Today's toast

Here’s to Jodi Foster and other such phenomenal individuals that are unquestionably in the limelight and still manage to carefully, expressively, and sure, publicly, take the opportunity to remind us (yes, the all-encompassing and problematically universal “Us”) that just because she makes/stars in/directs movies doesn’t mean she’s automatically: a) a spokesperson for her sexuality, b) required to share the name/gender/occupation/sock color and shoe size of the person she’s having sex with, or c) is contractually obligated to “answer” for the way she chooses to live her personal life. Whatever, whomever, however that may be. An articulately heartfelt “Fuck you”, and not a dry eye in the room. I’m enamored.

Slainte!

“Tay in the wind”, Jodi; just adored you in Nell.

Jodi Foster accepts the Cecil B. DeMille Award Sunday night for lifetime achievement 

(dis)membership.

free range

grass fed

local

Sound confession

Aside from the occasional local music festival and the various “WBLI Summer Jams” early on in my tenure of musical appreciation (Jones Beach and featured band 98 Degrees was, to a 12 or 13 year old Long Islander, a sad little slice of heaven) I’ve been reflecting upon the evolution of my musical tastes and auditory interests. I know they’ve certainly changed (and, with the benefit of retrospect, thankfully for the better). Piquing in college, as I’ve gotten older my interest in large venues and heavily populated shows has drastically decreased, though my love of live music has not. As embarrassing as this may be, let’s take a little trip down memory lane with a sampling of popular shows (those that I can recall) I’ve attended, shall we?* Though not necessarily all-inclusive or indicative of the entirety of my musical interests, it's certainly entertaining.

First, there was high school. I was, it seems, a hop skip and a jump away from a septum piercing and JNCO jeans. The fact that one of my biggest regrets in high school was miserably failing to see Tool when I had the chance says quite a lot. (The fact that I later – much later, at age 26 – seized the opportunity to meet Maynard James Keenan and shake his hand at a wine bottle signing at Whole Foods in Cambridge, MA also says a lot, and I don’t think that it’s really in my favor.) The list:

• Blink 182 (an outing with a couple of besties – c’mon, give me a break, they're tatted and pierced and loud and rebellious and they were super fun to see live)
• Moby + The Roots (the outlier… I think I got these tickets for free)
• Incubus (as a young teen listening to Incubus pre-huge international pop-like fame, I was obsessed with Brandon Boyd. I feel fortunate that I was at least lusting after a pseudo-rocker and not a Backstreet Boy)
• Hoobastank (“stank” is actually incorporated in the band name. Need I say more?)
• Linkin Park (But, you guyssss, I saw them before they were totes famous! Wait, what? Doesn’t matter? Yeah, you’re right. It doesn’t)
• Taproot (inexplicable)
• Deftones (le sigh)
• 40 Below Summer + Ill Nino (Jersey heavy metal phase? Um, yikes. Shows like this did, however, allow me to frequent CBGB’s before it was dismantled, so, win)
• Coheed and Cambria (this required a 3-hr trip to Poughkeepsie, which I was happy to make at the time)

Ah, college. I wholeheartedly thank my fabulous friends (what up, IMF?!) for introducing me to 95% of the below, in addition to helping shape my current musical consciousness. While I was exorbitantly intoxicated for a good number of these performances (again, what up, college?!) this hasn’t prevented me from repeatedly enjoying their records.

• Cursive (this was early on in college, and also during that weird phase when every indie chick got into knitting, often bringing it to shows and sitting off on the side to complete some monotone scarf or something. Sadly, I was not immune).
• Decemberists (Awesomesauce)
• Shins (kinda dicks. Just saying)
• Andrew WK (freaking fantastic show)
• Rilo Kiley (a college favorite. Salute Your Shorts, kids, and Troop Beverly Hills!)
• The Mountain Goats (this is the first of three times that I’ve seen them, and I remember absolutely nothing. Damn you, Bacardi Raspberry, damn you!)
• !!! (Chk Chk Chk) (This show was particularly memorable as Nic Offer not only called me to the stage in my absence – I had left early - but then took an article of mine that I had left behind and shoved it down his pants in protest)
• Minus the Bear (notable as, like the other shows, I did the artwork for their promotional poster and it ended up looking like “Minus the Bean”. I still call them this)
• Ellis Paul (le sigh)
• Ratatat (two dudes, two electric guitars, a Mac, some flashing lights, and a bottle of Jack)
• David Dondero (I recall nothing of note)
• The Unicorns (disbanded)
• Sleater Kinney (Feminist riot grrrls still rocking)
• Ted Leo (sans Pharmacists, I would later live in the same neighborhood as him in Cambridge. Apparently he’s all about Hollywood Express)
• Jennifer Gentle (bizarrely high-pitched, but catchy tunes nonetheless)
• Elf Power (oddly just saw them a second time, as they opened up for Jeff Mangum)
• Chromeo (sexy – totally sexy – le swoon. A tall, dark and handsome French professor at Barnard College? C’mon, it’s not even fair. A handshake was almost too much to bear)
• The New Pornographers (never really liked them, still don’t, and yet thanks to a friend and an ongoing music exchange throughout graduate school I have more music of theirs than I know what to do with)

