Call me unsupportive, but I do not enjoy all of Josh's shows. This has nothing to do with the music, but is usually more to do with the setting. There are lots of factors involved, any of which could sweeten or sour my mood. Josh told me this week that he had a frat party to play on Friday. In a barn. Then he told me that he had another one Thursday, but it was indoors. I think he told me about the outdoor one first so that the indoor one wouldn't seem so bad in comparison. I've been to an fall outdoor frat party before. It was not a good time.
Last year (or was it two years ago?), the band played in a field out near Turkey, NC. I am not even making that up. It was someone's dad's farm, and people had tents set up for camping. It was dusk when we got there and started setting up the equipment on the back of a flatbed truck. They had rented huge lights and a bonfire was already going strong. Once all the carrying is done, I don't have much involvement in setting up. I don't know how the drums go together and I can't tune anything. So during the setting up stage, I start looking around and gauging just what sort of night I'm about to have. I check out the people, the location of the restrooms and beer sources, any possibilities for food.
There are a couple advantages to playing at frat parties. One is that they have their ducks in a row with regards to payment. You play in a bar, you sometimes have to hassle a couple of people to get paid, and even then the band might get screwed over. But frat boys pay in advance at an agreed rate. They pay with checks. You can make your own joke about whose bank account it comes from.
But the big advantage as far as I'm concerned about frat parties is that they are always catered. You probably already know this about me, but it bears repeating: Getting free food makes me way happier than it should. After a big helping of NC barbeque with lots of fixins, I was starting to think that going to frat parties in fields wasn't so bad.
It started getting cold fast. I wasn't really prepared to spend all night out in the cold, but luckily, we were dealing with some particularly resourceful frat boys. Seeing the fire die down, they threw a couch on it. Whose couch was it? I don't know. Did the owner of the couch approve its being burned at the stake? I don't know that either. It sure did burn, though.
But I find that there is one major disadvantage of frat parties: sorority girls.
Give me a chance here. We all know that I can be very catty and judgmental, but I'm not going to complain about girls in tiny outfits in the middle of winter. I'm not going to complain about pretty girls talking to my boyfriend. I'm not even going to make any math-is-hard-let's-go-shopping jokes. I feel like I have a legitimate complaint here with regard to sorority girls, and it's all about how they treat the band.
Here is the progression. First, they start dancing. And that's fine. Some of it is kinda dirty and maybe I'd rather not see it, but whatever, that's fine. They dance some with the guys, but even after a few beers, most guys aren't really into dancing. So they dance with each other. It gets pretty silly. I start to wonder why these girls are so popular.
After a while, they decide they really want to dance to a particular song. I'm sure this is generational, but for the girls at the parties I go to, they want to hear stuff from the 80s. They want to hear "Billie Jean." Really, they'll settle for anything they know. If you started playing something from the mid-90s, they will only pout for a second before they start dancing with their girlfriends again. But note that at the end of the song, they will ask for the 80s again. I feel that I should note that most of the girls have no memory of the Reagan administration. I, uh, remember it a little bit.
I should pause and explain that it's really frustrating for people to request a band to play covers. Some bands only play covers. They are called, appropriately enough, "cover bands." They are incredibly popular and probably make enough money touring college towns that they can give up their day jobs if they are careful with their money. They fill the bars with happy people having nostalgia with their margaritas and so the bars like them. But they never get famous. And if you are a non-cover band, people will get frustrated by the fact that they don't know any of the songs that you're playing. And they will ask you to play songs that they do know. They will get mad that you don't happen to know a particular song out of millions of songs that they favor. You will get mad that you worked hard to write a song and they're not even listening because it's not "Billie Jean."
Okay, back to the sorority girls who want to hear 80s songs. The requesting of covers is annoying, but it's common and not particular to the girls at these parties. At some point, the band gives in and plays something the girls will know. They play Tom Petty or Weezer or even "Billie Jean." This is when the girls start to get really irritating.
They get on stage. It's like a rule, or maybe some sort of law of nature that they are attracted to the spot where they will garner the most attention. They've been dancing the whole time, and it was fun, but now it's time for them to seriously start being noticed. The stage calls to them. "Come dance upon me!" it cries. And they, feeling the call of the stage, must oblige it.
I do not understand this at all. Granted, I'm kind of a wallflower, but even so, jumping up on a stage uninvited during a performance seems beyond the pale. When you go to a play, do you jump up on the stage and sit on the set? You don't go to an art gallery and start touching the paintings. I suspect these girls, being young and pretty and popular, are used to getting their way, particularly from males. So if they decide that they want to be on stage, they do it.
Maybe you don't think that's annoying. You think I'm just irritated that these drunk girls are up there next to my boyfriend. What kind of a prude doesn't like dancing girls on stage? But just wait, it gets worse.
So you've got half a dozen girls on stage now, dancing, shaking what their Mamas gave them. It's not usually a huge stage, so it's a bit cramped. And then, I kid you not, they start taking over the instruments. Obviously, the microphone goes first. They start screaming into the mike or calling out to their friends or singing. They have totally forgotten that someone has been paid to sing into that mike, and it wasn't them. Then one of them starts hitting the cymbals with a finger. A couple of them play air guitar before trying to strum the actual guitars with their manicured fingernails. This is while the band is playing.
Are you shocked? You should be shocked. Think about that some more until you are thoroughly shocked. This is completely unacceptable behavior. The band is here to perform for your enjoyment. They are not a complicated karaoke machine. They are not here to give you music lessons.
And yet it is allowed. Because the band is here to live up to the agreement of playing a show. And the people that hired them want the girls to be happy. They want them to have fun and drink more. And if having fun means playing with the expensive musical equipment, then by golly, that's what they shall have.
But I am ever the optimist, and there is a glittery silver lining to this drunk and screaming cloud. When the girls start taking over the instruments, it becomes pointless for the band to play. So they stop. The girls might try to play with the instruments for a while, but they soon get bored with it once they remember that they don't actually have any sort of ability. Once the music is gone, someone turns on a stereo, and the band is pretty much done for the night. And having been paid in advance, we are free to leave.
That was the way it went last year (or was it two years ago?) in Turkey, NC. And that was the way it went last night. I am not particularly looking forward to tonight, but at least I know what to expect.
11.21.2008
11.12.2008
bananigans.
Before we start, does anyone have a handy mnemonic device for remembering that stationery (with an 'e') means writing paper and stationary (with an 'a') means standing still? Also, if you could supply a similar way to remember that cemetery is the place where they bury people, and Cemetary is the 90s Swedish gothic metal band? My life would be much simpler.
I have a very impressive collection of stationery. I mean, if you're impressed by that sort of thing. My stockpile includes writing paper, note cards, cards for occasions, fancy paper and fancy envelopes, some of which even match. I get the stuff at discount stores, thrift stores, and yard sales. I've been collecting it a while. I only recently finished up using some stationery that I received from being a member of the Baby-sitter's Club Book Club, not to mention some that my brother printed for me around 1995. I do not currently have any Lisa Frank stationery (careful, that web site is excruciatingly girly). I wish I did, because I would love to send mail featuring my very favorite Lisa Frank character, Bananigans.
I keep it all in a clear plastic storage container. Well, I would keep all of it in there, except that my collection has outgrown its storage. It's a weakness of mine. But like any good weakness, I've found a way to justify it to myself. Seriously, I can quit anytime I want.
My justification is that I do use the stuff to send mail to other people, and receiving mail makes those other people happy. In fact, I have a pen pal. She's a nursing home patient in California. I bet you did not know that about me. You think I'm a good person now.
I find that snail mail has a very good effort to happiness ratio. It really doesn't take that much effort to scratch down a note and stick it in the mail. But people go nuts. Mail! In the mailbox! That they can hold in their hands! You'd be amazed at what one little personal card can do in this age of electronic mail and junk mail. And then your friends will think you are so kind and so considerate and you will feel good because you are indeed so kind and so considerate. It's all about making yourself feel good.
I also use the stuff to send birthday cards. My New Year's resolution last year was to send cards to every member of my family on their birthdays. I get very few thank you cards or emails or any sort of acknowledgment at all. But that's okay, because I don't do it to be thanked, and I don't fault parents for being busy. When I do get a thank you back, it's very sweet. When I don't get one, I think about how cool it is to have time that I can fritter away on mail-related hobbies instead of on expensive and needy hobbies with snotty noses that look like mine.
I do it to throw out a line to people. Maybe someday down the road, one of my twenty nieces or nephews is going to remember that they have an aunt that they don't see all that often but who remembers them and is there if needed. I'm just keeping the communication lines open.
So now you know some things you might not have known about me. Let's sum up.
1. I have a lot of stationery.
2. I used to be in the Baby-sitter's Club Book Club.
3. My favorite Lisa Frank character is Bananigans (since this afternoon when I looked up Lisa Frank on Wikipedia and saw that inspired name in the list of characters).
4. I have a pen pal.
5. I am very selfish and have elaborate plots to make myself feel good.
6. I can't remember how to spell stationery (had to look it up), but I do know how to spell mnemonic. If there is a branch of psychology that deals with spelling, this might provide a very interesting glimpse into my psyche.
7. There was a Swedish gothic metal band in the 1990s named Cemetary.
That last one's not actually about me at all.
I have a very impressive collection of stationery. I mean, if you're impressed by that sort of thing. My stockpile includes writing paper, note cards, cards for occasions, fancy paper and fancy envelopes, some of which even match. I get the stuff at discount stores, thrift stores, and yard sales. I've been collecting it a while. I only recently finished up using some stationery that I received from being a member of the Baby-sitter's Club Book Club, not to mention some that my brother printed for me around 1995. I do not currently have any Lisa Frank stationery (careful, that web site is excruciatingly girly). I wish I did, because I would love to send mail featuring my very favorite Lisa Frank character, Bananigans.
I keep it all in a clear plastic storage container. Well, I would keep all of it in there, except that my collection has outgrown its storage. It's a weakness of mine. But like any good weakness, I've found a way to justify it to myself. Seriously, I can quit anytime I want.
My justification is that I do use the stuff to send mail to other people, and receiving mail makes those other people happy. In fact, I have a pen pal. She's a nursing home patient in California. I bet you did not know that about me. You think I'm a good person now.
I find that snail mail has a very good effort to happiness ratio. It really doesn't take that much effort to scratch down a note and stick it in the mail. But people go nuts. Mail! In the mailbox! That they can hold in their hands! You'd be amazed at what one little personal card can do in this age of electronic mail and junk mail. And then your friends will think you are so kind and so considerate and you will feel good because you are indeed so kind and so considerate. It's all about making yourself feel good.
I also use the stuff to send birthday cards. My New Year's resolution last year was to send cards to every member of my family on their birthdays. I get very few thank you cards or emails or any sort of acknowledgment at all. But that's okay, because I don't do it to be thanked, and I don't fault parents for being busy. When I do get a thank you back, it's very sweet. When I don't get one, I think about how cool it is to have time that I can fritter away on mail-related hobbies instead of on expensive and needy hobbies with snotty noses that look like mine.
I do it to throw out a line to people. Maybe someday down the road, one of my twenty nieces or nephews is going to remember that they have an aunt that they don't see all that often but who remembers them and is there if needed. I'm just keeping the communication lines open.
So now you know some things you might not have known about me. Let's sum up.
1. I have a lot of stationery.
2. I used to be in the Baby-sitter's Club Book Club.
3. My favorite Lisa Frank character is Bananigans (since this afternoon when I looked up Lisa Frank on Wikipedia and saw that inspired name in the list of characters).
4. I have a pen pal.
5. I am very selfish and have elaborate plots to make myself feel good.
6. I can't remember how to spell stationery (had to look it up), but I do know how to spell mnemonic. If there is a branch of psychology that deals with spelling, this might provide a very interesting glimpse into my psyche.
7. There was a Swedish gothic metal band in the 1990s named Cemetary.
That last one's not actually about me at all.
11.11.2008
me and my magic blood.
I've blogged about giving blood before, and so it's widely documented that I hate doing it. I've covered my traumatic childhood experience that I think developed into my fear of needles, as well as bad experiences I've had as an adult trying to give blood. And I've mentioned the irrational anxiety that comes over me every time I even start considering visiting a blood drive. Did you know that I always picture myself suddenly bending my elbow such that the needle is jammed up into me? Why would I ever do that? Why does that image always haunt me?
I find that preparation is a powerful calming narcotic for me, so I've got the process streamlined by now. I know the things I need to do to make it a relatively easy process and to keep myself from passing out right afterwards. I know to drink lots of water beforehand (no, really, lots) and I know to tell them that they have to use my right arm. Don't even try old Lefty over there, she won't give you nothin'.
Even though I've done it probably ten times and I know what to do to make it easy, I still hate it. So let's talk about why I keep doing it. After all, there are lots of things that I don't like to do, and for the most part, I don't do them (eating canteloupe, jogging, poking myself in the eye). One of the reasons that I do it is because of my anxiety. I always feel a tiny bit heroic when I give blood, because I know I'm so scared to do it. I'm being brave, like St. George facing the dragon, er, bloodmobile, or at least like a ten year old standing up to a bully.
But aside from making me feel like I'm conquering some of my own phobias, I feel like it's an important thing for everyone to do. I feel a bit more connected with the rest of humanity when I give blood. It's recognizing that we all need to help each other out sometimes. Somebody needs help, and it may or may not be because of anything they can control. Because we are the same kind of animal, we have these very basic, biological things in common. But because we're human, I have the ability to decide that I want to give it to you instead of using it myself. "Here, I made this for you. No, it's cool, I got stuff to make more for myself. You need this right now."
I secretly wish that I had a really rare blood type, so whenever I showed up, everyone would cheer for me and my magic blood. Actually, I have the most common blood type, O+. It goes with my brown hair and brown eyes. Luckily, I can still give to anyone else who has positive blood, which covers most of the population. The Red Cross still wants my blood, they told me so.
And they want your blood, too. Unless you're a mad cow, in which case they still think you're a nice person.
I find that preparation is a powerful calming narcotic for me, so I've got the process streamlined by now. I know the things I need to do to make it a relatively easy process and to keep myself from passing out right afterwards. I know to drink lots of water beforehand (no, really, lots) and I know to tell them that they have to use my right arm. Don't even try old Lefty over there, she won't give you nothin'.
Even though I've done it probably ten times and I know what to do to make it easy, I still hate it. So let's talk about why I keep doing it. After all, there are lots of things that I don't like to do, and for the most part, I don't do them (eating canteloupe, jogging, poking myself in the eye). One of the reasons that I do it is because of my anxiety. I always feel a tiny bit heroic when I give blood, because I know I'm so scared to do it. I'm being brave, like St. George facing the dragon, er, bloodmobile, or at least like a ten year old standing up to a bully.
But aside from making me feel like I'm conquering some of my own phobias, I feel like it's an important thing for everyone to do. I feel a bit more connected with the rest of humanity when I give blood. It's recognizing that we all need to help each other out sometimes. Somebody needs help, and it may or may not be because of anything they can control. Because we are the same kind of animal, we have these very basic, biological things in common. But because we're human, I have the ability to decide that I want to give it to you instead of using it myself. "Here, I made this for you. No, it's cool, I got stuff to make more for myself. You need this right now."
I secretly wish that I had a really rare blood type, so whenever I showed up, everyone would cheer for me and my magic blood. Actually, I have the most common blood type, O+. It goes with my brown hair and brown eyes. Luckily, I can still give to anyone else who has positive blood, which covers most of the population. The Red Cross still wants my blood, they told me so.
And they want your blood, too. Unless you're a mad cow, in which case they still think you're a nice person.
11.06.2008
we believe in exopat!
Today, I am going to write about one of my very favorite cooking items. I cannot believe the amount of enthusiasm that I am able to muster for a kitchen utensil. It makes me feel sorta boring. In fact, this may be the most boring blog entry ever. But if so, then at least I went ahead and got it out of the way. Now I can go ahead and write about other boring things without fear. After all, they can't be more boring than this.
This kitchen item is always dirty. That's because I use it all the time and also because I'm a crappy housekeeper. It is a powerful baking tool, and is useful in the preparation of many kinds of foods. It also has a great super-hero type name, and I wrote a song for it.
