was interesting—there was hardly anything on the ballot, besides the sneaky non-partisan election proposition. Basically, it intends to do away with party primaries and allow anyone to enter the race at the primary level. I loved the wording the best. I read, “freedom, everybody gets a little piece of the electoral game of chance!” But we now know what happens in California. “The rich and famous get the best piece of the electoral game of chance.” I thought about the literature that came to the house, asking me to save politics from party bosses.

Party bosses. They could have dropped a reference to Boss Tweed and the Tammany Hall Machine while they were at it. I don’t know who any of these party bosses are. I DO know who Mike Bloomberg and Steve Forbes and who many other rich and influential CEO’s -- many of them living in New York-- are. That’s where the power lies, and that’s where any steps at making the electoral process more egalitarian have to start.

In a completely unrelated note, while listening to Aaliyah’s “Rock the Boat," I realized that song has almost nothing to do with the pleasures of sailing! Work the middle, indeed. That doesn’t mean ANYTHING in the world of sailing!!!

Monday, November 03, 2003

4.00 AM, Penn Station. The kids are... 11.01.03

On the tiles
Covered in suede jackets
Almost kicking their Styrofoam cups with the labels aimed at me as product placement
Laying with toes pointed at open sacks of McDonald’s
Slowly caressing dyed blondes
Slowly caressing brunettes
Muttering half-nonsenses to friends
Watching the police, perky and shaking hands
Jingling their pants and dark angel wings
Tapping to the music
Baring midriffs
Adjusting their black uniform (slacks + form-fitting shirts)
Being led by their schoolgirl outfits (highlighting thick + fit legs)
Holding personal pizzas in their sleeping laps (while sleeping heads droop down)
Stumbling to the escalator then stopping; turning; walking towards empty stores
Chasing skirt with heavy eyes
Surveying their prone friends while swaggering in white tuxes
Glowering with their arms crossed
Laying in wait with six other girlfriends
Looking at the big board for a sign that finally, they can go home