Post-college has been a time of adjusting and re-adjusting to urban adult life, and has not, it seems, incorporated very many live shows. Increasingly scrupulous, a couple of repeats and some obvious favorites.

• The Avett Brothers (Paradise Rock Club was a super fun venue, although I was nearly overtaken by the suffocating aroma of body odor – plaid, beards, it shouldn’t have come as a surprise)
• The Mountain Goats (John Darnielle is phenomenal! I’ve seen him multiple times and I will see him again! Any time he comes to town! And there is a good chance I would travel to him as well!)
• Jeff Mangum of Neutral Milk Hotel (fucking. amazing)
• No Age (looooOOOOOOuuuuuuddddddDDDDDD)
• Feist (beautiful, beautiful voice)
• Ellis Paul (I’ve seen him more times than I can count, at this point. One of the most wonderful singer-songwriters continually touring – all should attend at least one show of his)

*Read between the lines: mindless Monday afternoon activities that can take place at one’s desk with little to no suspicion.

Personal Musings on Public Space

While lounging late in bed late this morning and enjoying a delicious cup of coffee, I got to thinking. Not common practice for a Saturday morning, but the night before I’d had a particularly irritating discussion regarding specific public spaces and the experiences of certain individuals that pass through them, which directly related to gender. The discussion rapidly morphed into something of an unstructured argument, with neither party (myself included, sadly) accomplishing much more than a reiteration of the same points and making the others in tow feel just plain uncomfortable. My emotional reflexes and foggy head left me unable to clarify my thoughts on the spot, let alone get to the crux of exactly why I cared so deeply, and needed to dig my heels in right then and there. Thus, here I am, spending my Saturday morning musing over and possibly reconsidering this debate. And what I’ve decided is that this supposedly insignificant spat actually encompasses the far more significant fact that external perceptions and forces – resting on superficial external clues related to gender, or to race, or to age, or to whatever - almost always influence the ways in which individuals navigate public social spaces amongst one another. Ignoring this fact, in my opinion, is both ignorant and detrimental.

Ok, let’s rewind and zoom out and add a little current context…. Whether you watch the news, peruse the blogoshpere or religiously read The New Yorker (gosh, you so smahhhht), you’re well aware that some horrible shit’s been going down lately (always?) across the board. Shootings at movie theatres and bars, rape jokes heedlessly slung by douchey comedians in late night clubs paired with actual rape scandals on Air Force bases, Modern Family hogging four out of the six Emmy nominations for Best Supporting Actor in a Comedy… And, yet, here we all are, still hanging and going about our business like “oh hey, that shit was sad or tragic or whatever, but I’ve still got only 30 minutes for lunch and I still can’t decide what to eat, and where are we going for happy hour tonight? I’m totally jazzed for the Block Party this weekend, TGIF guys!” and so on and so forth. Life’s life, you hear shitty shit in the news all the time, it’s screaming at you from the television, it’s assaulting you on the internet, and you just take it in, and you digest it, and you excrete it in whatever form allows you to successfully leave it behind as “that horrific thing that happened” (but not to you!), the “moral of the story”, the “lesson learned”, or as the impetus for future necessary precautions. As Walter White has said “we’re human. We move on”. And, we do. Humans do horrific things to other humans over and over again and, somehow both as a society and as individuals, we continue to move on.