EXOPAT!
Exopat!
Exopat!
Exopat is lots of fun!
It is made of silicon!
We believe in Exopat!
If you don't have one of these nifty little mats, then I pity you. Not only do your cookies stick to the cookie sheet, you can't sing the song. What joy is in your life? We bake pizza, french fries, bread, and cookies on the Exopat. It as versitile as it is musical. We make pizza at least once a week, and fries might be made every other day. Our Exopat gets lots of use. Sometimes they go on sale on Amazon. Yes, they look expensive when you could just use aluminum foil. But considering other items made of silicon that cost much more and don't improve your cookie-baking at all, I think it's well worth it.
Last weekend, Josh and I were at my mother's house and we wanted to make french fries. I knew Mama had an Exopat and so I went about searching for it. I looked in a cabinet and found the beloved baking sheet. But when I pulled it out, I noticed - what's this? - it was torn! I screamed and fainted at the sight of the gory wound. To see a beautiful Exopat cut down in its prime, when it had many more cookies left to bake evenly without sticking! Poor Exopat!
For an example of what to do with your Exopat, here is our French Fry recipe. I mentioned it before, then had to give it to two people because I hadn't posted it. So here.
French Fries
Adapted from Allrecipes
1 large baking potato
1 T olive oil
1/2 t paprika
1/2 t garlic powder
1/2 t chili powder
1/2 t onion power
1/4 t cayenne pepper
1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
2. Cut potato into fries. You can make them as big as you want, but you may need to up the temperature if you do so. You can peel them, but then you'd be missing some potato nutrients. Sing "My Name is Potato" while cutting.
3. Take a Ziploc bag and put in oil and spices. Add potato pieces. CLOSE THE BAG, and then shake it all over the place. You may still sing "My Name is Potato" and dance while doing this.
4. Look for your EXOPAT! Realize it's dirty from pizza yesterday. Wash it and put it on a cookie sheet. Sing the Exopat song.
5. Throw your delicious seasoned potatoes onto the Exopat. Spread them out in nice even rows if you're particular about things like that.
6. Bake in oven for 20 minutes. Take fries out, flip them over and put them back in oven. Bake for another 15 minutes.
We dip these in homemade ranch dressing while we thank the heavens for Exopat.
This kitchen item is always dirty. That's because I use it all the time and also because I'm a crappy housekeeper. It is a powerful baking tool, and is useful in the preparation of many kinds of foods. It also has a great super-hero type name, and I wrote a song for it.
EXOPAT!
Exopat!
Exopat!
Exopat is lots of fun!
It is made of silicon!
We believe in Exopat!
If you don't have one of these nifty little mats, then I pity you. Not only do your cookies stick to the cookie sheet, you can't sing the song. What joy is in your life? We bake pizza, french fries, bread, and cookies on the Exopat. It as versitile as it is musical. We make pizza at least once a week, and fries might be made every other day. Our Exopat gets lots of use. Sometimes they go on sale on Amazon. Yes, they look expensive when you could just use aluminum foil. But considering other items made of silicon that cost much more and don't improve your cookie-baking at all, I think it's well worth it.
Last weekend, Josh and I were at my mother's house and we wanted to make french fries. I knew Mama had an Exopat and so I went about searching for it. I looked in a cabinet and found the beloved baking sheet. But when I pulled it out, I noticed - what's this? - it was torn! I screamed and fainted at the sight of the gory wound. To see a beautiful Exopat cut down in its prime, when it had many more cookies left to bake evenly without sticking! Poor Exopat!
For an example of what to do with your Exopat, here is our French Fry recipe. I mentioned it before, then had to give it to two people because I hadn't posted it. So here.
French Fries
Adapted from Allrecipes
1 large baking potato
1 T olive oil
1/2 t paprika
1/2 t garlic powder
1/2 t chili powder
1/2 t onion power
1/4 t cayenne pepper
1. Preheat oven to 425 degrees F.
2. Cut potato into fries. You can make them as big as you want, but you may need to up the temperature if you do so. You can peel them, but then you'd be missing some potato nutrients. Sing "My Name is Potato" while cutting.
3. Take a Ziploc bag and put in oil and spices. Add potato pieces. CLOSE THE BAG, and then shake it all over the place. You may still sing "My Name is Potato" and dance while doing this.
4. Look for your EXOPAT! Realize it's dirty from pizza yesterday. Wash it and put it on a cookie sheet. Sing the Exopat song.
5. Throw your delicious seasoned potatoes onto the Exopat. Spread them out in nice even rows if you're particular about things like that.
6. Bake in oven for 20 minutes. Take fries out, flip them over and put them back in oven. Bake for another 15 minutes.
We dip these in homemade ranch dressing while we thank the heavens for Exopat.
10.31.2008
how buying a siddhartha head is like buying a house.
I subscribe to a blog about yard sales (disclaimer for my mother - there is coarse language on the blog), specifically about the terrific and horrific things you find there. But the blog also gets into some yard sale theory, a term that I just invented (and a class I'd love to teach). There's a good entry today about the fluidity of value and the similarities between yard saling and selling real estate. Here's an excerpt:
This is something that I've thought a fair amount about, and an attitude that I gradually adopted the more I bought things used. I didn't even realize that I'd developed this outlook until one of the first times that I took Josh yard saling. He was eying this statue of the head of Siddhartha. We had asked the price, and it was something like three bucks. Josh whispered to me, "Is it worth that?" I shrugged and replied, "I don't know. Is it worth that to you?"
That's really the point when you're at a yard sale. It's not about what the seller thinks it's worth or how much he paid for it in the first place, it's about what you're willing to pay for it. Would you rather have the statue or the x dollars? For what value of x does that answer change? Can you get the seller to agree to that value? Sometimes, you can't. Their value system is too different from yours.
Since there is a disconnect between your value system and the seller's, this means you have to let some things pass. That's hard to do sometimes, but I promise I've regretted buying something much more frequently than I've regretted not buying an item. Learning to not buy something seems to be a useful skill in other areas, too, one that is especially useful now that my value system is so skewed to expect yard sale prices on everything.
If you were curious, he did buy the statue. I think he might have negotiated the price down, though. He's a quick learner.
I think that real estate agents are also very tuned into the concept of value being fluid. That is, an item’s value is really whatever someone is actually willing to pay at a given time and place, and not some well-defined number that can’t be argued with (no matter what some “collectible price guides” would like to think). Haggling (or “making a counter-offer”) is a completely normal thing to do in both activities — though I’m glad to say that having someone offer more than the asking price is practically unheard of at yard sales. This price fluidity can be really great or really frustrating when you are dealing with secondhand items. Just like people might have a hard time accepting that their house isn’t going to sell for what they think it should, there are yard sale sellers who think that if something sold on eBay for a certain amount, their similar item should get the same price at their yard sale. On the other hand, when you find something that’s priced fairly to you, it’s a beautiful thing (even if the person next to you wouldn’t have paid half that much for it).
This is something that I've thought a fair amount about, and an attitude that I gradually adopted the more I bought things used. I didn't even realize that I'd developed this outlook until one of the first times that I took Josh yard saling. He was eying this statue of the head of Siddhartha. We had asked the price, and it was something like three bucks. Josh whispered to me, "Is it worth that?" I shrugged and replied, "I don't know. Is it worth that to you?"
That's really the point when you're at a yard sale. It's not about what the seller thinks it's worth or how much he paid for it in the first place, it's about what you're willing to pay for it. Would you rather have the statue or the x dollars? For what value of x does that answer change? Can you get the seller to agree to that value? Sometimes, you can't. Their value system is too different from yours.
Since there is a disconnect between your value system and the seller's, this means you have to let some things pass. That's hard to do sometimes, but I promise I've regretted buying something much more frequently than I've regretted not buying an item. Learning to not buy something seems to be a useful skill in other areas, too, one that is especially useful now that my value system is so skewed to expect yard sale prices on everything.
If you were curious, he did buy the statue. I think he might have negotiated the price down, though. He's a quick learner.
10.30.2008
you might as well jump.
Maybe I'm giving away secrets here, but Josh has been working on his stage presence. He's already got a look - ridiculous sunglasses and a white lab coat. Now he's decided that he needs an act. For the most part, when he plays, he stands and plays the bass. He sways a little bit, shifting from one foot to the other. I think this is perfectly acceptable. He's the bassist; he's not supposed to be animated. The bassist is the dark, brooding, mysterious one. That's the persona that I want and am attracted to. If I wanted animated, I would have gone out with a lead guitarist.
But the crowd likes it when the band is active on stage. I can sort of understand that, because fun can be infectious. But then I think about a band we saw once where the bassist was not dark, brooding, and mysterious at all. He did jump kicks. There was also a lot of the wide playing stance and some forceful nodding and hand-raising. But it was the jump kicks that got me. It made me wonder if that guy did jump kicks in his daily life. I can see him sitting in class, getting back a graded exam, finding out that he totally aced it, and doing a jump kick in the middle of the classroom. The whole thing came off as too contrived. I hate contrivance. Also, I'm no musician, but it seems like it would be pretty hard to play the bass if you're constantly airborne. Shouldn't it be about the music, man?
I'm being a stick in the mud. I know that a concert is a performance, it is entertainment. If the crowd likes it when the band members jump and dance and writhe around on the floor, then that's what they will do. It has nothing to do with sincerity, and a lot of times, it doesn't even have that much do with the music. Besides, even if the act is forced doesn't mean that it's necessarily fake. Maybe that guy wants to be the kind of person who jump kicks in class, but it's only on stage that he can let his inner jump kicker out.
Does the rest of the audience even think about this? Do they think jump kicks are ridiculous, too? Perhaps they just think it's fun and they're having fun because the band is having fun and it's fun when it's fun. Nobody cares about being genuine, and there is no prize for it. The Great Pumpkin is not going to visit the band that is the most sincere. However, there are lots of prizes for lots of people having fun at your concert.
I'm not saying that everyone has to stand perfectly still, the way they taught us in sixth grade chorus. I am not immune to the appeal of a band that enjoys playing music for people. But there's got to be a line between keeping your knees locked and jump kicks. As an audience member, I should not be able to tell that you practiced that move at home. I want to believe that you're dancing and grooving because you're having a great time sharing this song with me, because you're so into the music that it's controlling your muscles. I want to believe that it's spontaneous. But if you overdo it, the spell is broken. It's like watching a movie that shows a casual disregard for the laws of physics or (I'm going to be in the doghouse for this one) professional wrestling.
Regardless of all this, Josh is going to do what he wants to do. If the crowd reacts positively to that, then he'll keep doing it. But if a bunch of perky girls start hitting on him, then I'm just going to have to inform them that he's the dark, brooding, and mysterious type, and then send them on their way to the lead guitarist.
But the crowd likes it when the band is active on stage. I can sort of understand that, because fun can be infectious. But then I think about a band we saw once where the bassist was not dark, brooding, and mysterious at all. He did jump kicks. There was also a lot of the wide playing stance and some forceful nodding and hand-raising. But it was the jump kicks that got me. It made me wonder if that guy did jump kicks in his daily life. I can see him sitting in class, getting back a graded exam, finding out that he totally aced it, and doing a jump kick in the middle of the classroom. The whole thing came off as too contrived. I hate contrivance. Also, I'm no musician, but it seems like it would be pretty hard to play the bass if you're constantly airborne. Shouldn't it be about the music, man?
I'm being a stick in the mud. I know that a concert is a performance, it is entertainment. If the crowd likes it when the band members jump and dance and writhe around on the floor, then that's what they will do. It has nothing to do with sincerity, and a lot of times, it doesn't even have that much do with the music. Besides, even if the act is forced doesn't mean that it's necessarily fake. Maybe that guy wants to be the kind of person who jump kicks in class, but it's only on stage that he can let his inner jump kicker out.
Does the rest of the audience even think about this? Do they think jump kicks are ridiculous, too? Perhaps they just think it's fun and they're having fun because the band is having fun and it's fun when it's fun. Nobody cares about being genuine, and there is no prize for it. The Great Pumpkin is not going to visit the band that is the most sincere. However, there are lots of prizes for lots of people having fun at your concert.
I'm not saying that everyone has to stand perfectly still, the way they taught us in sixth grade chorus. I am not immune to the appeal of a band that enjoys playing music for people. But there's got to be a line between keeping your knees locked and jump kicks. As an audience member, I should not be able to tell that you practiced that move at home. I want to believe that you're dancing and grooving because you're having a great time sharing this song with me, because you're so into the music that it's controlling your muscles. I want to believe that it's spontaneous. But if you overdo it, the spell is broken. It's like watching a movie that shows a casual disregard for the laws of physics or (I'm going to be in the doghouse for this one) professional wrestling.
Regardless of all this, Josh is going to do what he wants to do. If the crowd reacts positively to that, then he'll keep doing it. But if a bunch of perky girls start hitting on him, then I'm just going to have to inform them that he's the dark, brooding, and mysterious type, and then send them on their way to the lead guitarist.
10.27.2008
fraudulent detergent.
"Hello. This is a recording from the Citibank Fraudulent Activity Branch. We have noticed possible fraudulent activity on your card. First of all, do you have the card in question in your possession? Press 1 for yes, and 2 for no."
"Did you, or someone that you authorized, charge $8.60 at a grocery store on Sunday, October 26th? Press 1 for yes, and 2 for no."
"Thank you for choosing Citibank."
Should I be grateful that Citibank is so alert, or should I be angry that the phone call was supremely unhelpful?
To be fair, I did some unusual activity on my card on Sunday. Here is a summary:
1:45 AM $10 Alley Katz, Richmond, VA (bar tab)
2:15 AM $8 Some gas station, Petersburg, VA (snacks)
2:25 AM $50 Interstate Inn, Petersburg, VA (hotel)
10:30 AM $60 Seibert Towing and Police Impound, Richmond, VA (get my car back)
11:30 AM $30 Same gas station, Petersbrug, VA (gas and a cup of coffee)
Now, I don't go to Richmond very often, and I don't get my car towed very often either. So to say that this is unusual activity for me is fine. In fact, if Citibank had called me and said that somebody might have stolen my credit card and then parked in a tow zone, I'd applaud them and feel that much safer. But no, they call me and ask about the grocery store.
I had been to the grocery store about half an hour before I received the call. I bought laundry detergent and a gallon of milk, and the total cost of those two items was around $8. I don't know exactly, because I am a free-wheeling single chick who can run to the store every time she's out of milk and without even bothering to save the receipt. And so the grocery store charge could conceivably be mine.
But it would have been really helpful if Citibank had bothered to tell me where the grocery store charge happened. They tell me that unusual activity has happened without giving me any indication of what was unusual about it. Maybe they know I don't really wash clothes very much - the purchase of laundry detergent was the unusual activity. I'd be happy to press 2 for no if they asked if I bought a gallon of milk and laundry soap somewhere in Idaho.
So good job, Citibank. I guess. Thanks for letting me know that something was suspicious, even if you can't tell me what it was. Thanks for keeping an eye out when someone buys milk and laundry detergent on my card. I'd hate for you to think that I was the one doing all the laundry.
"Did you, or someone that you authorized, charge $8.60 at a grocery store on Sunday, October 26th? Press 1 for yes, and 2 for no."
"Thank you for choosing Citibank."
Should I be grateful that Citibank is so alert, or should I be angry that the phone call was supremely unhelpful?
To be fair, I did some unusual activity on my card on Sunday. Here is a summary:
1:45 AM $10 Alley Katz, Richmond, VA (bar tab)
2:15 AM $8 Some gas station, Petersburg, VA (snacks)
2:25 AM $50 Interstate Inn, Petersburg, VA (hotel)
10:30 AM $60 Seibert Towing and Police Impound, Richmond, VA (get my car back)
11:30 AM $30 Same gas station, Petersbrug, VA (gas and a cup of coffee)
Now, I don't go to Richmond very often, and I don't get my car towed very often either. So to say that this is unusual activity for me is fine. In fact, if Citibank had called me and said that somebody might have stolen my credit card and then parked in a tow zone, I'd applaud them and feel that much safer. But no, they call me and ask about the grocery store.
