I know I am starting to get nostalgic when my iPod starts crowding up with cover songs.
Oh to be in 1969 again...at the 5 and Dime?
Magnet is Norwegian folk singer Evan Johansen. Well a Norwegian who sings American folk music...not Norwegian folk music...which looks like this. Gemma Hayes is an Irish singer songwriter who is also incredibly beautiful. Together they make the perfect match to cover Dylan, this video is American Gothic come to life:
A more recent cover of Miike Snow by Sky Ferriera. There wasn't a real video, but I though this worked great as a visual eulogy, not that the 17-year-old Ferriera's death is imminent or anything. Anyway, the song works great when I am reminiscing about 2009.
Here is a concert I wished I been to...
1969,2009, pop, folk, soul, indie. Everyone is sharing sounds and genres and we re standing right in the middle of the globalized music era which I now christen "Post-genre" music. Just going along with the trend, possibly started by evil capitalists trying to create universal free markets (thanks Michael Denning!)...
...or possibly Bill Gates is behind this one too.
Monday, September 27, 2010
Saturday, September 11, 2010
My husband, the gay pornographer.
My husband's name comes up a lot if you Google it. You have to search beyond the endless You Tube clips of Michael Jordan dunking on Patrick Ewing.
Beyond the impostors: a Southern Mississippi football player, an artist, an attorney, the famous producer, a wedding photographer, a Columbia University grants coordinator.
There are 375 just like him according to the white pages in America alone.
Then we get to the real MJ. Maybe old records or articles of his Track times. Maybe an old review or sports commentary on the Phillies. A lot of commentary on the Phillies. A funny short story. A couple of acting headshots. All the innocent pastimes for a guy who has an eclectic background and likes to opine frequently.
And after reading one of his reviews on a film website, I put his name into the "search" for another. I was looking for some entertaining reading over dinner. His name did come up, in the Gay DVD section...
...under a movie called Rican Sizzle Gang Bang 2. A movie described by its various positions. I cannot rewrite the entire review by Mr. Powerbar, who REALLY liked the movie, but here are a few snippets:
"There are never any less than six men at once...We 'venture to that sizzling little island' to dig up some hot Latin men. Bobby Fox heads up this hot Latino cast of studs in action guaranteed to get you off. No talk, no plotline, just rough 'n tumble gang banging...starring Bobby Fox, Padro Rodriguez, Calvin Sabatini, Mark Starr, Andrew Wright, Joe Perez, Antonio Satana, and Michael Ewing..."
Wait, what? But...that's...my...
There was a clip.
I had to watch it.
Just in case.
The video clip took about 30 seconds to download. This was my thought process: There is no way, why am I even watching this...no absolutely not...but...no it's not possible, but perhaps...I mean I don't know...OF course I know, he would have said something...maybe. Or maybe not. Would it change anything? No, of course not. No, it was the past, there were hard times. We all have hard times. He was an actor. Oh my god he was an actor... He wouldn't have used his name. Unless maybe he didn't have a choice or didn't know. He doesn't even look Puerto Rican. Wait maybe they used spray tan. Would I recognize him? He won't have chest hair. If it's him, do I tell him I saw it? Why would he be in the sequel and not the first Rican Sizzle? I think he is better than sequels. Its not him, he wouldn't do a sequel...but... should I call him or tell him in person next weekend when he comes? What if it ruins the whole weekend? I'll wait until the airport. No, I can't keep this inside. I'll call him. We can handle this. I can handle this...
There was indeed a lot of spray tan. And a lot of penises. Eating a tossed salad (one of those moments where reality mocks motif), I had my first experience with gay porn. And I spent the entire time with my head against the screen trying to see if the skinny kid in the back was the closet-skeleton version of MJ. I can't make him out because his face is obscured by penis. It wasn't him. Of course. Of course not. See. I knew it. I was right, he is too white to ever pass for anything other than Irish American.
I would breathe a sign of relief, but I can't because I just saw a Gang Bang.
