Archive

Posts Tagged ‘Rebecca Schoenkopf’

COMMIE GIRL ON JURY DUTY: BENDING THE MORAL ARC OF JUSTICE ALL OVER YOUR ASS

FAIR IS FAIR, RIGHT?

BY REBECCA SCHOENKOPF / FOURSTORY.ORG

Remember last week when I said we would talk about parks today? Oh, I had so much opining to do, and you … you were going to listen!

But that was before I got jury duty, and you … you, but of course, got it with me. Now! Everyone knows I love jury duty—I do! Doing my civic duty gets me all tingly and happy, and if I could wear my “I Voted” sticker all year long without looking like a homeless who doesn’t change her clothes, I would. Voting and jury duty in the same week? The French have a name for that, and it is “hog heaven.”

And so we got a courtroom, and a voir dire, and an almost-unheard-of one-day trial, and it was the stupidest case you’ve ever seen in your long life of seeing stupid cases. There was our judge, welcoming us with Dr. King’s quote about the moral arc of the universe bending towards justice—lovely!—and in our case, “justice” was some simpering lunatic chick suing a perfectly wonderful young man who didn’t do a thing wrong. Young lady, we will bend the moral arc of justice all over your ass! READ MORE

COMMIE GIRL IN THE VOTING BOOTH: ASSEMBLY REQUIRED

BY REBECCA SCHOENKOPF / FOURSTORY.ORG

I don’t like to brag—oh, who’m I kidding? I do like to brag! I like it a lot! And this morning, I will be bragging about the fact that I am what I like to call a “high-information voter.” I can name you seven Supreme Court justices off the top of my head, and all nine if you give me a pencil and a sheet of scratch paper. In fact, I know that there are nine Supreme Court justices, instead of the far more popular uneducated guess of 12! That is how high-information I am!

But, as that sexy old coot Donald Rumsfeld once haiku’d, “There are known knowns. These are things we know that we know. There are known unknowns. That is to say, there are things that we now know we don’t know. But there are also unknown unknowns. These are things we do not know we don’t know.”

And that can extend—even for someone as brainy (and fetching) as I am—to the voting booth.  READ MORE

COMMIE GIRL AND THE TIMESHARE HARD-SELL: THE JOY OF LOVING THINGS YOU HATE

May 23, 2010 2 comments

BY REBECCA SCHOENKOPF / FOURSTORY.ORG

Yes, we would love to attend a timeshare presentation at Kona Resort in exchange for $150 cash and lunch. I mean it. Love.

Paul was worried. He had never endured a hard-sell for a timeshare before, had never selflessly signed up so as to get gifts he could then present to his loved ones. I got this boombox for you, Mom, and I didn’t just buy it, I suffered for it, because I love you like Jesus does. Greg and Annie, please accept this weekend in Catalina. I said no to a timeshare salesperson for a very long time in order to get it for you. I love you, Greg and Annie. Love!

“It’ll be fun!” I kept explaining to Paul. Doesn’t he understand about things being so awful that they become exquisite? That just like pure perfect rage excites the same part of the primitive brain as drugs or sex or candy, pure perfect loathing excites our adrenalin centers, and not only that but it would be a loathing shared between the two of us, and later we could laugh and cackle about it together? Doesn’t he know the joy of loving things you hate?

READ THE REST AT FOURSTORY.ORG

COMMIE GIRL IN CUBA, HAVANA GOOD TIME AND MUCH, MUCH MORE

April 26, 2010 3 comments

REBECCA SCHOENKOPF IN HAVANA

(Rebecca Schoenkopf, who made her name as Commie Girl at the OC Weekly, is writing as beautifully and insightfully as ever. Here are her reflections on a recent visit to Cuba.)

BY REBECCA SCHOENKOPF

It is foreign, and we are on a very fancy bus, 13 or 17 of us or so, FourStory writers and our lovers and a few nice neighbors who thumbed a ride with us from OC to Havana, Cuba. We are gawking out the windows at a land free of any advertising except exhortations to educate your children and pictures of the nation’s heroes. Cuba loves its heroes, its Comandante Che and its number one hero of all time and forever, Jose Marti, who was neither a general nor a baseball player but a writer, and that’s just weird. We are looking at the open spaces, almost agriculture-free but for a field or two here or there, and the 1960s Soviet concrete monoliths, and the God-sized portraits of Che.

And then we come into Havana itself, taking a roundabout way that brings us past stately homes on the Avenue of the Presidents (but in Spanish), only a couple of whom have statues because they turned out to be so corrupt and lame, and the Cuban people said, “Fuck! Enough with statues of the presidents already, let’s just sculpt some more of Jose Marti!”

And Havana is so dreamy and beautiful and different—different from our homes, from anyplace we have been, and from how we thought it would be. READ MORE