I had been to the grocery store about half an hour before I received the call. I bought laundry detergent and a gallon of milk, and the total cost of those two items was around $8. I don't know exactly, because I am a free-wheeling single chick who can run to the store every time she's out of milk and without even bothering to save the receipt. And so the grocery store charge could conceivably be mine.
But it would have been really helpful if Citibank had bothered to tell me where the grocery store charge happened. They tell me that unusual activity has happened without giving me any indication of what was unusual about it. Maybe they know I don't really wash clothes very much - the purchase of laundry detergent was the unusual activity. I'd be happy to press 2 for no if they asked if I bought a gallon of milk and laundry soap somewhere in Idaho.
So good job, Citibank. I guess. Thanks for letting me know that something was suspicious, even if you can't tell me what it was. Thanks for keeping an eye out when someone buys milk and laundry detergent on my card. I'd hate for you to think that I was the one doing all the laundry.
10.24.2008
spätzle-related incidents.
I had two spätzle-related incidents last Saturday. The first was when we were out yard-saling, and I happened to run across something that I thought was a potato ricer. I walked over to the book section of the sale to show it to Josh, thinking he would be very impressed that I could correctly identify a potato ricer. I was going to neglect to mention that the only reason I knew it was a potato ricer was because I had seen one before at a thrift store and thought it was a huge garlic press, only to be corrected by a burly mountain man.
Anyway, I got over to the books, and said, "Hey, look, I found a po-"
"Oh, you found the spätzle press," interrupted the gentleman working the sale. "It's from Germany." Oh. Does this world really need three different devices that squash things through tiny holes?
I decided not to buy the spätzle press, because I'd never even had spätzle before. I might not like it, and then I'd be stuck with a giant garlic press. I don't even have a regular-sized garlic press.
The second spätzle-related incident was at the eastern european restaurant where we had dinner. See, Josh and I had a fancy date, where we actually dressed nicely and then went out to dinner and a show, as opposed to eating a homemade dinner off of plates on our knees while watching a crappy Bela Lugosi movie. We're just keeping the romance alive here. In preparation for our fancy date, I had harnessed the power of the internet to find an interesting restaurant in Raleigh and had come up with J. Betski's. Why did I pick this restaurant? Because I am a food adventurer, and I had never eaten any incarnation of many of the things on the menu.
The restaurant was tiny, and our little table for two was sandwiched in between other little tables. It was packed, which meant there were about 30 people there. We ordered a glass of Hungarian wine for me and Lithuanian beer for him, plus a pierogi appetizer. For dinner, he had the schnitzel, and I had the duck, which came with spätzle. The menu was like a lyrics sheet for a song about words that are fun to say. Schnitzel. Pierogi. Lingonberries. Macadamia!
The bread came, warm and with whipped butter on the side. It tasted very...authentic, which is to say that it must have been invented in Europe during a war or some other shortage of ingredients that make bread delicious. It was very bitter. But me, ever the optimist, said that at least we wouldn't have to worry about filling up on bread before the entrees came. The pierogies were okay, but only okay.
And then the entrees came, smallish portions beautifully arranged, and one bite erased any doubts I had about the restaurant based on the bread. I was shoveling this food into my mouth, and I became fatigued as if the all my energy was being used by my taste buds in the enjoyment of each bite. We reached across the table to trade forkfuls of wonderfully weird food. Everything was delicately and perfectly spiced, as if the chef introduced all the flavor friends to each other and had a big flavor party. I was already calculating when I could come up with an excuse to come to this place again so I could try something else. Or maybe the duck again.
Though I had struggled to finish every last bite of my meal (and I did it, dadgummit), I knew dessert was in order. A table across the aisle was enjoying some sort of pastry covered with caramel stripes and filled with thin apple slices. We ordered one of those (strudel) and a pot of coffee. Yes, a pot. They brought out a large french press for the pair of us and brewed our coffee right there. It was fresh and delicious. I felt revived.
We were sad to have to leave, but we had concert tickets. We left full and elated, slightly caffeinated. I was thinking of the many new treats introduced to me. The spiced cabbage. The pickled pumpkins. The spätzle.
The spätzle!
I should have bought the spätzle press.
Anyway, I got over to the books, and said, "Hey, look, I found a po-"
"Oh, you found the spätzle press," interrupted the gentleman working the sale. "It's from Germany." Oh. Does this world really need three different devices that squash things through tiny holes?
I decided not to buy the spätzle press, because I'd never even had spätzle before. I might not like it, and then I'd be stuck with a giant garlic press. I don't even have a regular-sized garlic press.
The second spätzle-related incident was at the eastern european restaurant where we had dinner. See, Josh and I had a fancy date, where we actually dressed nicely and then went out to dinner and a show, as opposed to eating a homemade dinner off of plates on our knees while watching a crappy Bela Lugosi movie. We're just keeping the romance alive here. In preparation for our fancy date, I had harnessed the power of the internet to find an interesting restaurant in Raleigh and had come up with J. Betski's. Why did I pick this restaurant? Because I am a food adventurer, and I had never eaten any incarnation of many of the things on the menu.
The restaurant was tiny, and our little table for two was sandwiched in between other little tables. It was packed, which meant there were about 30 people there. We ordered a glass of Hungarian wine for me and Lithuanian beer for him, plus a pierogi appetizer. For dinner, he had the schnitzel, and I had the duck, which came with spätzle. The menu was like a lyrics sheet for a song about words that are fun to say. Schnitzel. Pierogi. Lingonberries. Macadamia!
The bread came, warm and with whipped butter on the side. It tasted very...authentic, which is to say that it must have been invented in Europe during a war or some other shortage of ingredients that make bread delicious. It was very bitter. But me, ever the optimist, said that at least we wouldn't have to worry about filling up on bread before the entrees came. The pierogies were okay, but only okay.
And then the entrees came, smallish portions beautifully arranged, and one bite erased any doubts I had about the restaurant based on the bread. I was shoveling this food into my mouth, and I became fatigued as if the all my energy was being used by my taste buds in the enjoyment of each bite. We reached across the table to trade forkfuls of wonderfully weird food. Everything was delicately and perfectly spiced, as if the chef introduced all the flavor friends to each other and had a big flavor party. I was already calculating when I could come up with an excuse to come to this place again so I could try something else. Or maybe the duck again.
Though I had struggled to finish every last bite of my meal (and I did it, dadgummit), I knew dessert was in order. A table across the aisle was enjoying some sort of pastry covered with caramel stripes and filled with thin apple slices. We ordered one of those (strudel) and a pot of coffee. Yes, a pot. They brought out a large french press for the pair of us and brewed our coffee right there. It was fresh and delicious. I felt revived.
We were sad to have to leave, but we had concert tickets. We left full and elated, slightly caffeinated. I was thinking of the many new treats introduced to me. The spiced cabbage. The pickled pumpkins. The spätzle.
The spätzle!
I should have bought the spätzle press.
10.21.2008
biscuit spit.
It was a Saturday morning, and I had decided to take on biscuits. There are many foods which I wish to someday conquer, foods which can be acquired in a almost-completed state at the grocery store. I want to prove to the world that I can do it better than the expensive, yet convenient packaged goods. I had already defeated frozen pizza and fries, but now it was time for biscuits. Also, I'm dating a nice Southern boy, and I think biscuit-making abilities might be a prerequisite for marriage.
For about the fiftieth time since I started cooking, I discovered that making something from scratch is not as difficult as the convenience food companies would have you believe. I mixed the ingredients, used a canister lid to cut the biscuits, and stuck them in the oven. When they came out ten minutes later, they were not as fluffy looking as I might have liked, but they were mine. I took a bite.
Then spit it out.
Josh stared at me. This was the first time he'd ever seen me spit out food, and perhaps he was determining whether our relationship was worth the risk of ever seeing it again. Maybe I should have considered my audience more carefully before shooting a half-eaten biscuit bite from my mouth to my hand, but the biscuit was just plain bad. To his credit, he also tore off a small bite and put it in his mouth. He managed to swallow it, but he was raised better than I was.
I started wondering where I had gone wrong. There's no way the recipe, which came highly recommended, was meant to turn out like that. Those things tasted like pure baking soda. I mean, that sorta made sense, because I had put a lot of baking soda in. It was in the recipe! See, right there, baking...powder. Well, there's the problem.
"Oh, I used the wrong ingredient," I explained to Josh as he rooted around in the fridge for something to get the bad biscuit taste out of his mouth. Suddenly, he swooped upon me, taking me in his arms, rubbing my back and kissing my cheek, murmuring, "Oh, it's okay, s'okay." I enjoy a good swooping hug as much as anyone, but this one was unexpected. Had I been four years old with a freshly-scraped knee, I might have understood.
I thought back to myself six months ago, trying to make salmon and screwing it up, crying in the kitchen because I'd burned myself and the glaze was more like hard candy. Cooking stressed me out, and the slightest mishap induced sobs. However, the more I cook, the more I realize that sometimes things work and sometimes they don't. Of course, Josh remembered me emerging from the kitchen with red, wet cheeks and red, burned arms and was trying to reassure me. He really is very sweet sometimes.
"Honey, I'm fine. I can make another batch, it only takes like twenty minutes." So I did. And they were good. I win.
My standard biscuit recipe. I could probably make better biscuits if I got up at 5 AM like those old women in the Hardees commercials, but you can get up at noon and make these.
For about the fiftieth time since I started cooking, I discovered that making something from scratch is not as difficult as the convenience food companies would have you believe. I mixed the ingredients, used a canister lid to cut the biscuits, and stuck them in the oven. When they came out ten minutes later, they were not as fluffy looking as I might have liked, but they were mine. I took a bite.
Then spit it out.
Josh stared at me. This was the first time he'd ever seen me spit out food, and perhaps he was determining whether our relationship was worth the risk of ever seeing it again. Maybe I should have considered my audience more carefully before shooting a half-eaten biscuit bite from my mouth to my hand, but the biscuit was just plain bad. To his credit, he also tore off a small bite and put it in his mouth. He managed to swallow it, but he was raised better than I was.
I started wondering where I had gone wrong. There's no way the recipe, which came highly recommended, was meant to turn out like that. Those things tasted like pure baking soda. I mean, that sorta made sense, because I had put a lot of baking soda in. It was in the recipe! See, right there, baking...powder. Well, there's the problem.
"Oh, I used the wrong ingredient," I explained to Josh as he rooted around in the fridge for something to get the bad biscuit taste out of his mouth. Suddenly, he swooped upon me, taking me in his arms, rubbing my back and kissing my cheek, murmuring, "Oh, it's okay, s'okay." I enjoy a good swooping hug as much as anyone, but this one was unexpected. Had I been four years old with a freshly-scraped knee, I might have understood.
I thought back to myself six months ago, trying to make salmon and screwing it up, crying in the kitchen because I'd burned myself and the glaze was more like hard candy. Cooking stressed me out, and the slightest mishap induced sobs. However, the more I cook, the more I realize that sometimes things work and sometimes they don't. Of course, Josh remembered me emerging from the kitchen with red, wet cheeks and red, burned arms and was trying to reassure me. He really is very sweet sometimes.
"Honey, I'm fine. I can make another batch, it only takes like twenty minutes." So I did. And they were good. I win.
My standard biscuit recipe. I could probably make better biscuits if I got up at 5 AM like those old women in the Hardees commercials, but you can get up at noon and make these.
10.14.2008
no smiling.
Now that I've vaguely mentioned some sort of horrific accident twice without actually telling you anything, I'll clue you in. Josh had a wreck on his bicycle. He doesn't remember what happened, because he hit his head. He also scraped the skin off of much of the left side of his face. However, there were no broken bones and the CT scan came back clear. He continues to be the luckiest person I have ever met, and I am beginning to suspect that he is stealing from someone else's luck stores. It better not be mine. But now that we've covered what happened to him, let's talk about how it's affecting me.
The thing that has made the most difference in my life has been his busted lip. There are stitches in his mustache zone and stitches inside his upper lip. A bunch of the skin was also scraped off like ice on a windshield. Aside from being a bit funny looking - the upper lip scab looks a bit like a Hitler mustache - it limits his facial movements. He can't eat anything that requires him to bite into it. So there's been a lot of soup, as well as stuff that can be picked up with a fork and then dropped into the back of his mouth. And the one straw that I own has gotten more use in the last few days than it ever has before.
He can't kiss. I'm also limited as to where I can kiss him. The whole left side of his face has been pretty much off-limits. I mean, there are safe spots, but every time I lean in to give him a peck on that side, he winces and waits for the pain. I don't think he trusts my ability to not hit one of the danger areas. Since I don't particularly like to kiss people who are making pained expressions, I just avoid that side completely. I can kiss him on the lower lip if I'm very, very careful, but mostly I'm sticking to his right cheek. Sometimes, he leans over to kiss me, then remembers halfway there and turns his head sharply. Then he looks a little heartbroken all over again. I feel bad for him, but at the same time, I am touched that the withholding of such a simple thing as a little kiss from me makes him so sad. I am a terribly selfish person.
So the eating limitations are affecting my diet, and I haven't been kissed in almost a week. But the thing that's really starting to get to me is that he can't smile. My brother used to play a game where he would fake scold me in a very silly, very stern voice, telling me that I was not allowed to smile. Josh has been playing the No Smiling Game for days now, and he is good at it. But it's getting me down. Have you ever spent time with someone who never smiles? Geez, dude, lighten up! You know, he hasn't laughed at one of my jokes in nearly a week, and I'm coming to realize that a great deal of my self-esteem comes from that alone! I should probably consider diversifying my self-esteem sources.
Now you know more about the accident. I'm sure you're very relieved to hear that I'm fine, really. I mean, it's hard, what with all the soup I've had to eat and the fact that my confidence is falling with the stock market, but I really think that, with time, I'll be able to recover from this whole episode with only light scarring. Thank you for your concern. It really, really means a lot.
The thing that has made the most difference in my life has been his busted lip. There are stitches in his mustache zone and stitches inside his upper lip. A bunch of the skin was also scraped off like ice on a windshield. Aside from being a bit funny looking - the upper lip scab looks a bit like a Hitler mustache - it limits his facial movements. He can't eat anything that requires him to bite into it. So there's been a lot of soup, as well as stuff that can be picked up with a fork and then dropped into the back of his mouth. And the one straw that I own has gotten more use in the last few days than it ever has before.
He can't kiss. I'm also limited as to where I can kiss him. The whole left side of his face has been pretty much off-limits. I mean, there are safe spots, but every time I lean in to give him a peck on that side, he winces and waits for the pain. I don't think he trusts my ability to not hit one of the danger areas. Since I don't particularly like to kiss people who are making pained expressions, I just avoid that side completely. I can kiss him on the lower lip if I'm very, very careful, but mostly I'm sticking to his right cheek. Sometimes, he leans over to kiss me, then remembers halfway there and turns his head sharply. Then he looks a little heartbroken all over again. I feel bad for him, but at the same time, I am touched that the withholding of such a simple thing as a little kiss from me makes him so sad. I am a terribly selfish person.
So the eating limitations are affecting my diet, and I haven't been kissed in almost a week. But the thing that's really starting to get to me is that he can't smile. My brother used to play a game where he would fake scold me in a very silly, very stern voice, telling me that I was not allowed to smile. Josh has been playing the No Smiling Game for days now, and he is good at it. But it's getting me down. Have you ever spent time with someone who never smiles? Geez, dude, lighten up! You know, he hasn't laughed at one of my jokes in nearly a week, and I'm coming to realize that a great deal of my self-esteem comes from that alone! I should probably consider diversifying my self-esteem sources.
Now you know more about the accident. I'm sure you're very relieved to hear that I'm fine, really. I mean, it's hard, what with all the soup I've had to eat and the fact that my confidence is falling with the stock market, but I really think that, with time, I'll be able to recover from this whole episode with only light scarring. Thank you for your concern. It really, really means a lot.
10.10.2008
internal schedule.
Wednesday was stressful. I had a doctor's appointment at 4:15 and a volleyball game in Cary at 6:45. Not only that, but our team captain had gone to Hong Kong and left me in charge, and we were short a player. We'd already had to forfeit two games for not having enough male players, and I wasn't even sure if I was allowed to recruit people in the middle of the season. Finally, Josh had a show that night downtown, so we'd be up pretty late.