Sometimes, however, as with the shooting that occurred in Colorado last week as one example, those incidents are so massively horrific they catch the eye of the entire nation – at the same time - and everyone takes pause in shock (in this case) of the sheer disregard for human life, for other human beings. At the risk of diminishing the severity, terror and sadness of this event, I’m not even going to try to further articulate it. I don’t need to, as it’s being replayed, elaborated upon, embellished and dissected on every news channel, across the Internet, in daily conversations and interactions. No matter your source or daily routine, odds are that since last Friday, you’ve had ample opportunity to be repeatedly reminded of this tragedy whether sought out or not. And common conversation, no matter what the venue, relates to “our” safety. A Google search of a sampling of news headlines read: “Do we need metal detectors at the movies?”; “Colorado Shooting Shatters our Sense of Safety”; “Dark Knight massacre could prompt massive, expensive security changes at movie theaters”. With this continued media onslaught alongside the events of last Friday, the experience of “going to the movies” - the “movies” as a public, social space - will inevitably be, and already has, changed. Whether or not you, as an individual, choose to continue going to the movies is somewhat less relevant than the thought process that runs as an undercurrent to your eventual actions of entering that public space or not, the decisions you make and considerations you take into account, the thoughts that run through your head, the sense of (dis)comfort and overall safety that you experience the next time you walk into a dimming theater and settle in to your seat.

Whether you live in California, Kansas or Connecticut, the extreme violence that occurred in Colorado provides a loud and unique breach in “daily goings ons” that forces the very valid reevaluation of public space in general and the movies in specific, in relation to both personal safety and sentiment. The apparent randomness allows for individuals regardless of social indicators to feel somewhat similarly - threatened or saddened or just plain aware - when moving through this specific public space. But, what if this indiscriminate air was absent?

Now, stay with me here; it’s an interesting, and for many a not all too foreign, thought. Let’s consider this same general heightened sense of awareness and potential for harm in public spaces in the context of that initial argument I participated in the other night: in relation to gender (“gender”, for the purposes of this informal chat, being either man or woman). Think about this. Picture being assaulted on the daily with news articles and stories that highlight rape and sexual violence perpetrated against individuals solely because they’re perceived (easily physically identified, based on dress or build or just general assumption) as women. Envision taking public transportation every day to or from work and, say, being confronted with the “See It, Say Something” campaigns in regard to groping on crowded buses and T’s, something that’s happened to you personally, more than once. Consider hearing a plethora of tales (let alone personal anecdotes) from and about your mom, your friend, your coworker, your cousin’s roommate’s sister, and how these women were “taken advantage of” or molested or even raped. Spread out over a day, a week or a year, these personalized micro-aggressions by no means make national noise comparable to that of a mass shooting. Their repetition and frequency over the course of a lifetime, in numerous facets of your life, however, creates a landscape in which awareness is not only beneficial but also necessary for survival. As a physically identifiable “woman”, I’m subtly inundated with reminders daily and come to critically comprehend that ensuring my own personal safety requires a keen awareness of my surroundings in no way unrelated to this classification.

Right. So for many (rather unfortunately, if seen as reflective of the current state of social kyriarchy), this is hardly news. Heck, maybe this is little more than a personal discursive exercise in better understanding my visceral reaction. But what it comes down to is that moving through public spaces smartly requires an understanding of how you’re perceived. This understanding is fluid, and it doesn’t need to change your actions, it doesn’t necessarily dictate what you do. Let me emphatically state that by no means do all women do all of the same things, frequent the same places, or interpret external information, habitual clues or micro-aggressions in the same ways. There is nary an individual – man or woman - that doesn’t have a host of additional factors (in addition to and way beyond gender) playing into their public perceptions and the way in which they’re publicly perceived. Across the board, however, these internal and external factors do remain present as we all live social and interactive public lives and they (whether implicitly or tangibly) need to be accounted for, whether going for a jog, walking down a darkened street, getting a drink at a bar solo, riding public transportation or getting the mail.

Chicken Coop Construction

This August, aside from skipping around the lovely Mount Baker neighborhood from house-sitting position to house-sitting position, I had the opportunity to try my hand at the trade of carpentry, something I’ve always fantasized about mastering. As the end of the month neared and I dropped my duffel at my third and final destination, I agreed to help a friend construct a chicken coop in her backyard. The East Coaster in me is still somewhat mystified by this Northwest trend of urban farming* (from raising chickens to growing robust gardens along the sidewalks) but, when done well, it’s also very, very cool.