Beyond the impostors: a Southern Mississippi football player, an artist, an attorney, the famous producer, a wedding photographer, a Columbia University grants coordinator.
There are 375 just like him according to the white pages in America alone.Then we get to the real MJ. Maybe old records or articles of his Track times. Maybe an old review or sports commentary on the Phillies. A lot of commentary on the Phillies. A funny short story. A couple of acting headshots. All the innocent pastimes for a guy who has an eclectic background and likes to opine frequently.
And after reading one of his reviews on a film website, I put his name into the "search" for another. I was looking for some entertaining reading over dinner. His name did come up, in the Gay DVD section...
...under a movie called Rican Sizzle Gang Bang 2. A movie described by its various positions. I cannot rewrite the entire review by Mr. Powerbar, who REALLY liked the movie, but here are a few snippets:
"There are never any less than six men at once...We 'venture to that sizzling little island' to dig up some hot Latin men. Bobby Fox heads up this hot Latino cast of studs in action guaranteed to get you off. No talk, no plotline, just rough 'n tumble gang banging...starring Bobby Fox, Padro Rodriguez, Calvin Sabatini, Mark Starr, Andrew Wright, Joe Perez, Antonio Satana, and Michael Ewing..."
Wait, what? But...that's...my...
There was a clip.
I had to watch it.
Just in case.
The video clip took about 30 seconds to download. This was my thought process: There is no way, why am I even watching this...no absolutely not...but...no it's not possible, but perhaps...I mean I don't know...OF course I know, he would have said something...maybe. Or maybe not. Would it change anything? No, of course not. No, it was the past, there were hard times. We all have hard times. He was an actor. Oh my god he was an actor... He wouldn't have used his name. Unless maybe he didn't have a choice or didn't know. He doesn't even look Puerto Rican. Wait maybe they used spray tan. Would I recognize him? He won't have chest hair. If it's him, do I tell him I saw it? Why would he be in the sequel and not the first Rican Sizzle? I think he is better than sequels. Its not him, he wouldn't do a sequel...but... should I call him or tell him in person next weekend when he comes? What if it ruins the whole weekend? I'll wait until the airport. No, I can't keep this inside. I'll call him. We can handle this. I can handle this...
There was indeed a lot of spray tan. And a lot of penises. Eating a tossed salad (one of those moments where reality mocks motif), I had my first experience with gay porn. And I spent the entire time with my head against the screen trying to see if the skinny kid in the back was the closet-skeleton version of MJ. I can't make him out because his face is obscured by penis. It wasn't him. Of course. Of course not. See. I knew it. I was right, he is too white to ever pass for anything other than Irish American.I would breathe a sign of relief, but I can't because I just saw a Gang Bang.
Monday, September 6, 2010
The Importance of Being Religious
The South is God's Chocolate Factory: an alternative reality that is just as viral, and to an outsider, just as fictional. On Sunday, the city is closed and quiet. Only the hum of the Walmart can be heard. This week I had three Southern religious experiences:
1. When you walk into an Episcopal Church anywhere in the country, one thing you can be sure of is consistency. Same architecture, same green carpet, same Books of Common Prayer, same choir outfits, same thurifer, same little old ladies in the front row, same female minister. WHAT? IN OXFORD? But yes, there was a woman in alms. I couldn't understand how the parish I attended with my grandmother in QUEENS, still had not progressed forward, but in Mississippi there was a female Reverend... and no one blinked. The rest of the service reminded me so much of Grace Church that I was shocked when the lector read with a Southern accent. "In the Nayme of the Lawd." Another difference... the pews were packed. Shoulder to shoulder, I waited for the Jonas Brothers to walk out. They didn't. But when people sang, I believe God could hear it. I found myself observing like an anthropologist and missing the spiritual mark. Too many people, too much ritual, too much distraction. No one welcoming me to coffee hour or asking my name. They didn't need to. They had the members. I walked out and thought, this was pointless.