I work on an internal schedule. I've thought a lot about my internal schedule recently, because my boyfriend does not have one. I'd never thought about it much before, because I'd assumed that everyone worked the same way that I did. I thought people were late because they'd miscalculated what time to leave, not because they hadn't thought about it carefully beforehand.
There are the definite events on my schedule, like the doctor's appointment or the volleyball game. But then there are the items that are implied by the events. What time do I need to leave to be somewhere five minutes early? Do I need to go home first? Did I schedule time to eat? If I pack my change of clothes in the morning, will I have time to stop by the pharmacy? These are the things I think about, and I think about them early. As soon as I know about an appointment, I think about where I'll be coming from and how long I'll need to get there. I always pad the time generously to account for traffic and a possible late start. By the day the actual thing is supposed to happen, I've got it all mapped out in my head. You can tell me that I don't need to do this, but I swear it's automatic. It just happens. But having my internal schedule makes me feel like I know what's going on. I am prepared as well as possible for this day. Good morning, Wednesday, I've been expecting you.
Once my schedule is set, I don't like to veer from it. Even if there will be no consequences for doing so, straying from the pre-determined schedule makes me very antsy. Upset, even. And so, when it was 5 PM on Wednesday, and I was still sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office, I began to feel the familiar nervousness that comes from other people not respecting my inner schedule.
I was already a little keyed up from the prospect of forfeiting another volleyball game. I never wanted to be captain. I liked being captain of the team in high school, but that only meant that you had to call a coin toss and be supportive of your teammates. Being captain of an adult league team means that you have to call people and remind them of games, that you have decide on a line-up every time, that you have to be sure you're going to have enough players to make a team. And while I knew it wasn't my fault that people weren't showing up, I still felt responsible. Dude, I just want to show up and play.
So I spent that morning sending instant messages to every guy at my office who seemed like he might be willing to come play with a bunch of people he'd never met. Most of them said they had other plans, and even if they were lying, I don't fault them. But one of them couldn't think of an excuse fast enough. I still wasn't sure if my recruiting was completely within the rules of the league, but I figured that would only matter if we won. And unless this one dude happened to be incredibly awesome at volleyball, I didn't see that happening.
So I'd found a player, that's one checkmark. I'd made it to the doctor's office on time, check two. I was still sitting in the waiting room as the husbands of nurses that worked there arrived to pick up their wives. But then they finally noticed me and decided they'd better see me, since I'd already paid. Okay, so it's a little later than I'd like it to be at this point, but we're still okay. As long as I can make it to the game on time, everything will be fine. And as long as the other players get there, too, and no one questions whether this new guy is allowed to play on our team. I need to chill out.
But then I did get to the game on time, and I even had time to get some chocolate milk and a banana. My players showed up, well, four of them did, but that was enough to play. And we were terrible, but we were in good moods and happy to be playing if we couldn't be happy to be winning. Everything was fine, I'd been stressed all day but everything came together in the end. I could go to the bar downtown, have a beer, watch my boyfriend play bass, and relax. I had met Wednesday head on, and it had been a little sticky, but I'd succeeded at it through preparation.
I got into the car and opened my phone to call Josh. I noticed I had a voicemail, which I figured was probably him, telling me he was at the bar or something like that. The message came on, and his voice was shaky and quiet.
"I guess I had a bike wreck, and uh, I'm at Wake Med in the emergency room. That's where I am."
As I drove too fast to the hospital, I thought about my internal schedule and how this wasn't on it at all.
I work on an internal schedule. I've thought a lot about my internal schedule recently, because my boyfriend does not have one. I'd never thought about it much before, because I'd assumed that everyone worked the same way that I did. I thought people were late because they'd miscalculated what time to leave, not because they hadn't thought about it carefully beforehand.
There are the definite events on my schedule, like the doctor's appointment or the volleyball game. But then there are the items that are implied by the events. What time do I need to leave to be somewhere five minutes early? Do I need to go home first? Did I schedule time to eat? If I pack my change of clothes in the morning, will I have time to stop by the pharmacy? These are the things I think about, and I think about them early. As soon as I know about an appointment, I think about where I'll be coming from and how long I'll need to get there. I always pad the time generously to account for traffic and a possible late start. By the day the actual thing is supposed to happen, I've got it all mapped out in my head. You can tell me that I don't need to do this, but I swear it's automatic. It just happens. But having my internal schedule makes me feel like I know what's going on. I am prepared as well as possible for this day. Good morning, Wednesday, I've been expecting you.
Once my schedule is set, I don't like to veer from it. Even if there will be no consequences for doing so, straying from the pre-determined schedule makes me very antsy. Upset, even. And so, when it was 5 PM on Wednesday, and I was still sitting in the waiting room of the doctor's office, I began to feel the familiar nervousness that comes from other people not respecting my inner schedule.
I was already a little keyed up from the prospect of forfeiting another volleyball game. I never wanted to be captain. I liked being captain of the team in high school, but that only meant that you had to call a coin toss and be supportive of your teammates. Being captain of an adult league team means that you have to call people and remind them of games, that you have decide on a line-up every time, that you have to be sure you're going to have enough players to make a team. And while I knew it wasn't my fault that people weren't showing up, I still felt responsible. Dude, I just want to show up and play.
So I spent that morning sending instant messages to every guy at my office who seemed like he might be willing to come play with a bunch of people he'd never met. Most of them said they had other plans, and even if they were lying, I don't fault them. But one of them couldn't think of an excuse fast enough. I still wasn't sure if my recruiting was completely within the rules of the league, but I figured that would only matter if we won. And unless this one dude happened to be incredibly awesome at volleyball, I didn't see that happening.
So I'd found a player, that's one checkmark. I'd made it to the doctor's office on time, check two. I was still sitting in the waiting room as the husbands of nurses that worked there arrived to pick up their wives. But then they finally noticed me and decided they'd better see me, since I'd already paid. Okay, so it's a little later than I'd like it to be at this point, but we're still okay. As long as I can make it to the game on time, everything will be fine. And as long as the other players get there, too, and no one questions whether this new guy is allowed to play on our team. I need to chill out.
But then I did get to the game on time, and I even had time to get some chocolate milk and a banana. My players showed up, well, four of them did, but that was enough to play. And we were terrible, but we were in good moods and happy to be playing if we couldn't be happy to be winning. Everything was fine, I'd been stressed all day but everything came together in the end. I could go to the bar downtown, have a beer, watch my boyfriend play bass, and relax. I had met Wednesday head on, and it had been a little sticky, but I'd succeeded at it through preparation.
I got into the car and opened my phone to call Josh. I noticed I had a voicemail, which I figured was probably him, telling me he was at the bar or something like that. The message came on, and his voice was shaky and quiet.
"I guess I had a bike wreck, and uh, I'm at Wake Med in the emergency room. That's where I am."
As I drove too fast to the hospital, I thought about my internal schedule and how this wasn't on it at all.
10.09.2008
bracelets.
When you go to a show at a bar, they mark you. This is to signify that you paid your entrance fee and that you're old enough to pay more money to the bartender. Getting marked is always a high priority for me, one that I make my prime mission after we've unloaded the equipment. See, since I never appear on stage with an instrument in hand, there's nothing to prove that I have a right to be there for free.
Different bars have a different way of marking you. Sometimes it's a stamp mark, or if it's a really high tech establishment, a Sharpied 'X' on one or both of your hands. I've woken up with these X's all over my face, after having slept with my cheek against my hand. I look like I had a much weirder night than I really did.
But some places use bracelets. They're always neon jobbies, the kind that come in huge stacks of strips, and you peel off the adhesive of one side, wrap it around your wrist and stick the opposite end to the sticky side. They're made of whatever material exists at the intersection of paper, fabric, plastic, and glue. I hate these bracelets. Whoever is running the door puts the bracelet on for you, and it's always too tight, which is restrictive and annoying, or too loose, which means it threatens to come off and lose you your bar privileges. At some point, I had to put one of myself, and I discovered that there is no right tightness. The bracelet is just irritating no matter how much it snuggles you. It reminds me of when I used to put Scotch tape on my cat's feet just to see it try and shake the tape off.
Last night, Josh's band had a show in downtown Raleigh. But we didn't go. We went somewhere else instead, and as I was holding his hand, trying carefully not to touch any of the many scratches, I thought about bracelets.
Different bars have a different way of marking you. Sometimes it's a stamp mark, or if it's a really high tech establishment, a Sharpied 'X' on one or both of your hands. I've woken up with these X's all over my face, after having slept with my cheek against my hand. I look like I had a much weirder night than I really did.
But some places use bracelets. They're always neon jobbies, the kind that come in huge stacks of strips, and you peel off the adhesive of one side, wrap it around your wrist and stick the opposite end to the sticky side. They're made of whatever material exists at the intersection of paper, fabric, plastic, and glue. I hate these bracelets. Whoever is running the door puts the bracelet on for you, and it's always too tight, which is restrictive and annoying, or too loose, which means it threatens to come off and lose you your bar privileges. At some point, I had to put one of myself, and I discovered that there is no right tightness. The bracelet is just irritating no matter how much it snuggles you. It reminds me of when I used to put Scotch tape on my cat's feet just to see it try and shake the tape off.
Last night, Josh's band had a show in downtown Raleigh. But we didn't go. We went somewhere else instead, and as I was holding his hand, trying carefully not to touch any of the many scratches, I thought about bracelets.
10.03.2008
innocent until proven the middle child.
We were sitting on the sidewalk outside the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. We had dastardly intentions. We had just been told that Josh couldn't come in the museum with his pocket knife. After he griped a bit, reminding me more and more of my father as he did so, we decided to stash his knife in the bushes, then retrieve it later after visiting the museum. So we were killing five minutes, watching people go by before we tried to go back in.
A family with three little boys was passing by, the older one walking alongside his parents as the two littler ones followed behind. The littlest, who was maybe four years old, started walking on the raised cement border of a landscaped area like it was a balance beam. He slipped and came crashing down on the cement. Immediately, he started wailing.
"I didn't do it!" the middle brother immediately shouted. Uh, kid, it's not a good idea to declare your innocence before you've been accused.
The dad examined the skinned knee and picked up the crying boy. It didn't look like a serious injury; he seemed more tired than hurt. No doubt he'd been trotting around behind his parents all day. He quieted down to a whimper as he laid his head down on his father's shoulders. I sometimes wish that I was still small enough to be carried that way. As the family was walking on by, the dad turned to the middle son and sternly said, "Nice work."
"What? I didn't do anything!"
"Were you guys chasing each other again?" The argument faded out of hearing as they continued down the sidewalk away from us. I wanted to protest, run up shouting, "Excuse me, sir, I saw the whole thing!" But it was none of my business. And it wasn't the dad's fault, really. He, like all parents, was just going on the information he had and doing the best he could with it.
I wondered why the middle son had tried to defend himself so quickly. It did seem like an admission of guilt, but then again, I was five feet away and watching them, and I hadn't seen anything. Maybe he just got blamed for stuff a lot and he could see how this situation was going to turn against him. I thought of many eloquent defenses he could have said to his dad, if only he weren't six years old. Is that what it's like to be a middle child? No wonder my sister didn't like me. She was probably always getting blamed for something every time I was a klutz.
And I gotta tell you, I'm pretty klutzy.
A family with three little boys was passing by, the older one walking alongside his parents as the two littler ones followed behind. The littlest, who was maybe four years old, started walking on the raised cement border of a landscaped area like it was a balance beam. He slipped and came crashing down on the cement. Immediately, he started wailing.
"I didn't do it!" the middle brother immediately shouted. Uh, kid, it's not a good idea to declare your innocence before you've been accused.
The dad examined the skinned knee and picked up the crying boy. It didn't look like a serious injury; he seemed more tired than hurt. No doubt he'd been trotting around behind his parents all day. He quieted down to a whimper as he laid his head down on his father's shoulders. I sometimes wish that I was still small enough to be carried that way. As the family was walking on by, the dad turned to the middle son and sternly said, "Nice work."
"What? I didn't do anything!"
"Were you guys chasing each other again?" The argument faded out of hearing as they continued down the sidewalk away from us. I wanted to protest, run up shouting, "Excuse me, sir, I saw the whole thing!" But it was none of my business. And it wasn't the dad's fault, really. He, like all parents, was just going on the information he had and doing the best he could with it.
I wondered why the middle son had tried to defend himself so quickly. It did seem like an admission of guilt, but then again, I was five feet away and watching them, and I hadn't seen anything. Maybe he just got blamed for stuff a lot and he could see how this situation was going to turn against him. I thought of many eloquent defenses he could have said to his dad, if only he weren't six years old. Is that what it's like to be a middle child? No wonder my sister didn't like me. She was probably always getting blamed for something every time I was a klutz.
And I gotta tell you, I'm pretty klutzy.
10.02.2008
creation returned to creation.
It had to be 5 AM. It was the second night in a row that I'd been up that late. My body had stopped protesting for the most part after I'd bribed it with a Jack and Coke and a couple of leftover potatoes. "You can stay up," it told me, "but only for a little while longer."
We were all walking toward the beach. As our feet hit sand, we hit a problem. There was a five foot drop from where we stood, straight down to the sand below. Big storms had hit recently, and the ocean had reached up the shore and taken a big bite out of the coastline, leaving its ragged teeth marks behind. Getting down wasn't the problem, it was the getting back up. But that was a problem for later, and thinking about future issues wasn't really in style with this group. Just go with the flow and we'll figure that out later.
I rolled up my pants to my shins, but the third or fourth wave caught me up to my knees. That first soaking was freedom, though, because you don't worry about getting wet when you're already there. I stood there, alone and away from the group for hours. Or minutes. I thought about the beach, and how I didn't really like it. But that was unfair, because I liked this beach. Empty of people, I could hear only the ocean. I could only see the whitecaps, as the rest of it faded into the night. I thought about how the ocean was always like this, and I just hadn't noticed it before. It was comforting in its constancy, the water being pulled in and pushed back out, like deep breaths.
My peace was palpable. I wondered what makes us feel at home in places we've never been. We had been to see a speaker a couple of weeks back, who talked about visiting a primeval forest and feeling strangely as if he had been there before, as if his evolutionary ancestors wakened inside him at the sight and smell of the place. He called it genetic memory. I don't think I buy that. I feel connected, but not through whoever came before me. It is me, myself. I am not connected because someone long before me came from this place. It is because I am made of the same stuff. It's ashes to ashes, dust to dust while I'm still alive. Creation returning to creation.
Josh came up behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder, testing the waters of my mood. Before the potatoes, I hadn't been as friendly as I might have been. We stood there awhile, breathing in and with the ocean.
My attention had drifted to the stars. They were beautiful, and yet the light pollution from the beach city behind us carried enough to make the sky a hazy dark gray. I missed the view at my parents' house in the mountains, where the deep blue was framed by the deep green of the trees, or the night in Kansas, where the sky was impossibly big and the Milky Way was something you could see instead of something you read about in Science class. One bright star shone at me, tiny and clear. I considered making a wish. Then I realized the star was moving. Josh started to pull away.
"The question is, do we tell our kids how to recognize satellites in the sky?" I asked, knowing I could capture and keep his attention with a good conversation. "It's always disappointing to me when I realize that the really bright and shiny star is a satellite."
"Disappointing?"
"Yeah. Because there's a star, and it's really bright and seems so close. But then I realize that it's moving and it's just something we put up there. It's just a big hunk of metal, like I see every day. It's not special at all."
"I think it's amazing, a testament to our ingenuity. Look how far we've gone, and think how far we can still go." I guess that's supposed to capture my imagination the way it does his, but really, it just makes me feel alone.
We wandered back up the beach and scrambled up the recently formed cliff of sand. A couple of people were sitting on a bench. Already filthy, I sat on the sand next to them. As a group, we had been rambunctious and loud, running on alcohol and lack of sleep. But it was quiet now as we slowly came in from the beach back up to the overlook that separated the real world from the ocean.
"So I guess we know the answer," I said.
"To what?"