*City of Seattle’s Office of Sustainability and Environment:

http://www.seattle.gov/environment/food.htm

(My friend's lovely child and the final product)

In short, I’ve abandoned my dream of construction due to a fear of band saws and impatience with calculated measurements and geometry. I did, however, quite enjoy my role digging, leveling, and surveying. And, the final result is nothing short of AWESOME. It’s official; my friend’s an artist and a bit of a genius. Erected from nothing more than her sketches and vision, it’s made entirely from repurposed doors (screen and otherwise), hardware cloth, plywood and plastic. These are shots of the various stages of coop, from start to finish.

a.

b.

c.

a. Leveling is no joke! It took the better part of an incredibly hot afternoon. Also, digging a trench around the outside of the coop was critical to eventually predator-proof the sucker.

b. Frame. Clearly, I was a HUGE help here, what with my superior knowledge of power tools and engineering. Oh, wait... No.

c. A third of the coop has plastic roofing to allow in light. It also looks beautiful, obvi. My, what lucky (and arguably oblivious) chickens.

Here, you can sort of see that the front consists of screen doors on their sides.

Making It Work (well, kinda)

Even in my escalating desperation as impending unemployment rears it’s ugly head, there are a few positions that I can not, will not, ABSOLUTELY REFUSE, to apply for. They are, of course, compliments of Craigslist, the once virtual hippy trading post turned resident (national, international, even?) catchall. These include:

Veterinary receptionist and assistant: I really don’t like animals all that much*. Period.

*However, I do love cats, which reminds me of an amusing little anecdote… On one of the two interviews I’ve had since graduation, I was greeted not only by my prospective employers but also by a large, mangy black lab, apparently the coveted office pet. As our little chat wrapped up (throughout the entirety of which I tactfully tried to keep the dog’s snout out of my crotch - charming, I know) I simply couldn’t lie when they asked if I was “alright” (their smiles suggested I should be positively thrilled) with working in an office with a dog. My response? “Quite frankly, I’m more of a cat person.” Ta-ta.

Diamond retailer customer service representative: I have been wearing the same jewelry (all two rings of it, both silver, both possibly from a kiosk located in a Long Island mall) since 1997. Clearly, I’m not your gal. Lorelei Lei, the only way I’d agree with you is if I could pawn them down on Rainier in order to pay my rent.

Depression study seeking participants: Seriously? In my current state of mind, I’m afraid of what I would find out.

Gymnastics instructor, children ages 4 months – 12 yrs: The only thing worse than being surrounded by Labrador retrievers all day (see number one) is the thought of having screaming children running around and literally bouncing off the walls. Also, with all those moist blue gym mats, ringworm is sure to be lurking out there somewhere.

Online fitness and weight-loss coach: Training provided, you say? And, no experience needed, to boot? Well, what a shame; I’m running low on motivation and have to preserve the sparse remains for myself and my thankless job hunt. Plus, I’m a firm believer in making sure that some things simply remain tangible and retain the archaic attribute of human interaction. I’m now adding “fitness coaching” to that list, snuggled right underneath book buying and enjoying literature (boo, Kindle).

Well, I’m sure I could go on and on, but I’m going to draw the line here. The more I procrastinate, the less time I have to sprinkle my resume from Columbia City to Shoreline. In the words of Tim Gunn, “carry on”.

The Summer of Leisurely Literature Consumption

The merits of reading transportable paperbacks* for pleasure:

1) Once purchased and/or borrowed (remember when libraries actually had those removable slips to stamp when books came in and out? Time warp!), it’s free.

2) It’s a great way to bulk up your vocabulary (sure, this depends on who and what you’re reading, but odds are you’ll come upon the errant unknown word, here and there, no matter what)

3) It helps pass the absurdly long hour and a half you spend waiting for and sitting on the 48 bus every single day, cruising in un-airconditioned style from work, the gym, and your current house-sitting locale in the charming Mt. Baker/Seward Park neighborhoods.

*Down with the Kindle and everything else threatening tactile literature.

I’ve had more time over the past two months to read fiction of my choice than I had over the past two years. Luckily, I’m having a hell of a time finding a fulltime job, so what with my 15hr a week position saving the universe, I have ample time to catch up from the grad school famine. I’m devouring fiction, one used novel* at a time.

*Shout out to Half Priced Books; what a gem.