2. Ole Miss Rebels vs. Jacksonville State Gamecocks home opener.
I am not trying to be cute. Football is a religion. It is the openly accepted golden calf. I attended service on Saturday and it was filled with the ritual and fanaticism of any given Sunday. They have tailgating to the extreme. The Grove (a lawn area on the campus) becomes this kind of temporary city, like a refugee camp or a Brazilian favela, only the tents have floral bouquets and chandeliers, and everyone is dressed for the inaugural ball. Men in button downs and dress slacks, girls in cocktail dresses a
nd high heels. They hang out in their fraternity/sorority's tent for a while then they find their parents' tent and spend time with their Mom, Dad, Uncles, Cousins, etc. I cannot think of a college event outside of graduation that I would have spent with my parents. Ever. Much less get drunk with them. However, the University is a cultural center, and at that center is God and Football. Again, the chanting was so loud, Jesus Christ could hear it. He was singing along, "Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almighty."
Then they lost to a team they were expected to crush and everyone walked home in complete silence. The praise service suddenly transformed into a JFK-like funeral and all the women looked just as elegantly despondent as Jackie O.
3. Then the Quaker meeting. After a long search on the internet I found the home of the Oxford Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends and attended my first meeting since my wedding. Attendance: me, two elderly women, and two dogs. The dogs somehow knew the meaning of meeting. They were in the middle of barking and playing when one of the women yelled, "MEETING! I SAID MEETING!" and they lied down on the floor and closed their eyes. Well done. An hour of silence, as if I don't have enough silence being alone in this town. But in contrast to the noise of the previous two services, I welcomed the stillness. God might have heard nothing, but I heard everything, and it all bounced around inside my head. Afterward I was welcome to talk, eat, and drink coffee. I miss that feeling of home and family, where I could feel free to rinse a cup and put it in the dishwasher. Thank God for the Quakers. My spiritual side feels like at least I am paying attention to it.
Church and football, like I have never experienced before. The young faces with their bibles and the elderly people making announcements. The music of a hundred different genres from the unplugged organ, to the rock band Baptists, to the chanting of a thousand people screaming the fight song. All these different traditions, rituals, and sects of Christianity, and they all have one thing in common: making a lot of noise.
Except the Quakers, who sit in silence.
1. When you walk into an Episcopal Church anywhere in the country, one thing you can be sure of is consistency. Same architecture, same green carpet, same Books of Common Prayer, same choir outfits, same thurifer, same little old ladies in the front row, same female minister. WHAT? IN OXFORD? But yes, there was a woman in alms. I couldn't understand how the parish I attended with my grandmother in QUEENS, still had not progressed forward, but in Mississippi there was a female Reverend... and no one blinked. The rest of the service reminded me so much of Grace Church that I was shocked when the lector read with a Southern accent. "In the Nayme of the Lawd." Another difference... the pews were packed. Shoulder to shoulder, I waited for the Jonas Brothers to walk out. They didn't. But when people sang, I believe God could hear it. I found myself observing like an anthropologist and missing the spiritual mark. Too many people, too much ritual, too much distraction. No one welcoming me to coffee hour or asking my name. They didn't need to. They had the members. I walked out and thought, this was pointless.
2. Ole Miss Rebels vs. Jacksonville State Gamecocks home opener.
I am not trying to be cute. Football is a religion. It is the openly accepted golden calf. I attended service on Saturday and it was filled with the ritual and fanaticism of any given Sunday. They have tailgating to the extreme. The Grove (a lawn area on the campus) becomes this kind of temporary city, like a refugee camp or a Brazilian favela, only the tents have floral bouquets and chandeliers, and everyone is dressed for the inaugural ball. Men in button downs and dress slacks, girls in cocktail dresses a
nd high heels. They hang out in their fraternity/sorority's tent for a while then they find their parents' tent and spend time with their Mom, Dad, Uncles, Cousins, etc. I cannot think of a college event outside of graduation that I would have spent with my parents. Ever. Much less get drunk with them. However, the University is a cultural center, and at that center is God and Football. Again, the chanting was so loud, Jesus Christ could hear it. He was singing along, "Hotty Toddy, Gosh Almighty." Then they lost to a team they were expected to crush and everyone walked home in complete silence. The praise service suddenly transformed into a JFK-like funeral and all the women looked just as elegantly despondent as Jackie O.