"Whether the ocean is louder than Big Mike. I can't hear him." Mike was a big man and a loud man, and you could chart how late it was based on the volume of his voice. But the familiar sound of him arguing about something, anything, whatever was not there.
Josh leaned forward to look at Mike's still form sitting on the bench. "He's asleep."
I pulled up the hood of my hoodie and laid back into the sand. Those relaxation tapes that sound like the ocean were a good idea, but no competition to this. I thought about taking a nap and whether I could convince Josh to keep guard and shoo the crabs away from my face. But I wasn't really worried about the crabs. Surely they would recognize me.
We were all walking toward the beach. As our feet hit sand, we hit a problem. There was a five foot drop from where we stood, straight down to the sand below. Big storms had hit recently, and the ocean had reached up the shore and taken a big bite out of the coastline, leaving its ragged teeth marks behind. Getting down wasn't the problem, it was the getting back up. But that was a problem for later, and thinking about future issues wasn't really in style with this group. Just go with the flow and we'll figure that out later.
I rolled up my pants to my shins, but the third or fourth wave caught me up to my knees. That first soaking was freedom, though, because you don't worry about getting wet when you're already there. I stood there, alone and away from the group for hours. Or minutes. I thought about the beach, and how I didn't really like it. But that was unfair, because I liked this beach. Empty of people, I could hear only the ocean. I could only see the whitecaps, as the rest of it faded into the night. I thought about how the ocean was always like this, and I just hadn't noticed it before. It was comforting in its constancy, the water being pulled in and pushed back out, like deep breaths.
My peace was palpable. I wondered what makes us feel at home in places we've never been. We had been to see a speaker a couple of weeks back, who talked about visiting a primeval forest and feeling strangely as if he had been there before, as if his evolutionary ancestors wakened inside him at the sight and smell of the place. He called it genetic memory. I don't think I buy that. I feel connected, but not through whoever came before me. It is me, myself. I am not connected because someone long before me came from this place. It is because I am made of the same stuff. It's ashes to ashes, dust to dust while I'm still alive. Creation returning to creation.
Josh came up behind me and rested his chin on my shoulder, testing the waters of my mood. Before the potatoes, I hadn't been as friendly as I might have been. We stood there awhile, breathing in and with the ocean.
My attention had drifted to the stars. They were beautiful, and yet the light pollution from the beach city behind us carried enough to make the sky a hazy dark gray. I missed the view at my parents' house in the mountains, where the deep blue was framed by the deep green of the trees, or the night in Kansas, where the sky was impossibly big and the Milky Way was something you could see instead of something you read about in Science class. One bright star shone at me, tiny and clear. I considered making a wish. Then I realized the star was moving. Josh started to pull away.
"The question is, do we tell our kids how to recognize satellites in the sky?" I asked, knowing I could capture and keep his attention with a good conversation. "It's always disappointing to me when I realize that the really bright and shiny star is a satellite."
"Disappointing?"
"Yeah. Because there's a star, and it's really bright and seems so close. But then I realize that it's moving and it's just something we put up there. It's just a big hunk of metal, like I see every day. It's not special at all."
"I think it's amazing, a testament to our ingenuity. Look how far we've gone, and think how far we can still go." I guess that's supposed to capture my imagination the way it does his, but really, it just makes me feel alone.
We wandered back up the beach and scrambled up the recently formed cliff of sand. A couple of people were sitting on a bench. Already filthy, I sat on the sand next to them. As a group, we had been rambunctious and loud, running on alcohol and lack of sleep. But it was quiet now as we slowly came in from the beach back up to the overlook that separated the real world from the ocean.
"So I guess we know the answer," I said.
"To what?"
"Whether the ocean is louder than Big Mike. I can't hear him." Mike was a big man and a loud man, and you could chart how late it was based on the volume of his voice. But the familiar sound of him arguing about something, anything, whatever was not there.
Josh leaned forward to look at Mike's still form sitting on the bench. "He's asleep."
I pulled up the hood of my hoodie and laid back into the sand. Those relaxation tapes that sound like the ocean were a good idea, but no competition to this. I thought about taking a nap and whether I could convince Josh to keep guard and shoo the crabs away from my face. But I wasn't really worried about the crabs. Surely they would recognize me.
9.29.2008
volleyball knees.
My knee is gross. I got a raspberry, which didn't seem to want to heal. It turned into a quarter-size festering wound that gathered blue jean lint and finally scabbed over. It will probably scar. I went to a wedding last weekend and was faced with the prospect of having a scabby knee peeking out from under my skirt. It reminded me of the song from The Sound of Music where the older, proper nuns are complaining because Maria always has skinned knees under her habit. I wondered if the people at the wedding would sing "How Do You Solve a Problem Like Sandra?" I wore pants.
Still. I'm quite happy about my knee. I got it from sliding on a gym floor. No, not really, because if I had slid on the floor, I wouldn't have gotten the injury at all. No, I got it from dropping to my knees, intending to slide, but then realizing that the floor was not conducive to sliding. What happened then is that my knees stopped sliding (except for a little skidding around inside my kneepads) and then the rest of my body was propelled forward towards the general direction of the floor.
I don't even remember why I started talking about my knee.
Oh, wait, I do. It's because I wanted to tell you all that I've started playing volleyball. I joined a local adult league, because I was tired of feeling like I never did any physical activity. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I now engage in physical activity exactly once a week. Progress!
If you've never played volleyball, perhaps you do not know how truly wonderful a game it is. I also played basketball in high school, and I never really liked it. It was okay. It was fine. But I was never really invested in being any better at it and I haven't played it in years. I've tried to figure out the difference between volleyball and basketball, what makes one of them so ho-hum while they other has me chomping at my kneepads. I think maybe it's the contact aspect. I was never interested in pushing anyone around, while the other girls hanging out with me down near the net were very interested in that. But volleyball is more turn-oriented. You have a turn and you make the best move you can. You have three hits to recover from whatever they threw at you and then throw something back that hopefully they can't handle.
I started playing over the summer, which meant I played beach volleyball for the very first time. It was an interesting new experience. The best thing about beach volleyball, aside from the fact that you can go barefoot, is that you can do some really amazing digs without hurting yourself. You can toss yourself all over the sand like a crash test dummy and it won't even hurt. You will get sand in your pants (and hair and eyes), but you will look awesome and cool because you sacrificed your body for a save. The worst thing about beach volleyball is that you can't run and jump on the sand. I mean, some people can. I have apparently not reached that skill level. Mostly I just move the sand under my feet to some other location near my feet. Someday, I hope to be able to run and jump on the sand like a real, live boy.
A couple of weeks ago, the fall season started. The captain of our team emailed us and told us all to bring our kneecaps, which makes me wonder if he can take his out, and if so, if removable kneecaps are a useful feature. I had to buy new kneepads, because my mother had very inconsiderately thrown out my high school pair which probably still stank of sweat from seven years ago. I had enjoyed beach volleyball, really I had, but when I found myself in a pair of kneepads on a squeaky gym floor, perched on the balls of my feet and waiting for the serve, I really felt back at home.
Later, when I got home, my kneepads around my ankles, I thought about having volleyball knees again. They may not always have a raspberry, but they will probably be bruised. And one night a week, they'll smell like a locker room. Volleyball knees make me happy. I used to participate in activities that I cared nothing about so that scholarship committees would think I was well-rounded. Now it's a relief to just do something because I enjoy it. It's funny - it makes me feel like a well-rounded, more interesting person. A well-rounded person with bruised knees.
Still. I'm quite happy about my knee. I got it from sliding on a gym floor. No, not really, because if I had slid on the floor, I wouldn't have gotten the injury at all. No, I got it from dropping to my knees, intending to slide, but then realizing that the floor was not conducive to sliding. What happened then is that my knees stopped sliding (except for a little skidding around inside my kneepads) and then the rest of my body was propelled forward towards the general direction of the floor.
I don't even remember why I started talking about my knee.
Oh, wait, I do. It's because I wanted to tell you all that I've started playing volleyball. I joined a local adult league, because I was tired of feeling like I never did any physical activity. Yes, ladies and gentlemen, I now engage in physical activity exactly once a week. Progress!
If you've never played volleyball, perhaps you do not know how truly wonderful a game it is. I also played basketball in high school, and I never really liked it. It was okay. It was fine. But I was never really invested in being any better at it and I haven't played it in years. I've tried to figure out the difference between volleyball and basketball, what makes one of them so ho-hum while they other has me chomping at my kneepads. I think maybe it's the contact aspect. I was never interested in pushing anyone around, while the other girls hanging out with me down near the net were very interested in that. But volleyball is more turn-oriented. You have a turn and you make the best move you can. You have three hits to recover from whatever they threw at you and then throw something back that hopefully they can't handle.
I started playing over the summer, which meant I played beach volleyball for the very first time. It was an interesting new experience. The best thing about beach volleyball, aside from the fact that you can go barefoot, is that you can do some really amazing digs without hurting yourself. You can toss yourself all over the sand like a crash test dummy and it won't even hurt. You will get sand in your pants (and hair and eyes), but you will look awesome and cool because you sacrificed your body for a save. The worst thing about beach volleyball is that you can't run and jump on the sand. I mean, some people can. I have apparently not reached that skill level. Mostly I just move the sand under my feet to some other location near my feet. Someday, I hope to be able to run and jump on the sand like a real, live boy.
A couple of weeks ago, the fall season started. The captain of our team emailed us and told us all to bring our kneecaps, which makes me wonder if he can take his out, and if so, if removable kneecaps are a useful feature. I had to buy new kneepads, because my mother had very inconsiderately thrown out my high school pair which probably still stank of sweat from seven years ago. I had enjoyed beach volleyball, really I had, but when I found myself in a pair of kneepads on a squeaky gym floor, perched on the balls of my feet and waiting for the serve, I really felt back at home.
Later, when I got home, my kneepads around my ankles, I thought about having volleyball knees again. They may not always have a raspberry, but they will probably be bruised. And one night a week, they'll smell like a locker room. Volleyball knees make me happy. I used to participate in activities that I cared nothing about so that scholarship committees would think I was well-rounded. Now it's a relief to just do something because I enjoy it. It's funny - it makes me feel like a well-rounded, more interesting person. A well-rounded person with bruised knees.
9.23.2008
ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid.
I was lying on the grass in the National Sculpture Garden, people watching. Josh was reading an information pamphlet about the sculptures, and Kate was reading the Post, which seemed to be the in thing to do in D.C. Everyone seems so aware of what's going on all the time. Maybe it's their job to know.
Bad jazz music permeated the air. Or maybe it was good jazz, I don't know. I don't get jazz. This particular band would have be okay, except that they had got an electric guitar player who thought he was in a jam band. I mentioned that to Josh, and he agreed, which made me happy. As a non-musician, every time I'm able to contribute something intelligent to a conversation about music makes me feel like a good girlfriend. Kate asked what a jam band was and Josh explained it while I thought about how my boyfriend knows everything.
But the point of the music was to set a mood, not distract you. You were there to sit with your friends and drink, not pay attention to the music. The music is perfect for that. I once had a friend recommend a band to me, saying they were great to have on at a party, because they didn't distract anyone from their conversations. If that's a big problem at your parties, maybe you should invite more interesting people.
A guy in business casual walked by with a pitcher of ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid. I grabbed my wallet, walked off, and later returned with a pitcher of ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid. I poured out portions into three plastic cups and we said cheers. Kate went back to the paper, Josh back to the art information, and I sat back and thought about other pitchers of ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid.
I love sangria. Is there anything better on a hot day or a cold night or any other time? Wine and fruit juice, good wholesome fruit soaked in alcohol.
The first time I made sangria was in Winston. The recipe called for brandy, so I bought a bottle of the kind that my underage roommate used to make me buy for her. As I cooked the fruit on the stovetop, we took shots of the brandy, because, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. When the sangria was finally ready, we were already at least one sheet to the wind. Nothing happened, except that two friends who had harbored secret crushes on each other finally admitted it. Now that night stands as a turning point in our relationship. I think that if we had not lasted, then that memory would stand as a regrettable night of a friendship ruined, instead of a sweetly intoxicated evening of friendship set on fire.
I remembered next a miserable evening in New York City with Sarah on our first trip. It was cold, it was wet, and I had walked miles and miles in bad shoes. I was unhappy and whiny and showing a side of myself that really ought to be locked away and never allowed out. I was angry at the weather, at my shoes, at the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. We were walking back to our hostel when the lights of Mama Mexico beckoned to us. We'd eaten at this restaurant the night before, the night I'd discovered guacamole. It was still wide open at midnight. Honestly, I wanted to just back to the hostel and go to bed, but I'd been such a rotten traveling companion that when Sarah suggested having a drink I felt obligated to go along just to make up for the burden of my company. We ordered desserts and a pitcher of sangria. A few tables were still eating as the wandering guitar player meandered around the tables and played "Feliz Navidad". I wondered if he minded having his culture reduced to "Ay Ay Ay Ay", as if I were to go to a foreign country and walk around singing "Yankee Doodle". After a while, most of the customers had filtered out and the singer took a seat in the corner with a couple of the wait staff. He began playing other songs that were not part of his business hours repetoire. Beautiful, soft songs that sounded like something abuelitas sang at night to droopy-lidded children. By the time the pitcher was gone, I was revived. Even when I stood up and found that my legs had stiffened, I found the strength to giggle my way down the street with Sarah to the hostel.
And then that late afternoon in the sculpture garden, where the sun was beaming generously on our faces, the bad jazz was easy to ignore, and I didn't feel the need to say anything to my companions. I could just sit there with them, sipping my deep red liquid, eating the alcohol-laden orange slices, and thinking what a great time I was having doing nothing in particular.
Here's to ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid.
Note: This is a strong recipe. I made it for my parents once, and my dad mentioned at least three times how strong it was in the next week. You can always add more juice (or use less rum) if you don't want your parents to think you're trying to liquor them up. Or less juice if you're trying to get them to revise their will in your favor. You can also use whatever fruit you want, really. Apples! Cherries! Pomegranates!
Classic Spanish Sangria
from Allrecipes
Bad jazz music permeated the air. Or maybe it was good jazz, I don't know. I don't get jazz. This particular band would have be okay, except that they had got an electric guitar player who thought he was in a jam band. I mentioned that to Josh, and he agreed, which made me happy. As a non-musician, every time I'm able to contribute something intelligent to a conversation about music makes me feel like a good girlfriend. Kate asked what a jam band was and Josh explained it while I thought about how my boyfriend knows everything.
But the point of the music was to set a mood, not distract you. You were there to sit with your friends and drink, not pay attention to the music. The music is perfect for that. I once had a friend recommend a band to me, saying they were great to have on at a party, because they didn't distract anyone from their conversations. If that's a big problem at your parties, maybe you should invite more interesting people.
A guy in business casual walked by with a pitcher of ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid. I grabbed my wallet, walked off, and later returned with a pitcher of ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid. I poured out portions into three plastic cups and we said cheers. Kate went back to the paper, Josh back to the art information, and I sat back and thought about other pitchers of ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid.
I love sangria. Is there anything better on a hot day or a cold night or any other time? Wine and fruit juice, good wholesome fruit soaked in alcohol.
The first time I made sangria was in Winston. The recipe called for brandy, so I bought a bottle of the kind that my underage roommate used to make me buy for her. As I cooked the fruit on the stovetop, we took shots of the brandy, because, well, it seemed like a good idea at the time. When the sangria was finally ready, we were already at least one sheet to the wind. Nothing happened, except that two friends who had harbored secret crushes on each other finally admitted it. Now that night stands as a turning point in our relationship. I think that if we had not lasted, then that memory would stand as a regrettable night of a friendship ruined, instead of a sweetly intoxicated evening of friendship set on fire.