Freedom - $9

Jonathan Franzen

God dammit, TIM!* Look, I love you Franzen. I fell in love with you on May 29th, 2005, a naïve 21 year old, sitting in Swarthmore’s tree-laden outdoor amphitheatre on a brilliantly sunny afternoon, listening to you poetically rail against the horrors of the current presidential administration while elegantly congratulating that year’s graduating class (my adorable twin included). But, I don’t think I love this novel – wait, wait for it – I don’t think I love this novel quite as much as The Corrections, or even Strong Motion. Maybe I’ve read you too religiously but, the thing is, I feel like I’ve heard it before; the odes to 80’s post-punk, the Midwestern suburbanites trying to do right by their illusion of happiness and ultimately stumbling, ridiculously complex characters that muddle the lines between redemption and ruin, the strategically interwoven critiques of the present socio-political economy and the retelling of Swarthmore's idyllic rolling greens (obvi)… So, needless to say, yeah, this book was awesome. It had everything I appreciate about your writing (please see above). However, it was JUST shy of the awesomeness of your previous genius. I still love you, though.

-Verdict? Yeah, I still love you, but maybe we should see other people for a while?

*If one person gets this reference, it’ll be well worth it.

Chronic City - $7

Jonathan Lethem

I’ve heard good things about you, Lethem, and you don’t disappoint. Granted, this moved slow at times, but I was ultimately entertained. You’re a good writer, sir, and I especially love reading about New York City, when written by someone who’s obviously lived and/or is living in said metropolis. And, either Lethem’s research or his knowledge about his topics is quite admirably in-depth. Following the ins and outs of an about town-washed up child star, Lethem totally flexes his pop culture muscle to the extent that I couldn’t actually make out what was regurgitated fact or manipulated for fiction. Evidently, I know next to nothing about Marlon Brando. Good story (though it dragged just a smidge about three quarters through) and even better writing. Oh, and I'm naming my first born (if I choose to breed, that is), Perkus.

-Verdict? Next time I read him Wikipedia will be close at hand.

The Secret History - $3

Donna Tartt

Uh, boo. Yeah, I said it, a big-time boo. Much to my chagrin, as this is the only summer choice to boast a female author (and not have a first name featured in the New Testament), ugh, I really just didn’t enjoy this at all. As this month’s bookclub choice, I powered through, but I was ultimately disappointed. Following the twisted tale of a half dozen lib arts college students studying the Classics, I found the plot dull (look, we all who went to college understand that it can be as much as 70% boozing and napping, but good lord, it seems that’s all that went on), the characters dislikable (which sometimes works but in this case I just wanted them to do away with themselves) and the writing style, eh, merh.

-Verdict? The $3 used to purchase this would have bought me a very tasty happy hour drink.

A Month of Sundays - $1.50

John Updike

So, since this isn’t my first time at the rodeo (I read Rabbit, Run a few years ago), I had an inkling of what to expect but man, this was fabulous. As per usge, Updike uses this novel to explore familiar themes: the political, social and domestic changes that came with the 1960’s (religion, marriage, monogamy), the Northeast, the rise of suburbs. Told through the retrospective journal entries of an excommunicated pastor, the book weaves a tale of infidelity and confused faiths. I’m simply in awe of his vocabulary and his ability to manipulate it into subtly hilarious sentences (especially through the lens of this particular man of the cloth). Like most sane folks, while sitting in a coffee shop or on the bus, I often found myself sporadically chuckling aloud much to the dismay of my nearby neighbors. Oh, and the story lines aren’t too shabby either. Ultimately, I’m going to keep plowing through Updike’s work until I put a dent in his extensive repertoire.

-Verdict? Bargain of the summer.

Marry Me - $6

John Updike

Finished one Updike and on to the next. Thus far (I’m about half way), there’s discussion of Lutherans and Unitarians, off-handed (but always spot on and perfectly convincing) mentions of the “new fad, the Twist”, the “young Irishman in the Whitehouse”, and the rise of white, upper-middleclass NYC suburbs in Connecticut, daiquiris, Rum Collins’ and gin daisies. Much like Rabbit, Run, this book is clearly a product of its times; men court women, work in the office, and shoulder the burden of “breadwinner”; women make the home, shuffle their children around town and ultimately defer to the men; basically, marriage is the end goal and, once achieved, the at first anxiously willing participants are left to ponder their supposed domestic bliss. While at first I found this archaic standpoint interesting (albeit despicable) in the insight it provides to a very different time, it’s beginning to get a wee bit old. Maybe it’s because this novel, unlike the others I’ve read, is exclusively centered on marriage (surprise, surprise), but I’m actually having a difficult time stomaching the excessive chauvinism of this particular Stepford-esque Connecticut suburb. We’ll have to see how it wraps up…

-Verdict? I don’t like gin, and I don’t like this… Well, I guess the jury’s still out on the book. Next time I pick it up, maybe I’ll try it with a daiquiri in hand.