3. Then the Quaker meeting. After a long search on the internet I found the home of the Oxford Meeting of the Religious Society of Friends and attended my first meeting since my wedding. Attendance: me, two elderly women, and two dogs. The dogs somehow knew the meaning of meeting. They were in the middle of barking and playing when one of the women yelled, "MEETING! I SAID MEETING!" and they lied down on the floor and closed their eyes. Well done. An hour of silence, as if I don't have enough silence being alone in this town. But in contrast to the noise of the previous two services, I welcomed the stillness. God might have heard nothing, but I heard everything, and it all bounced around inside my head. Afterward I was welcome to talk, eat, and drink coffee. I miss that feeling of home and family, where I could feel free to rinse a cup and put it in the dishwasher. Thank God for the Quakers. My spiritual side feels like at least I am paying attention to it.
Church and football, like I have never experienced before. The young faces with their bibles and the elderly people making announcements. The music of a hundred different genres from the unplugged organ, to the rock band Baptists, to the chanting of a thousand people screaming the fight song. All these different traditions, rituals, and sects of Christianity, and they all have one thing in common: making a lot of noise.
Except the Quakers, who sit in silence.
Thursday, September 2, 2010
Housewives of our Lives
Housewives.
A term that almost disappeared in the politically correct folds of our language. No one would call a Black person Colored. No one would call their cleaning lady...a maid. Housewife was almost permanently buried in the graveyard next to Injun and Celestial. But someone brought it back from the dead. Hello, Mrs. Lazarus, love your garden!
When housewives started driving SUVs instead of minivans, they were renamed Stay-at-home-Moms. When people realized they often took care of household accounting, schedules both social and familial, community involvement, and part time jobs in order to help make that college tuition, they were "graduated" to a trade: Homemaker. There is no term that does not have diminutive connotations despite the struggles of these women (and often forgotten about men) to hold a family unit together. But at least it wasn't the word housewife. You're chained to the house and you exist as a wife.
SOMEONE saw this disappearing from our vernacular and said "Holy shit, we need a reality TV show." We need to re-meem 'housewife.' Good job, boys. America now hears this term at least once a day.
The idleness of the wealthy has been a long standing literary and cultural trope. The women scream obscenities at each other and create drama over trivial matters. The idea is that they have so little to do, that they are forced to create problems and then the working man/woman says, "THANK GOD my 9-7 job and 800 other responsibilities and obligations tire me out so much that I don't have those issues."
I love the campy quality of this clip:
But these aren't the aristocrats mocked by Jane Austen; they are common women who clawed into a higher income bracket. They are ridiculous, but they understand the middle-class life, thus defy the previous isolation of the aloof wealthy person. Danielle was a stripper. They are the American Dream. Apparently.
One of the women, Caroline, is a smart, emotional person with an unfortunate accent. She is the wisest person on TV right now. She called out all reality TV stars on "characterization" during the reunion. She said no one can blame editing. She admits that she said those things and acted that way, even when she was making a fool out of herself. She repeats, editing has nothing to do with it. Brilliant.
This is a picture of the founder of New Jersey. Lord Berkeley:
Lord Berkeley was an idle wealthy person. In an insignificant moment in his life he granted NJ its independence and sold it to Quakers who weren't comfortable in New York and wanted to move there. Funny. I just had a Quaker wedding with a man from Jersey. I, too, could be a Housewife of New Jersey.
Or at least get points for knowing who they are.
A term that almost disappeared in the politically correct folds of our language. No one would call a Black person Colored. No one would call their cleaning lady...a maid. Housewife was almost permanently buried in the graveyard next to Injun and Celestial. But someone brought it back from the dead. Hello, Mrs. Lazarus, love your garden!