I remembered next a miserable evening in New York City with Sarah on our first trip. It was cold, it was wet, and I had walked miles and miles in bad shoes. I was unhappy and whiny and showing a side of myself that really ought to be locked away and never allowed out. I was angry at the weather, at my shoes, at the Christmas tree in Rockefeller Center. We were walking back to our hostel when the lights of Mama Mexico beckoned to us. We'd eaten at this restaurant the night before, the night I'd discovered guacamole. It was still wide open at midnight. Honestly, I wanted to just back to the hostel and go to bed, but I'd been such a rotten traveling companion that when Sarah suggested having a drink I felt obligated to go along just to make up for the burden of my company. We ordered desserts and a pitcher of sangria. A few tables were still eating as the wandering guitar player meandered around the tables and played "Feliz Navidad". I wondered if he minded having his culture reduced to "Ay Ay Ay Ay", as if I were to go to a foreign country and walk around singing "Yankee Doodle". After a while, most of the customers had filtered out and the singer took a seat in the corner with a couple of the wait staff. He began playing other songs that were not part of his business hours repetoire. Beautiful, soft songs that sounded like something abuelitas sang at night to droopy-lidded children. By the time the pitcher was gone, I was revived. Even when I stood up and found that my legs had stiffened, I found the strength to giggle my way down the street with Sarah to the hostel.
And then that late afternoon in the sculpture garden, where the sun was beaming generously on our faces, the bad jazz was easy to ignore, and I didn't feel the need to say anything to my companions. I could just sit there with them, sipping my deep red liquid, eating the alcohol-laden orange slices, and thinking what a great time I was having doing nothing in particular.
Here's to ice and fruit floating in deep red liquid.
Note: This is a strong recipe. I made it for my parents once, and my dad mentioned at least three times how strong it was in the next week. You can always add more juice (or use less rum) if you don't want your parents to think you're trying to liquor them up. Or less juice if you're trying to get them to revise their will in your favor. You can also use whatever fruit you want, really. Apples! Cherries! Pomegranates!
Classic Spanish Sangria
from Allrecipes
- 1 lemon
- 1 lime
- 1 orange
- 1 cup rum
- 1/2 cup white sugar
- 1 bottle dry red wine
- 1 cup orange juice
- Have the fruit, rum, wine, and oj well-chilled. Slice the fruit into thin rounds and place into a large glass pitcher. Pour in the rum and sugar. Chill in fridge for at least 2 hours to develop the flavors.
- When ready to serve, crush the fruit lightly with a wooden spoon and stir in the wine and juice. Adjust sweetness to taste.
9.12.2008
stale-a-luna.
I called my mom on the drive to D.C., and she asked what restaurants I was going to visit. I was pretty confused by this question, as I didn't have any specific favorites. The city's huge, how could I limit myself to a small subset of its culinary wonders? But then I thought about Detroit, and how if I ever went back, I'd make sure to go to Buddy's Pizza and then Steve & Rocky's. They have chocolate cake made to order.
But I wasn't going to Detroit, so I didn't have any particular place in mind. But I knew one place that I didn't want to visit. The last time we were in D.C., we met my old high school buddy for dinner at a place with a name that I forgot, except that it had something to do with the moon. Cafe Luna or Moon Diner or Stella Luna, I didn't remember, and I didn't care. Josh and I had both had Reubens there, and we had not enjoyed them. We are typically people who really enjoy our Reubens. I wondered why my friend had taken us to such a crappy place and figured maybe he had defective taste buds.
Our first evening there, we were slowly walking up the street back towards Kate's apartment. We planned to stop and eat in Dupont Circle, which had lots of new and exciting choices. We spied a little outdoor cafe on the sidewalk across the street. The tables were surrounded by shrubberies decorated with Christmas lights. There were lots of people, and they looked happy to be there, so we decided to take their advice and be there, too. I won't say the decision wasn't partially made by the fact that it was the first restaurant we had come across, but I was tired and hungry. Have you hung out with me when I'm tired and hungry? It's not that fun. I'm a ball when I've gotten a good night's sleep and a full tummy, though. But fatigue aside, the restaurant did look interesting.
The scrawly script above the door read "Luna" and I thought how weird it was that this restaurant would be so near to the other, bad Reuben restaurant with such a similar name. However, this was clearly not the same place. We had eaten at a table by the window at the other place, and there didn't seem to be an inside section of this cafe. Inside the door was literally the kitchen, so all the tables seemed to be right there on the sidewalk. I wondered if the place just closed down for the winter.
We examined the menu, found it acceptable, and sat down to rest our tired tootsies. We ordered drinks and food, then sat quietly, too tired to say much. The food came and was good. I had some pasta, while Josh enjoyed a crab cake sandwich. The food was unspectacular, meaning I wouldn't necessarily seek this place out on my next visit, but it was quite satisfactory. It was certainly better than a greasy Reuben. We decided this place could teach that other similarly named restaurant a thing or two about cooking.
As we were waiting for the check, I got up to use the restroom. I was a little nervous that I might have to use the employee restroom or maybe just a bucket in the corner of the kitchen, but a server assured me that they had actual bathrooms. He pointed the way, and I followed a hallway through the kitchen to find a bar and a big room with tables and chairs and people eating. This place had a normal front entrance with a normal looking dining room. They'd just taken advantage of their back entrance to add outdoor seating. In fact, as I looked at one of the tables by the window, I realized that I had eaten there before. I'd eaten a greasy Reuben at that exact spot. Probably a thousand restaurants in this city, and we had managed to come back to the one we'd been trying to avoid.
I felt cheated, deceived! The pasta that had tasted fine a minute ago took on a bitter quality. I had been tricked into enjoying a pasta dish when in actuality it was tainted with wasted corned beef potential.
Later that night, we told Kate our sad tale of being tricked into eating at Luna again.
"Luna?" she asked. "I love that place." I guess she hasn't had the Reuben.
But I wasn't going to Detroit, so I didn't have any particular place in mind. But I knew one place that I didn't want to visit. The last time we were in D.C., we met my old high school buddy for dinner at a place with a name that I forgot, except that it had something to do with the moon. Cafe Luna or Moon Diner or Stella Luna, I didn't remember, and I didn't care. Josh and I had both had Reubens there, and we had not enjoyed them. We are typically people who really enjoy our Reubens. I wondered why my friend had taken us to such a crappy place and figured maybe he had defective taste buds.
Our first evening there, we were slowly walking up the street back towards Kate's apartment. We planned to stop and eat in Dupont Circle, which had lots of new and exciting choices. We spied a little outdoor cafe on the sidewalk across the street. The tables were surrounded by shrubberies decorated with Christmas lights. There were lots of people, and they looked happy to be there, so we decided to take their advice and be there, too. I won't say the decision wasn't partially made by the fact that it was the first restaurant we had come across, but I was tired and hungry. Have you hung out with me when I'm tired and hungry? It's not that fun. I'm a ball when I've gotten a good night's sleep and a full tummy, though. But fatigue aside, the restaurant did look interesting.
The scrawly script above the door read "Luna" and I thought how weird it was that this restaurant would be so near to the other, bad Reuben restaurant with such a similar name. However, this was clearly not the same place. We had eaten at a table by the window at the other place, and there didn't seem to be an inside section of this cafe. Inside the door was literally the kitchen, so all the tables seemed to be right there on the sidewalk. I wondered if the place just closed down for the winter.
We examined the menu, found it acceptable, and sat down to rest our tired tootsies. We ordered drinks and food, then sat quietly, too tired to say much. The food came and was good. I had some pasta, while Josh enjoyed a crab cake sandwich. The food was unspectacular, meaning I wouldn't necessarily seek this place out on my next visit, but it was quite satisfactory. It was certainly better than a greasy Reuben. We decided this place could teach that other similarly named restaurant a thing or two about cooking.
As we were waiting for the check, I got up to use the restroom. I was a little nervous that I might have to use the employee restroom or maybe just a bucket in the corner of the kitchen, but a server assured me that they had actual bathrooms. He pointed the way, and I followed a hallway through the kitchen to find a bar and a big room with tables and chairs and people eating. This place had a normal front entrance with a normal looking dining room. They'd just taken advantage of their back entrance to add outdoor seating. In fact, as I looked at one of the tables by the window, I realized that I had eaten there before. I'd eaten a greasy Reuben at that exact spot. Probably a thousand restaurants in this city, and we had managed to come back to the one we'd been trying to avoid.
I felt cheated, deceived! The pasta that had tasted fine a minute ago took on a bitter quality. I had been tricked into enjoying a pasta dish when in actuality it was tainted with wasted corned beef potential.
Later that night, we told Kate our sad tale of being tricked into eating at Luna again.
"Luna?" she asked. "I love that place." I guess she hasn't had the Reuben.
9.10.2008
positive stereotypes.
I had another Washington, D.C. related entry all ready to go when I received an email from my brother about my last post. I felt compelled to share both the email and my response. After some consoling remarks about the sad, sad freezer affair, he added:
And fyi, "jew down" is considered offensive by many people.
http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/jew_down
I know you're not antisemitic, and I'm not offended, but I know that you generally try to avoid being offensive, unless it's absolutely necessary.
Now, I know where the phrase "jew down" came from. It's sweet that my brother assumed that I didn't know rather than think me an anti-Semite. Or is it insulting that he thought I couldn't figure it out? We'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Yes, "jew down" comes from the stereotype that Jews are cheap. There are lots of these sorts of phrases, and I do tend to avoid them in polite conversation. But yesterday, I did knowingly use a term which could be considered offensive. I wouldn't use it in conversation with the President or a rabbi or Josh's mom, but I did use it on my blog, which is open for the President, rabbis, and Josh's mom to read.
I will tell you why. Some people say they can use slurs because they belong to the insulted group. I belong to the trait. If Jews can use "jew down" because they're Jewish, can I use it because I'm cheap? I personally think that being thrifty and having negotiating skills is WONDERFUL. These things rate very highly in my value system. It's not just about getting offbeat and unique stuff at thrift stores, this outlook is a lifestyle to me. I've read books and made active efforts to cultivate these skills in myself. To me saying that Jews are cheap is like complimenting them. Good for you, children of Israel, way to stretch a buck!
I'm not trying to advocate avarice or say that frugality should always trump generosity. The stereotype probably came from people being miserly, as opposed to just being coupon cutters. You can go too far. But I feel like most people are afraid of being thought of as just plain "cheap." Not stingy or greedy or even the positive-spin words like thrifty or frugal, but cheap. I am not afraid of that, and I applaud others, whole ethnic groups of them, who stand with me on this podium made of re-used cardboard boxes, thrift store appliances, and chairs found in the dumpster.
But my brother makes a good point. While he knows I'm not an anti-Semite and now you know that I think saying Jews are cheap is like saying that Asians are good at math, I won't have the opportunity to defend myself to every person that wanders here. I could link back to this post every time I use the phrase, but honestly, I'm not that attached to using it.
Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'm going to go ponder what he meant by that last line. Maybe if I can come up with an entry where it's "absolutely necessary" to offend the Jews, I can use "jew down" again.
And fyi, "jew down" is considered offensive by many people.
http://en.wiktionary.org/wiki/jew_down
I know you're not antisemitic, and I'm not offended, but I know that you generally try to avoid being offensive, unless it's absolutely necessary.
Now, I know where the phrase "jew down" came from. It's sweet that my brother assumed that I didn't know rather than think me an anti-Semite. Or is it insulting that he thought I couldn't figure it out? We'll give him the benefit of the doubt and say he was giving me the benefit of the doubt.
Yes, "jew down" comes from the stereotype that Jews are cheap. There are lots of these sorts of phrases, and I do tend to avoid them in polite conversation. But yesterday, I did knowingly use a term which could be considered offensive. I wouldn't use it in conversation with the President or a rabbi or Josh's mom, but I did use it on my blog, which is open for the President, rabbis, and Josh's mom to read.
I will tell you why. Some people say they can use slurs because they belong to the insulted group. I belong to the trait. If Jews can use "jew down" because they're Jewish, can I use it because I'm cheap? I personally think that being thrifty and having negotiating skills is WONDERFUL. These things rate very highly in my value system. It's not just about getting offbeat and unique stuff at thrift stores, this outlook is a lifestyle to me. I've read books and made active efforts to cultivate these skills in myself. To me saying that Jews are cheap is like complimenting them. Good for you, children of Israel, way to stretch a buck!
I'm not trying to advocate avarice or say that frugality should always trump generosity. The stereotype probably came from people being miserly, as opposed to just being coupon cutters. You can go too far. But I feel like most people are afraid of being thought of as just plain "cheap." Not stingy or greedy or even the positive-spin words like thrifty or frugal, but cheap. I am not afraid of that, and I applaud others, whole ethnic groups of them, who stand with me on this podium made of re-used cardboard boxes, thrift store appliances, and chairs found in the dumpster.
But my brother makes a good point. While he knows I'm not an anti-Semite and now you know that I think saying Jews are cheap is like saying that Asians are good at math, I won't have the opportunity to defend myself to every person that wanders here. I could link back to this post every time I use the phrase, but honestly, I'm not that attached to using it.
Now that I've gotten that off my chest, I'm going to go ponder what he meant by that last line. Maybe if I can come up with an entry where it's "absolutely necessary" to offend the Jews, I can use "jew down" again.
9.09.2008
a place for ground beef.
Josh is squatting on the wet floor of a kitchenette in a Washington, D.C. studio apartment, holding open the flap that covers the freezer in the dorm-sized fridge. The fridge is empty of food, but has a large roasting pan on the bottom shelf, half-full of water. Kate is behind him with a mop, patiently soaking up the water off the floor and then draining the mop into a bucket and doing it all again. I am standing next to him with a two liter plastic pitcher three-quarters full of hot water. I am flinging the hot water into the freezer compartment.
This is one way to quickly defrost a freezer. I don't know if it's the best way, but it sure is a lot of fun. Also, the kitchen floor gets sparkly clean.
It was only coincidence that the Jim Henson exhibit happened right before Kate moved out of the country. We were glad to see her before she left this side of the Atlantic. Since she is making such a drastic move, she was trying to get rid of all of her stuff. Books, food, plates, whatever we wanted, she urged us to take it. It was like spending the night at an estate sale.
On our first night, I was sitting on the couch and I spied the freezer, a half-sized Frigidaire chest deep freezer. It seemed an unlikely occupant of the apartment. "Kate, you have a freezer!"
"Yes, do you want it?"
"Yes, please."
I deeply, deeply wanted all nine cubic feet of its frostiness. I had wanted a freezer for months. My learning to cook had coincided with reading The Tightwad Gazette, and it had occurred to me that I could not be a true tightwad without more than the paltry freezer in my fridge that I had now. I needed my own separate appliance for preserving food. How was I supposed to buy ten pounds of ground beef on sale if I had nowhere to store it?
"How much do you want for it?" This part was tricky. I mean, it was tricky for me. For most people, it would be totally easy, because normal people would just agree to pay whatever she was asking, having already committed to buying it. But we're not talking about those people, we're talking about me, and I had just said I would buy a major appliance off of someone without knowing the price. I had been hasty. What if she wanted too much? I had passed up a similar freezer at a yard sale a couple months ago because the people wanted $100. No way I'd go above $50, and really, that was definitely the high end. Would I have to negotiate? I'm not good at social stuff, but I'm pretty sure jewing down your good friends is bad form.
"I was asking $30 on craigslist."
"Sold." Phew. That will pay for itself after thirty pounds of sale priced ground beef. Muppets and a deal on a freezer? Best vacation ever.
The reason that Kate had an extra freezer is because she has a tiny dorm fridge that has a freezer space of about three cubic inches. Okay, it's more than that, but it is wimpy. You could fit about twenty pounds of ground beef in there, but then where would you put the bacon? Of course, Kate's a vegetarian, but she could still only fit about six bags of frozen vegetables in there. But if I was going to take away her freezer, we'd have to transfer the stuff in the big freezer to the little one. Luckily, most of the stuff in the freezer did not need to remain frozen as long as she ate it in the next week. What did need to be frozen could probably be forced in there. I helped out by eating a frozen fruit pop.
We lifted up the flap in the dorm fridge to start moving stuff in. It was then that we noticed that about three-fourths of the space in there was taken up by a mini-tundra. This is apparently what happens to tiny freezers when you neglect them. We would have to defrost the freezer in a short enough time that the stuff in the fridge wouldn't go bad. And that's how we ended up flinging hot water around and then mopping it up. Making a mess on purpose is fun.