An addendum to the "life lessons" list...

After reading my most recent post, I received an onslaught of forwards from my twin who, coincidentally, saves pretty much every email that’s ever been sent to her (technological hoarding, really). These were selected from the collection she amassed while I was slaving away at one of my very first jobs after graduating from undergrad. I think she intends them to be a reminder of how much has changed (and really, thank god) over the past 6 years.

Sent by me to my sisters during my tenure and copied/pasted word for word, these emails really sum it up. Basically, I was an utterly angry, sarcastic, smart-ass. Luckily, with the clarity afforded by retrospect, I can say with confidence that I am no longer said individual. (Alright, well, I’m certainly not as angry.) I find them amusing, and oddly inspiring during this transition, yet again, from school to work.

Email 1: September.

There's another party today. There's a party at least once a week. Between holidays, retirements, and birthdays, it's a f*cking fun-fest over here. We're wishing farewell to Charlotte, from accounting, who got a new job, and who, I must say, I don't even know. The only time I ever see her is in passing in and out of the bathroom, when she flashes me a tight-lipped smile. Not even a hello. Yet, I'm going to be forced to attend this freaking luncheon. 12:30. Be there or be square. I am exceedingly tired of the awkwardness that results from such contrived comradery and {former job} enthusiasm. It's annoying. I'm not friends with these people. Why do I have to go and have a slice of the Entenmann's crumb cake and a finger sandwich with egg salad? I'm at least 10 years younger (if not 15) than the overwhelming majority of individuals here. I am very not interested in joining said events. If I didn't find it hysterical (and sort of sad) watching all these individuals try to amiably interact (and my own social awkwardness in all of this), I am not quite sure what I would do. Thank god for the sense of humor. Suck it, {former boss}. Welp. What are you two up to?

Email me if you have time. (I certainly do. I am wasting the organizations money on myself and the 8 hours a day I spend sitting at a computer, begging my friends and family to email me back).

Yours with excessive boredom and unenthusiasm,

(I'm truly becoming a shadow of my former self)

-{me}

Email 2: December.

Dear God. There is a freaking office party at LEAST once a week, and now with the whole holiday season thing, I'll be lucky to escape with at least one pair of pants that still fit. I must say, this morning started off ROUGH. I’m lacking in the well rested category; not the best way to start off the day. However, it seems that SOMEONE (this is an implication referring to God, somewhat in jest, and somewhat in preparation for Saturday night’s annual visit to our lovely congregation) is looking out for me, because when I got into my office, I found a huge spread on the (well, my?) conference table, all decked out in red and green napkins, bows, tablecloths, with warm fresh blueberry and cinammon scones, dannishes, croissants, strawberries, melon, pineapple, bagels, muffins, hot apple cider, coffee, tea.... It really is lovely. And it smells fantastic. And it's all of 2 and a half feet from my desk (which may not actually be a good thing. All I have to do is spin my chair around and I'm confronted with caloric bliss). Apparently it's a gift from catering, to our office. I think I might indulge in a second scone (though I know it's a deathwish... but it's like putting a beer in the hand of an alcoholic. What do you expect?) Sigh.

If you two are bored later in the day please drive over here and rescue me for an hour. If not, I guess I'll see someone at 4:30, 4:45 for a pick-up (don't get here much later, otherwise the traffic will be horrendous). And please, don't send {name}.

That is all.

Thanks, and ta-ta.

-{me}

Winning (at life).

So, here’s the thing about being unemployed. You’re… Unemployed. Yeah, yeah, you have a ton of free time, the city (in this case, Seattle) is your oyster, blah, blah, all of that jazz. Yes, you’re free! Recently freed from the burden of schoolwork, you have ample time to carouse with friends; you catch a Mariners game, you’re (repeatedly) out till three in the morning, you go on long runs every morning and you finally find a few hours to remind yourself of your love of art. But… Wait… Four days have passed in the blink of an eye. With nothing to structure your days, there’s nothing to get you out of bed before 10:00am, there’s no money coming in and thus, all of your supposedly “disposable” income is simply, literally, buying your time and rapidly running out. Oh, happy graduation!!