When housewives started driving SUVs instead of minivans, they were renamed Stay-at-home-Moms. When people realized they often took care of household accounting, schedules both social and familial, community involvement, and part time jobs in order to help make that college tuition, they were "graduated" to a trade: Homemaker. There is no term that does not have diminutive connotations despite the struggles of these women (and often forgotten about men) to hold a family unit together. But at least it wasn't the word housewife. You're chained to the house and you exist as a wife.
SOMEONE saw this disappearing from our vernacular and said "Holy shit, we need a reality TV show." We need to re-meem 'housewife.' Good job, boys. America now hears this term at least once a day.
The idleness of the wealthy has been a long standing literary and cultural trope. The women scream obscenities at each other and create drama over trivial matters. The idea is that they have so little to do, that they are forced to create problems and then the working man/woman says, "THANK GOD my 9-7 job and 800 other responsibilities and obligations tire me out so much that I don't have those issues."
I love the campy quality of this clip:
But these aren't the aristocrats mocked by Jane Austen; they are common women who clawed into a higher income bracket. They are ridiculous, but they understand the middle-class life, thus defy the previous isolation of the aloof wealthy person. Danielle was a stripper. They are the American Dream. Apparently.
One of the women, Caroline, is a smart, emotional person with an unfortunate accent. She is the wisest person on TV right now. She called out all reality TV stars on "characterization" during the reunion. She said no one can blame editing. She admits that she said those things and acted that way, even when she was making a fool out of herself. She repeats, editing has nothing to do with it. Brilliant.This is a picture of the founder of New Jersey. Lord Berkeley:
Lord Berkeley was an idle wealthy person. In an insignificant moment in his life he granted NJ its independence and sold it to Quakers who weren't comfortable in New York and wanted to move there. Funny. I just had a Quaker wedding with a man from Jersey. I, too, could be a Housewife of New Jersey.
Or at least get points for knowing who they are.
Tuesday, August 31, 2010
EDUCATION VS. EDUCATION
VS.
Graduate seminars are composed of two essential moments. Either I think to myself, "OK that sounds vaguely familiar." This is usually followed by pensive eye contact with the professor, or "I have no idea what he/she is talking about." Usually followed by thumbing through pages of my book.
But it's OK! There is the understanding that I am a fledgling pupil and this encyclopedia (that happens to have a circulatory system) currently lecturing me has many years of experience and that THAT is my future. (Pause for a twinkle in my eye and I gaze out the window and look out on...old ladies in lawn chairs outside their condos.) Of course the professor is well versed on pop culture from 40 years ago, she probably remembers living through it.
And here is where I turn to the great tragedy of my education. I FAIL POP CULTURE. The evidence is below...I can't answer any of these.
1. Name more than one Kardashian and talk about why they are famous.
2. Name three celebrity babies.
3. What is a Bieber?
4. What is the Reunion?
5. Have you ever watched the Jersey shore?
I am an island.
OK secondary education begins today: I have to learn everything about pop culture I possibly can. (Yes that is ambitious) Both middle brow How can you break something that is bad? and low brow But then...what is a fake housewife?
Assignment #1 Read headlines. I don't know where to begin. I think that Perez Hilton is too advanced. MJ suggested Huffington Post, but I think he was making fun of them. Then again:
Assignment #2 Watch the Daily Show and the Colbert Report because it forms the common bond between all of humanity.
Assignment #3 Watch at least clips from these reality TV shows. Then perhaps graduate on to Gossip Girl.
Assignment #4 What are the kids listening to? Extra credit for cool indie side projects.
Assignment #5 Watch crap on YouTube. (Don't even watch this clip, it is so unbelievably stupid.)
Goals:
1.To start a sentence with "Oh my god, did you see..."
2. Answer with , "Yes! I did."
3. Make friends with people my age, so I don't have to sing along to Sinatra with the ladies in lawn chairs outside the condo and talk about the scandalous Evelyn Nesbit.