The next morning, Josh and I carried my new freezer downstairs and up the block to my car. I drive a sedan, but I wasn't worried. We estimated that the freezer was about the same size as Josh's bass amplifier cabinet, only taller, and I'd hauled that thing more times than I could count. I'd been stuffing all manner of crap into that car for years and she'd never let me down. Many yard sale hosts had looked skeptically from my new purchases to that car, only to be surprised later when I managed it just fine, thank you very much.
I could describe the shoving and heaving and rearranging and sweating and muttering and pushing and slow sinking feelings of despair, but I'll just skip it. The freezer did not fit. The door frame was large enough, the back seat was large enough, but the door wouldn't open far enough. Before you ask, yes, we tried the front door and the trunk, too.
Are you crying and aching for me? I'm starting to tear up just remembering it. My poor tightwad heart was broken that day. I was despondent, and only minimally cheered by the fact that we were able to fit three bookshelves in there. I wrote Kate a check for the shelves, which she immediately tore up. It was a great symbolic gesture, except for the fact that little check pieces kept falling out of her pocket and spreading pieces of my identity on the streets of our nation's capital. She probably would have given me the freezer for free, too, but I try not to think about that.
Eventually, I will find a good deal on a used freezer, and I will be happy. I will buy lots of meat to put in it, because I am not a vegetarian. But I bet I will get it in a totally boring manner instead of in an evening of improbable defrosting hilarity with two of my favorite people ever.
Also, I'll have to find another way to get it home.
This is one way to quickly defrost a freezer. I don't know if it's the best way, but it sure is a lot of fun. Also, the kitchen floor gets sparkly clean.
It was only coincidence that the Jim Henson exhibit happened right before Kate moved out of the country. We were glad to see her before she left this side of the Atlantic. Since she is making such a drastic move, she was trying to get rid of all of her stuff. Books, food, plates, whatever we wanted, she urged us to take it. It was like spending the night at an estate sale.
On our first night, I was sitting on the couch and I spied the freezer, a half-sized Frigidaire chest deep freezer. It seemed an unlikely occupant of the apartment. "Kate, you have a freezer!"
"Yes, do you want it?"
"Yes, please."
I deeply, deeply wanted all nine cubic feet of its frostiness. I had wanted a freezer for months. My learning to cook had coincided with reading The Tightwad Gazette, and it had occurred to me that I could not be a true tightwad without more than the paltry freezer in my fridge that I had now. I needed my own separate appliance for preserving food. How was I supposed to buy ten pounds of ground beef on sale if I had nowhere to store it?
"How much do you want for it?" This part was tricky. I mean, it was tricky for me. For most people, it would be totally easy, because normal people would just agree to pay whatever she was asking, having already committed to buying it. But we're not talking about those people, we're talking about me, and I had just said I would buy a major appliance off of someone without knowing the price. I had been hasty. What if she wanted too much? I had passed up a similar freezer at a yard sale a couple months ago because the people wanted $100. No way I'd go above $50, and really, that was definitely the high end. Would I have to negotiate? I'm not good at social stuff, but I'm pretty sure jewing down your good friends is bad form.
"I was asking $30 on craigslist."
"Sold." Phew. That will pay for itself after thirty pounds of sale priced ground beef. Muppets and a deal on a freezer? Best vacation ever.
The reason that Kate had an extra freezer is because she has a tiny dorm fridge that has a freezer space of about three cubic inches. Okay, it's more than that, but it is wimpy. You could fit about twenty pounds of ground beef in there, but then where would you put the bacon? Of course, Kate's a vegetarian, but she could still only fit about six bags of frozen vegetables in there. But if I was going to take away her freezer, we'd have to transfer the stuff in the big freezer to the little one. Luckily, most of the stuff in the freezer did not need to remain frozen as long as she ate it in the next week. What did need to be frozen could probably be forced in there. I helped out by eating a frozen fruit pop.
We lifted up the flap in the dorm fridge to start moving stuff in. It was then that we noticed that about three-fourths of the space in there was taken up by a mini-tundra. This is apparently what happens to tiny freezers when you neglect them. We would have to defrost the freezer in a short enough time that the stuff in the fridge wouldn't go bad. And that's how we ended up flinging hot water around and then mopping it up. Making a mess on purpose is fun.
The next morning, Josh and I carried my new freezer downstairs and up the block to my car. I drive a sedan, but I wasn't worried. We estimated that the freezer was about the same size as Josh's bass amplifier cabinet, only taller, and I'd hauled that thing more times than I could count. I'd been stuffing all manner of crap into that car for years and she'd never let me down. Many yard sale hosts had looked skeptically from my new purchases to that car, only to be surprised later when I managed it just fine, thank you very much.
I could describe the shoving and heaving and rearranging and sweating and muttering and pushing and slow sinking feelings of despair, but I'll just skip it. The freezer did not fit. The door frame was large enough, the back seat was large enough, but the door wouldn't open far enough. Before you ask, yes, we tried the front door and the trunk, too.
Are you crying and aching for me? I'm starting to tear up just remembering it. My poor tightwad heart was broken that day. I was despondent, and only minimally cheered by the fact that we were able to fit three bookshelves in there. I wrote Kate a check for the shelves, which she immediately tore up. It was a great symbolic gesture, except for the fact that little check pieces kept falling out of her pocket and spreading pieces of my identity on the streets of our nation's capital. She probably would have given me the freezer for free, too, but I try not to think about that.
Eventually, I will find a good deal on a used freezer, and I will be happy. I will buy lots of meat to put in it, because I am not a vegetarian. But I bet I will get it in a totally boring manner instead of in an evening of improbable defrosting hilarity with two of my favorite people ever.
Also, I'll have to find another way to get it home.
9.08.2008
experimental film.
I think this will be the last entry in the Henson video series. I could post Henson-related videos for years, and I would be happy to, but at some point, I need to let people explore their own Muppet obsessions. If you haven't seen the other works, then maybe it's because you are not an enthusiast. We probably could never be close friends.
The real point of the exhibit was not to display Kermit and Rowlf. Everyone already knows that Jim Henson created the Muppets, and they probably all have fond memories of watching Sesame Street or Fraggle Rock or The Muppet Show. But at some point, those people grow up and stop thinking about puppets. It's kid stuff, right? But it's an art form, too, and this man was a visionary. There are a lot of artists out there that I think are probably geniuses, even if I'm not sure why. I frequently don't understand visual art, as hard as I tried when I was dating an artist. And I enjoy music, but I can tell that it doesn't affect me the way it does others. But I feel like I get puppets, and as I think about it, I realize that it's the same as all the things I really love - the combination of art and engineering. Clever dialogue, witty jokes, and interesting stories make my right brain happy. Thinking about how they're doing it makes my left brain happy.
Okay, enough puppet worship. You all think I've really snapped the tether this time, so let's just move on to the videos. This one was my favorite part of the Henson exhibit, because it really let me in on a side of the man that I never knew existed.
This is Time Piece, an experimental film from 1966. Jim stars in it, in case you didn't recognize him as a strapping young man. There's a lot of stop-motion animation going on. There is a stripper, so wait until you get home to watch it. Unless your boss is into Muppets, then I bet you could sell him on it.
And this is The Cube, written by Henson and longtime collaborator Jerry Juhl. It was actually on television back in 1969, before they had anything else to air, I suppose.
Just one final note that the University of Maryland has an archive of Henson's video works. It's free, but you have to be on campus to view it. Don't be surprised if I plan a trip to Baltimore soon.
The real point of the exhibit was not to display Kermit and Rowlf. Everyone already knows that Jim Henson created the Muppets, and they probably all have fond memories of watching Sesame Street or Fraggle Rock or The Muppet Show. But at some point, those people grow up and stop thinking about puppets. It's kid stuff, right? But it's an art form, too, and this man was a visionary. There are a lot of artists out there that I think are probably geniuses, even if I'm not sure why. I frequently don't understand visual art, as hard as I tried when I was dating an artist. And I enjoy music, but I can tell that it doesn't affect me the way it does others. But I feel like I get puppets, and as I think about it, I realize that it's the same as all the things I really love - the combination of art and engineering. Clever dialogue, witty jokes, and interesting stories make my right brain happy. Thinking about how they're doing it makes my left brain happy.
Okay, enough puppet worship. You all think I've really snapped the tether this time, so let's just move on to the videos. This one was my favorite part of the Henson exhibit, because it really let me in on a side of the man that I never knew existed.
This is Time Piece, an experimental film from 1966. Jim stars in it, in case you didn't recognize him as a strapping young man. There's a lot of stop-motion animation going on. There is a stripper, so wait until you get home to watch it. Unless your boss is into Muppets, then I bet you could sell him on it.
And this is The Cube, written by Henson and longtime collaborator Jerry Juhl. It was actually on television back in 1969, before they had anything else to air, I suppose.
Just one final note that the University of Maryland has an archive of Henson's video works. It's free, but you have to be on campus to view it. Don't be surprised if I plan a trip to Baltimore soon.
8.28.2008
large cheer!
What does a Muppet look like live and in the foam?
About what you'd expect.
Only without legs.
About what you'd expect.
Only without legs.
8.27.2008
quick cooked in dragon fire.
We're still doing Henson videos here today, and next are the commercials. Note that The Ladybug Picnic does not endorse any of the products shown below. Except that I do have some La Choy soy sauce in my fridge.
While funny commercials are pretty standard now, apparently back in the 1960s, it was quite a new idea. Henson came up with a series of nearly two hundred 8-second ads for Wilkins coffee. They remind me of the Geico commercials because of their breviy. These are a little violent, so much so that it's almost shocking that they were on TV. It's a little like watching Tom and Jerry now, wondering why you never had a problem with a cat being cut precisely in half when you were a kid.
I think my favorite is when the Washington Monument falls down on the guy because he does not drink Wilkins coffee.
There were also some commercials for Pak-Nit.
I love when the announcer reads the sign, even down to the "close parenthesis." I guess I'm just not used to these types of commercials, where there are characters and a story line disguising the advertising. I feel like I've seen stuff like this in modern commercials, but it came off being cheesy. Maybe things from the 1960s are just allowed to be cheesy.
And here's one for Wilson's Meat.
Of course, it doesn't make me want to eat Wilson's Meat at all, because it apparently gives you astronomical gas.
I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that Cookie Monster originated as an ad gimmick.
He must have turned to cookies when it became hard to find Munchos. Apparently, you can find them in the Midwest.
And here's Nutty Bird, who should also look familiar to anyone who has ever seen any episode of Sesame Street ever. His friend is named Sour Bird.
What's most interesting to me is that they're pushing RC Cola as an energy drink. Now, of course, sodas are just soda, and energy drinks are something else entirely.
You can find lots more commercials on YouTube just by clicking around the related videos to the ones I've shown here. But let's get to my favorite. It's the La Choy Dragon!
Anything that says "Quick-cooked in dragon fire" in such a deadpan voice is a winner.
While funny commercials are pretty standard now, apparently back in the 1960s, it was quite a new idea. Henson came up with a series of nearly two hundred 8-second ads for Wilkins coffee. They remind me of the Geico commercials because of their breviy. These are a little violent, so much so that it's almost shocking that they were on TV. It's a little like watching Tom and Jerry now, wondering why you never had a problem with a cat being cut precisely in half when you were a kid.
I think my favorite is when the Washington Monument falls down on the guy because he does not drink Wilkins coffee.
There were also some commercials for Pak-Nit.
I love when the announcer reads the sign, even down to the "close parenthesis." I guess I'm just not used to these types of commercials, where there are characters and a story line disguising the advertising. I feel like I've seen stuff like this in modern commercials, but it came off being cheesy. Maybe things from the 1960s are just allowed to be cheesy.
And here's one for Wilson's Meat.
Of course, it doesn't make me want to eat Wilson's Meat at all, because it apparently gives you astronomical gas.
I guess it shouldn't be a surprise that Cookie Monster originated as an ad gimmick.
He must have turned to cookies when it became hard to find Munchos. Apparently, you can find them in the Midwest.
And here's Nutty Bird, who should also look familiar to anyone who has ever seen any episode of Sesame Street ever. His friend is named Sour Bird.
What's most interesting to me is that they're pushing RC Cola as an energy drink. Now, of course, sodas are just soda, and energy drinks are something else entirely.
You can find lots more commercials on YouTube just by clicking around the related videos to the ones I've shown here. But let's get to my favorite. It's the La Choy Dragon!
Anything that says "Quick-cooked in dragon fire" in such a deadpan voice is a winner.
8.26.2008
Sam and Friends
Jim Henson had a Washington, D.C. public access five-minute television show called Sam and Friends. The show ran from 1955 to 1961. Five minutes is really, really short. I'm having a hard time coming up with an equivalent in today's viewing. I saw an interview with Henson who said it took about half a day to film each show. These shows feature an early Kermit. He's missing his jagged collar, but otherwise looks just like him.
There a full episode of Sam and Friends here(the original poster does not allow embedding in blog posts - harrumph).
I like the news anchor sketch. Obviously, they just took a clip of the actual news anchor introducing himself and then edited it to fit the questions. Particularly clever was the way they took "New York" and turned it into "Yorick." And check out Kermit's noticeably southern accent. Henson was from Mississippi, so this is to be expected, but it makes me smile to think of Kermit as a good old southern frog.
This next sketch was shown at the Smithsonian exhibit. It features Kermit again and a character called Harry the Hipster (whose voice sounds a lot like Rowlf the Dog).
A later version of this sketch appeared on the Ed Sullivan show. This time, Kermit is the hipster, and instead of jazz, they talk about abstract thinking.
I love Kermit's outfit. Finally, there's one last incarnation of this sketch. This one was on Sesame Street.
Disclaimer: No promises on how long these will be available, as I'm not in control of YouTube.
There a full episode of Sam and Friends here(the original poster does not allow embedding in blog posts - harrumph).
I like the news anchor sketch. Obviously, they just took a clip of the actual news anchor introducing himself and then edited it to fit the questions. Particularly clever was the way they took "New York" and turned it into "Yorick." And check out Kermit's noticeably southern accent. Henson was from Mississippi, so this is to be expected, but it makes me smile to think of Kermit as a good old southern frog.
This next sketch was shown at the Smithsonian exhibit. It features Kermit again and a character called Harry the Hipster (whose voice sounds a lot like Rowlf the Dog).
A later version of this sketch appeared on the Ed Sullivan show. This time, Kermit is the hipster, and instead of jazz, they talk about abstract thinking.
I love Kermit's outfit. Finally, there's one last incarnation of this sketch. This one was on Sesame Street.
Disclaimer: No promises on how long these will be available, as I'm not in control of YouTube.
8.25.2008
muppetational.
"How were the Muppets?"
Three people who I don't really know all that well asked me that on Saturday night. I was sorta embarrassed, as I hadn't realized that Josh had spilled my secret: I have a Muppet problem.
The secret is out now, so I might as well go all the way about it. The reason anyone asked me that question at all is because I went to Washington, D.C. last weekend specifically to see an exhibit about Jim Henson at the Smithsonian Institution.
Yes, I saw Muppets. I even took pictures of two of them, until I happened to see the sign that said I was not supposed to. I saw Kermit, Rowlf, Bert and Ernie, King Goshposh and Featherstone. I saw Mahna Mahna and the two Snowths.
But really, the exhibit was about Henson. So while there were the actual puppets, there was a greater focus on the designs. Next to a picture of Animal was a sheet featuring early sketches of him that were then given to a puppet creator to make him. There were tons of storyboards and scripts from TV shows, movies, commercials. There were half a dozen descriptions of projects that were proposed and designed but never created. Everything seemed to start out as a doodle on a piece of scrap paper and then ended up as a fantastic creation.
There was also a children's resource room where little kids could play and create. Along the wall was a series of foam blank faces with foam eyes, ears, noses, mustaches, eyebrows, and mouths. You could take the parts off and rearrange them in a sort of Mr. Potato Head style. This is how many Muppets are made. Their bodies and heads are blank canvases that the puppeteers stick face parts onto to create whatever sort of character they need. Along another wall was a long desk with blank storyboards for kids to make up stories and set up scenes. Finally, there was a small puppet stage where kids could put on a show. In front of the stage was a camera that fed directly into a screen on another wall. There were kids of all ages at each area.