And now, for lessons recently learned outside of the classroom:

-The Angels beat the Mariners on Monday.

-The Mountain Goats are fantastic live, reaffirmed by last night’s show.

-Yay, Bruins!

-Despite its enchanting name, a night at Golden Gardens will leave your feet charcoal black for weeks.

- Skype is the best thing since sliced bread. London is consistently eight hours ahead of Seattle; I’ve heard from the future. There’s nothing to report.

-IHOP tastes best at 3:30am (and after a couple cocktails).

-I either need to move to Capitol Hill or find a permanent sleepover spot (the futon at 2111 E. John St. is, however, quite lovely).

-Mid-day six-mile runs around Greenlake are equal parts running and dodging hoards of moms with strollers and black labs.

-Logo features the gay male equivalent of the Real Housewives of New York and it’s addictive.

-Body paint and biking is acceptable only one day out of the year, and that day is this Saturday. See you there.

As it turns out, and this isn’t terribly shocking, I love school. I love the completely internalized and self-inflicted stress. I love theory and critical analysis and deep discussions; I’m all about intellectual exhaustion. PhD in the future? Eh, mayhaps, I don’t know, it’s not out of the question. But, it’s not even been a week since strolling across stage at graduation. Beginning next week - after Saturday’s cathartic and colorful bike ride - I will start sifting through my existence here in Seattle and try to sort it (you know, all that “future” business) out.

Judgment, judging... June.

Saturday morning, sitting amongst a room full of 4^th graders and their families, still reeling from the shots (yes, multiple – who in their right mind, over the age of 21 even does ONE shot let alone two?) of whiskey from the night before, the word of the day flashes up on the front screen: Judgment. Oh, judgment; I know judgment. I’m from the greater NYC metro area, a born and bred Northeasterner. I learned to judge before I learned how to walk. So, yes, let me tell you about judgment, kids. Passing judgment? I’ve got it in the bag. You poke along at or under the speed limit on the interstate? Judging. You're wearing Uggs and it's July (or any month, for that matter)? Pshht, I’m still judging. You don’t know the difference between pinot noir and pinot grigio? I am SO totally judging you right now. And, don't even get me started on bad judgment. My god, where to begin? It’s practically become the story of my life in 2011. Let’s start with the fact that I’m writing this and simply ignoring the entire book that I've effectively failed to read for tomorrow’s class. So, yeah, gather ‘round.

The past couple of months, despite a severe onset of senioritis and at times regrettable lapses in both maturity and foresight, have had many a moment of absolute delight. Let’s examine spring break as one prime example, shall we? A few close friends and I came up with the brilliant idea of roadtripping down to San Francisco and back. And let me tell you, it was both ingenious and perfectly executed. The five day venture was, perhaps, the most enjoyable vacation that I have yet to take in my adult life. Trip highlights include: four fabulous folks, one Dodge Charger (this is an enormous vehicle that, thanks to a questionable reaction to dramamine and good timing, I didn't have to drive all too often), 16 straight hours of driving through the night (battling both monsoon and blizzard), Napa Valley (photo), hot tubs and wine, San Francisco site seeing, the California and Oregon coasts (photo), the Redwood Forest, ridiculously unrepeatable conversations, more hot tubs, and more wine. I will save the details (believe me, I could go on for days) but, in short, it was sheer bliss.

Eeks. June 12th. There now remains only 6 weeks between my current carefree (both intellectually cumbersome and stimulating) graduate student existence and being unwillingly flung back out into semi-functioning adulthood. With friends now deciding what lays ahead for them and knowing that very soon many of us will part ways, returning to our respective regions of the US, I'm already getting nostalgic. Clearly, I'm going to have to get on this bandwagon and figure out what the heck I plan to do after graduation as well. In the meantime, however, I'm content with continuing to overlook the many opportunities I have (and have had) to employ good judgment and stay the course of these previous (and hopefully forthcoming) months of ridiculous carousing.