Tonight, I explore a new place for me: Hulu. Where will it take me? We'll find out.
Saturday, August 28, 2010
Missed Connections
My friend has this amazing story:
One late New York evening he found himself caught up in the headphone tangle that is the late-night-weekend Brooklyn train system. On his third attempt at a train that would stop in Bushwick he struck up a conversation with a pretty girl who giggled a lot at his Midwestern awkardness. At her stop, she walked out the doors and he watched her in slow motion walk away toward the platform stairs...
Pause for a second to understand this New York phenomenon: In the seconds it takes for a train to take off, before tunneled darkness, the acceleration creates an effect of slow motion to whoever is walking on the platform. There is a direct proportion between the emotion you have for said person and the slowness in which they walk away. Only in the New York subway. It's true, ask Woody Allen.
...he realized he never asked her name. Or contact information. Or appropriate Googling information. But love was not lost completely, for he could use Missed Connections, a section of Craig's List for moments like this. Only in New York could there be more than one of these moments on any given Wednesday night. Many times it is rauncy requests, but for the most part they read like this:
We exchanged a bunch of glances, including when you walk by me an the two women I was with (just friends!).
But then one of my two friends decided to leave and I did too... Alas.
So I didn't get the chance to talk with you...
But you were really cute. You had on a sheer white top and jeans(?) with long-ish hair and a charming smile.
Describe me a little so I know it's really you.
It was fun exchanging smiles with you and it might be nice to do so again.
Grab a drink sometime?
He described the moment and she found the post. They connected. They will always have that story.
I went to a one-man play tonight by myself. That quantifies as loneliness squared. The solitary man was Dex Edwards who wrote and performed in "The Rising Son: a story piece," a play about connecting to people of other cultures and reaching out to make those connections. I don't feel overindulgent by relating it to my life. That's the point of The-AY-ter. I keep talking to friendly people and when I feel them presenting opportunity to reach out, I shirk and run back to my apartment. To a glass of wine and a dog who shirks if I try to pet her. So much shirking. The girl at coffee shop, the usher at the play...they are all so friendly but I can't pull the social trigger. Damn this friendly Southern town. At least if I were in the Russian tundra, or Alaska during the dark months, or for christ's sake, back in New York, I would have an excuse for isolating myself.
I should join a Church.
POSTSCRIPT: I started looking at more MCs and I think this is my favorite:
Hey, I was biking around Staten Island earlier today and when I passed you, you yelled that you liked my Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
Get in touch with me if you'd like.
One late New York evening he found himself caught up in the headphone tangle that is the late-night-weekend Brooklyn train system. On his third attempt at a train that would stop in Bushwick he struck up a conversation with a pretty girl who giggled a lot at his Midwestern awkardness. At her stop, she walked out the doors and he watched her in slow motion walk away toward the platform stairs...
Pause for a second to understand this New York phenomenon: In the seconds it takes for a train to take off, before tunneled darkness, the acceleration creates an effect of slow motion to whoever is walking on the platform. There is a direct proportion between the emotion you have for said person and the slowness in which they walk away. Only in the New York subway. It's true, ask Woody Allen.
...he realized he never asked her name. Or contact information. Or appropriate Googling information. But love was not lost completely, for he could use Missed Connections, a section of Craig's List for moments like this. Only in New York could there be more than one of these moments on any given Wednesday night. Many times it is rauncy requests, but for the most part they read like this:
We exchanged a bunch of glances, including when you walk by me an the two women I was with (just friends!).
But then one of my two friends decided to leave and I did too... Alas.
So I didn't get the chance to talk with you...
But you were really cute. You had on a sheer white top and jeans(?) with long-ish hair and a charming smile.
Describe me a little so I know it's really you.
It was fun exchanging smiles with you and it might be nice to do so again.
Grab a drink sometime?
He described the moment and she found the post. They connected. They will always have that story.