The gift shop was a disappointment. I came prepared to drop some serious money on Henson memorabilia, but everything being sold was stuff you could find at Toys 'R' Us. What I really wanted was a DVD of the old stuff - the experimental film and the silly coffee commercials. But there was nothing at the store that was specific to the exhibit, not even t-shirts. I bought an Electric Mayhem button and left grumpy.
The exhibit is traveling and free. If you happen to be in any of the cities that are showing it, you should go. No, seriously, go. You'll like it.
I told my mother about the exhibit, and she proceeded to find a bunch of online video related to the things I saw at the exhibit. I did not know she possessed such YouTube skills. So I'm going to be posting some Jim Henson related videos in the next few days. But seriously, go to the exhibit.
Three people who I don't really know all that well asked me that on Saturday night. I was sorta embarrassed, as I hadn't realized that Josh had spilled my secret: I have a Muppet problem.
The secret is out now, so I might as well go all the way about it. The reason anyone asked me that question at all is because I went to Washington, D.C. last weekend specifically to see an exhibit about Jim Henson at the Smithsonian Institution.
Yes, I saw Muppets. I even took pictures of two of them, until I happened to see the sign that said I was not supposed to. I saw Kermit, Rowlf, Bert and Ernie, King Goshposh and Featherstone. I saw Mahna Mahna and the two Snowths.
But really, the exhibit was about Henson. So while there were the actual puppets, there was a greater focus on the designs. Next to a picture of Animal was a sheet featuring early sketches of him that were then given to a puppet creator to make him. There were tons of storyboards and scripts from TV shows, movies, commercials. There were half a dozen descriptions of projects that were proposed and designed but never created. Everything seemed to start out as a doodle on a piece of scrap paper and then ended up as a fantastic creation.
There was also a children's resource room where little kids could play and create. Along the wall was a series of foam blank faces with foam eyes, ears, noses, mustaches, eyebrows, and mouths. You could take the parts off and rearrange them in a sort of Mr. Potato Head style. This is how many Muppets are made. Their bodies and heads are blank canvases that the puppeteers stick face parts onto to create whatever sort of character they need. Along another wall was a long desk with blank storyboards for kids to make up stories and set up scenes. Finally, there was a small puppet stage where kids could put on a show. In front of the stage was a camera that fed directly into a screen on another wall. There were kids of all ages at each area.
The gift shop was a disappointment. I came prepared to drop some serious money on Henson memorabilia, but everything being sold was stuff you could find at Toys 'R' Us. What I really wanted was a DVD of the old stuff - the experimental film and the silly coffee commercials. But there was nothing at the store that was specific to the exhibit, not even t-shirts. I bought an Electric Mayhem button and left grumpy.
The exhibit is traveling and free. If you happen to be in any of the cities that are showing it, you should go. No, seriously, go. You'll like it.
I told my mother about the exhibit, and she proceeded to find a bunch of online video related to the things I saw at the exhibit. I did not know she possessed such YouTube skills. So I'm going to be posting some Jim Henson related videos in the next few days. But seriously, go to the exhibit.
8.13.2008
butter flavor.
We left late and arrived with time to kill. I'm not sure if I will ever get the hang of musician time. You'll be told to arrive somewhere at a particular time, and my inclination is to arrive five minutes before. But even if you arrive an hour late, you'll still have to wait on something else. The only coping method is to just go with the flow, chill out, lighten up.
Every time we come to Wilmington, I think about how I'd like to go there some weekend and just explore. There are about ten restaurants that look like they must have delicious secrets, not to mention a bunch of interesting-looking boutiques. Wilmington reminds me of Boone, only it's next to an ocean instead of a mountain.
So after receiving the information that we didn't need to be anywhere in the next hour, we put the bass guitar back in the car and headed toward the boardwalk. We stopped at an excellent ice cream shop, where I surprised myself by ordering butter pecan, a flavor that my parents used to buy every once in a while but that I never fully appreciated until now. I will confess that it never before clicked in my mind that it's butterscotch flavor, not butter flavor.
It was almost sunset, and downtown was crowded with tourists. Most of them were crowded around some sort of music festival, so we went in the opposite direction. We held hands some, but hand-holding has been a large failing experiment in our relationship. We're the same height, but his arms are longer. I don't remember what we talked about. Something silly, I think.
We reached a bridge and took seats on a bench. There were not very many people out walking on this end, mostly scattered couples and young families. A little girl and her mom walked by, the kid unabashedly staring at my ice cream. I knew what was coming. "Mama, I want ice cream." The mom looked around and saw me, guiltily looking back. They moved on while I continued my butterscotch enjoyment.
"That's the good thing about being an adult," I said in between licks.
"What is?"
"You control your own ice cream."
Every time we come to Wilmington, I think about how I'd like to go there some weekend and just explore. There are about ten restaurants that look like they must have delicious secrets, not to mention a bunch of interesting-looking boutiques. Wilmington reminds me of Boone, only it's next to an ocean instead of a mountain.
So after receiving the information that we didn't need to be anywhere in the next hour, we put the bass guitar back in the car and headed toward the boardwalk. We stopped at an excellent ice cream shop, where I surprised myself by ordering butter pecan, a flavor that my parents used to buy every once in a while but that I never fully appreciated until now. I will confess that it never before clicked in my mind that it's butterscotch flavor, not butter flavor.
It was almost sunset, and downtown was crowded with tourists. Most of them were crowded around some sort of music festival, so we went in the opposite direction. We held hands some, but hand-holding has been a large failing experiment in our relationship. We're the same height, but his arms are longer. I don't remember what we talked about. Something silly, I think.
We reached a bridge and took seats on a bench. There were not very many people out walking on this end, mostly scattered couples and young families. A little girl and her mom walked by, the kid unabashedly staring at my ice cream. I knew what was coming. "Mama, I want ice cream." The mom looked around and saw me, guiltily looking back. They moved on while I continued my butterscotch enjoyment.
"That's the good thing about being an adult," I said in between licks.
"What is?"
"You control your own ice cream."
8.08.2008
my shiny red and blue spandex.
I went to a small shindig recently that my friend Sarah was throwing. We were all sitting in the living room and talking about the internet. I've already covered that I don't do Facebook, and so I don't really get it. People who use it seem to be constantly checking it. I don't know what they're doing with it, but it seems to be addictive, which makes me curious about it and against it at the same time.
And then they were talking about their blogs. I don't talk much about my blog in conversation. In fact, I was listening to the conversation when Sarah piped up, "Sandra has a good blog!" to which I replied, "No, I don't." See, I was being sneaky there. I was actually just denying that I have a good blog, which is called being modest. But other people probably interpreted it as me denying that I had a blog at all. I didn't want to talk about my blog to these complete strangers, so it was my intention for them to jump to that conclusion, which is called being misleading or possibly lying.
The whole conversation weirded me out. To talk about your online entity seemed almost taboo, like you were giving away your secret identity. It would be like Clark Kent walking around with his dress shirt half unbuttoned, revealing his shiny red and blue spandex.
But I think I'm probably just weird about my blog. For a long time, I never let anyone read anything I wrote. Then after I started the blog, I never told anyone it existed or where they could find it. I've slowly gotten comfortable with the idea of others, strangers and friends and family alike, reading what seems to me to be personal. Even when I'm talking about something that isn't personal at all, it feels that way because I guarded my writing for so long. Also, I hold back very little.
It throws me off when someone talks to me in person about a blog entry. They want to discuss something about me in a familiar fashion, as if we'd already had a conversation about it. But I never had such a conversation with them. How do they know? HOW DID THEY GET INTO MY MIND??? But then I remember that I wrote a blog about it. That second of confusion and paranoia happens every time, and honestly, I feel off-kilter for the whole conversation.
But I'm glad I did it. I'm glad I started writing on a regular basis, and I'm glad I am sharing it. It's an excellent medium for me to get stuff out there, and I swear I think I'm becoming more introspective because I'm constantly thinking about turning everything into a blog entry. And it fosters relationships. I know that people feel closer to me when they read it, when they know the little things going on in my life and when they read thoughts that might not come across in conversation. And while it doesn't happen as often as I might like, I do get emails and comments that start conversations that might not otherwise have occurred.
I started the blog to get a book deal. Okay, not explicitly to get a book deal, but I saw that sort of thing happen for other bloggers and the idea was sorta hanging out in the back of my head that that would be a pretty cool thing to happen to me. But I am not famous, and I don't have that many readers outside my family. I could print everything out and staple it together, and my mom would think it was awesome, but that's not the same. Oh well.
And then they were talking about their blogs. I don't talk much about my blog in conversation. In fact, I was listening to the conversation when Sarah piped up, "Sandra has a good blog!" to which I replied, "No, I don't." See, I was being sneaky there. I was actually just denying that I have a good blog, which is called being modest. But other people probably interpreted it as me denying that I had a blog at all. I didn't want to talk about my blog to these complete strangers, so it was my intention for them to jump to that conclusion, which is called being misleading or possibly lying.
The whole conversation weirded me out. To talk about your online entity seemed almost taboo, like you were giving away your secret identity. It would be like Clark Kent walking around with his dress shirt half unbuttoned, revealing his shiny red and blue spandex.
But I think I'm probably just weird about my blog. For a long time, I never let anyone read anything I wrote. Then after I started the blog, I never told anyone it existed or where they could find it. I've slowly gotten comfortable with the idea of others, strangers and friends and family alike, reading what seems to me to be personal. Even when I'm talking about something that isn't personal at all, it feels that way because I guarded my writing for so long. Also, I hold back very little.
It throws me off when someone talks to me in person about a blog entry. They want to discuss something about me in a familiar fashion, as if we'd already had a conversation about it. But I never had such a conversation with them. How do they know? HOW DID THEY GET INTO MY MIND??? But then I remember that I wrote a blog about it. That second of confusion and paranoia happens every time, and honestly, I feel off-kilter for the whole conversation.
But I'm glad I did it. I'm glad I started writing on a regular basis, and I'm glad I am sharing it. It's an excellent medium for me to get stuff out there, and I swear I think I'm becoming more introspective because I'm constantly thinking about turning everything into a blog entry. And it fosters relationships. I know that people feel closer to me when they read it, when they know the little things going on in my life and when they read thoughts that might not come across in conversation. And while it doesn't happen as often as I might like, I do get emails and comments that start conversations that might not otherwise have occurred.
I started the blog to get a book deal. Okay, not explicitly to get a book deal, but I saw that sort of thing happen for other bloggers and the idea was sorta hanging out in the back of my head that that would be a pretty cool thing to happen to me. But I am not famous, and I don't have that many readers outside my family. I could print everything out and staple it together, and my mom would think it was awesome, but that's not the same. Oh well.
8.07.2008
heroes on the half-shell.
I believe that you can tell a little something about a person based on how they feel about the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles. When the old show first started airing on Saturday mornings back in 1988, I was in the target audience.
I've never seen the movies. I've seen part of the beginning of the first one, which I watched with my friend Brandi, whose parents had a TV in their van and who let her watch movies with bad words. My parents were not like this. I remember watching it and wondering why it was so dimly lit and why the costumes were so crappy. Eight years old, and I was unable to get past the fact that I was watching a grown man in a turtle suit. Then Raphael said the 'S'-word, and I felt a little betrayed.
I watched the TV show long after I had seen all the episodes. Really, I probably had aged out, but I watched them anyway because we didn't have cable. Five channels and not a thing to watch. Then I watched an episode that Josh happened to have in his video collection, left over from his grade school days. You know how some shows work on multiple levels such that when you watch them again in your twenties, they're still as good as you remembered? TMNT is not one of those shows. It's awful.
But everybody watched it at that age. And so I think you can tell a lot about a person by their favorite ninja turtle. Now, obviously, Donatello was the best one. He was always building these crazy inventions that completely saved the day. Donatello was turtle ex machina. He solved problems with his mind.
But I've heard that other people, for whatever foolish reason, do prefer other turtles. I can sort of get on board with Raphael, who made all the sarcastic commentary. Raphael always seemed a bit bitter to me, though, like a turtle who'd lost hope. And Michaelangelo might be fun at a party, but he lacked depth. Yes, yes, I enjoy pizza and dancing, too, Mike, but can we sit down and talk about some good books we might have read lately?
I played ninja turtles with a cousin that I had for a while. Can you have temporary cousins? I did. She was a foster kid who lived with my aunt. She was roughly my age, and I remember playing with her one summer while our families were both visiting my grandparents' farm in Kansas. We were probably about nine. And she liked Leonardo. This totally blew my mind. I mean, really, who likes Leonardo? Yeah, he was the leader, but his main interests was apparently teamwork. His favorite book was The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People (his favorite is number six: synergize). Leonardo was a nice guy and an effective leader, sure, but he was just so bland and boring.
I hope that my nine-year-old self never said, "You like Leonardo? Really? People do that?" That sounds totally like something I would have said. Hopefully, I was caught in the dilemma of wanting to convince her of the superiority of Donatello while enjoying the fact that I didn't have to fight over getting to play Donatello.
Of course I didn't think your favorite ninja turtle said anything about you then. I didn't even really understand why people liked turtles other than Donatello; I assumed that they hadn't really thought about the issue carefully. But I think now about my peers and I feel like I can almost pick out who their favorite turtle would be. I also understand all too well that a lot of people don't automatically associate smart with ultra-super-cool. And I think about my temporary cousin, who had been shuttled around to who knows how many different families. Maybe all she wanted was someone stable who would take charge of her life once and for all.
I think I have just composed the most profound piece of writing on the subject of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the history of time. Turtle power!
I've never seen the movies. I've seen part of the beginning of the first one, which I watched with my friend Brandi, whose parents had a TV in their van and who let her watch movies with bad words. My parents were not like this. I remember watching it and wondering why it was so dimly lit and why the costumes were so crappy. Eight years old, and I was unable to get past the fact that I was watching a grown man in a turtle suit. Then Raphael said the 'S'-word, and I felt a little betrayed.
I watched the TV show long after I had seen all the episodes. Really, I probably had aged out, but I watched them anyway because we didn't have cable. Five channels and not a thing to watch. Then I watched an episode that Josh happened to have in his video collection, left over from his grade school days. You know how some shows work on multiple levels such that when you watch them again in your twenties, they're still as good as you remembered? TMNT is not one of those shows. It's awful.
But everybody watched it at that age. And so I think you can tell a lot about a person by their favorite ninja turtle. Now, obviously, Donatello was the best one. He was always building these crazy inventions that completely saved the day. Donatello was turtle ex machina. He solved problems with his mind.
But I've heard that other people, for whatever foolish reason, do prefer other turtles. I can sort of get on board with Raphael, who made all the sarcastic commentary. Raphael always seemed a bit bitter to me, though, like a turtle who'd lost hope. And Michaelangelo might be fun at a party, but he lacked depth. Yes, yes, I enjoy pizza and dancing, too, Mike, but can we sit down and talk about some good books we might have read lately?
I played ninja turtles with a cousin that I had for a while. Can you have temporary cousins? I did. She was a foster kid who lived with my aunt. She was roughly my age, and I remember playing with her one summer while our families were both visiting my grandparents' farm in Kansas. We were probably about nine. And she liked Leonardo. This totally blew my mind. I mean, really, who likes Leonardo? Yeah, he was the leader, but his main interests was apparently teamwork. His favorite book was The Seven Habits of Highly Effective People (his favorite is number six: synergize). Leonardo was a nice guy and an effective leader, sure, but he was just so bland and boring.
I hope that my nine-year-old self never said, "You like Leonardo? Really? People do that?" That sounds totally like something I would have said. Hopefully, I was caught in the dilemma of wanting to convince her of the superiority of Donatello while enjoying the fact that I didn't have to fight over getting to play Donatello.
Of course I didn't think your favorite ninja turtle said anything about you then. I didn't even really understand why people liked turtles other than Donatello; I assumed that they hadn't really thought about the issue carefully. But I think now about my peers and I feel like I can almost pick out who their favorite turtle would be. I also understand all too well that a lot of people don't automatically associate smart with ultra-super-cool. And I think about my temporary cousin, who had been shuttled around to who knows how many different families. Maybe all she wanted was someone stable who would take charge of her life once and for all.
I think I have just composed the most profound piece of writing on the subject of the Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles in the history of time. Turtle power!
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