Seattle: She's a Spiteful City

Along with my dignity, my umbrella didn't survive the weekend. And, pathetically, this is not the first time I've taken an umbrella out carousing and managed to leave it in the dank corner of some dive bar; apparently I've made it my personal mission to sprinkle the city of Seattle with them. Good for other patrons looking to stay dry upon departure, bad for me and my anemic bank account.

That being said, the fact that I was umbrella-less somewhat embarrasingly didn't even come to my attention until this morning, when I awoke to torrential downpours ("oh, it only MISTS in Seattle" - yeah, right) and then had to strategize the best way to puddle hop with the 17 bags, 3 meals and 2 changes of clothing that my 12-hour stints on campus require. Why? Because this entire weekend - as I laid on my friend's futon, while guzzling fruit punch Gatorade and cursing the high heavens for my inability to fend off whiskey gingers - it was absolutely gorgeous out. Why, WHY is it only on miserable, monsoon-like days that I need to be out and about? And why, on the days that I most closely resemble the walking dead, does the Northwest weather insist on being absolutely idyllic?

And, thus, this morning en route to the Women's Center, I careened into the closest Bartell's, all bulk and bags and bright green windbreaker, desperate for whatever they had to offer. My choices were limited (2), my mind still groggy, the fluorescent lights disorienting, and, due to my disdain for fuschia, I walked out with an umbrella that is, upon reflection, the color of ecto-cooler. Paired with my neon green "rain jacket" (it ceased repelling water about 3 months ago), I pretty much rival Wally the Green Monster. Good for biking at night, bad for getting people to take you seriously. Next time there's a rain storm, you'll easily be able to spot me from a mile away. But, if you don't come over to say hi, I really don't blame you. Here's to hoping that I lose this new umbrella real fast.

Happy holidaze off

So, as it turns out, watching the final season of Lost on your 6 hour flight from NY to Seattle is not the most comforting choice of in-flight entertainment. That, mixed with a healthy dose of turbulence for about 30minutes over the Rockies, confirms it: the more I fly (and honestly, I've flown quite a bit), the more uneasy I'm now becoming about flying.

I know, I know. Even I'm struck by how ridiculous it sounds. I just keep imagining the plethora of things that might go wrong while hurtling through the air at 30,000 feet. Mixed with a few horrible experiences - the first being a deathly plague (parading as faux malaria with high fever, nausea and non-stop vomiting) that struck me as we returned from Ghana and the second being the terrifyingly intense turbulence last time I flew back to Seattle - I find myself anxiously clutching my seat during take-off, landing, and any little bumps in between. It is not pleasant, it is simply unacceptable. I love traveling. This simply will not stand, self!

Aside from my increasing aircraft unease, the holidays were as glorious as expected. Four fun-filled days in Boston followed by two weeks of fabulous-nothingness (the technical term for family and friends, non-existent agendas, careless midday jogs and card games over casually consumed beverages). Other than a brief jaunt to Jersey by way of Staten Island to accompany Dad to his company Christmas party (see photo, left), the lackadaisical weeks were spent with the siblings sans 1 and a handful of HS friends on Long Island. The only downfall? Heathrow's inability to get it together, detaining the twinage and (most sadly) holding her hostage in the U.K. for the holiday (snow plows? Salt? Something? Anything?!?!).

Coming back from any extended East Coast visit, I need at least 48 hours to adjust, mope around, seriously miss some folks, and indulge in bittersweet nostalgia. While I don't plan on moving back to Long Island (Suffolk/SWR) any time soon (or, cough, ever, cough), it holds a very special place in my heart. Thus, I can't help it; I think this video is hilarious and disturbingly accurate (please note how 75% of this video is staged either on a parking lot or in front of a fake waterfall, inevitably at a banquet/reception hall). Oh, home.

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pBHpY-5gigY&feature=related

And, finally, welcome, 2011!

This new year marks:

a) My first high school reunion: 10yrs (oh-em-gee, I am aging rapidly). Which means, it's been exactly one decade since I began my stint as an undergraduate, first starting at NYU. An absolutely life changing experience, involving standing in Washington Square park and watching the twin towers fall, living in Manhattan as an (let's be honest, naive) 18yr old, first learning how to use oil paints, and meeting some uniquely awesome individuals and hopefully lifelong friends.

b) The completion of my master's degree (well, fingers crossed).

c) Another fabulous year, hopefully filled with even MORE fantastic folks and fun times.

Eh, that's all I've got for now. But, let's go 2011, best year ever!