I went to a one-man play tonight by myself. That quantifies as loneliness squared. The solitary man was Dex Edwards who wrote and performed in "The Rising Son: a story piece," a play about connecting to people of other cultures and reaching out to make those connections. I don't feel overindulgent by relating it to my life. That's the point of The-AY-ter. I keep talking to friendly people and when I feel them presenting opportunity to reach out, I shirk and run back to my apartment. To a glass of wine and a dog who shirks if I try to pet her. So much shirking. The girl at coffee shop, the usher at the play...they are all so friendly but I can't pull the social trigger. Damn this friendly Southern town. At least if I were in the Russian tundra, or Alaska during the dark months, or for christ's sake, back in New York, I would have an excuse for isolating myself.
I should join a Church.
POSTSCRIPT: I started looking at more MCs and I think this is my favorite:
Hey, I was biking around Staten Island earlier today and when I passed you, you yelled that you liked my Led Zeppelin T-shirt.
Get in touch with me if you'd like.
Nailing Chicken Wire to a Fence...
...is not something I thought I would ever do, but it is done. MJ and I nailed and tied chicken wire in the hot blazing sun on a Saturday afternoon in Oxford, Mississippi. We sweated and toiled in order to keep Daphne, 15 pound beagle, in the yard. "Yard" being intermittent patches of brown grass, a patio deck, and a machine that pumps freezing cold air into my house, centrally. First time living outside of New York. First time in the South.
Daphne somehow manages to get out every time.
She mocks us from outside our kitchen window, while we innocuously sip our coffee and we have to run outside and call her in. She wins again.
We have taken turns trying to watch her. Learn her method of escape. Inevitably we get bored and turn to each other for a moment of fleeting conversation. And she is gone. Always running towards the woods. I would call her Houdini, but her mental capacity reminds me more of the Hamburglar.
Today she got out and I chased her to the edge of the woods where she defiantly entered. I stood outside yelling her name in my pajamas, with a mug of coffee in my hand. I recognize this as a moment of transition from urbane sophisticate to women-who-yells-barefoot-in-pajamas-at-her-dog-while-drinking-coffee. THE COFFEE WAS MADE FROM A FRENCH PRESS GODDAMNIT. A FRENCH PRESS.
When she finally emerged from the woods all feral smelling like dead armadillo, I gave her a bath she will never forget. Ever.
Daphne somehow manages to get out every time.
She mocks us from outside our kitchen window, while we innocuously sip our coffee and we have to run outside and call her in. She wins again.
We have taken turns trying to watch her. Learn her method of escape. Inevitably we get bored and turn to each other for a moment of fleeting conversation. And she is gone. Always running towards the woods. I would call her Houdini, but her mental capacity reminds me more of the Hamburglar.
Today she got out and I chased her to the edge of the woods where she defiantly entered. I stood outside yelling her name in my pajamas, with a mug of coffee in my hand. I recognize this as a moment of transition from urbane sophisticate to women-who-yells-barefoot-in-pajamas-at-her-dog-while-drinking-coffee. THE COFFEE WAS MADE FROM A FRENCH PRESS GODDAMNIT. A FRENCH PRESS.
When she finally emerged from the woods all feral smelling like dead armadillo, I gave her a bath she will never forget. Ever.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Cricket Series Part II
Three interviews today as part of this cricket investigation.
8 AM my father calls with concerns about a recent spike in the Lizzie anxiety EKG. I reassure him that my new obsession with Netherland and cricket is guaranteed to mollify any internal tension. He offers a few platitudes on the impact of the sport in the New York area. "Well... you know where they always play..." Said to the beat of (Da... da DA da da DAda da). He'd rather pontificate on the Twins. I use 20 minutes of my lunch break to watch You Tube videos of bowlers throwing a ball and suddenly cheering, which (due to my lack of insight) reminded me of when people are talking a foreign language and start laughing. Same awkwardness and yet strange impulse to join in.
At this point, I knew I needed personal explanation. I wanted this with an impatience analogous to waiting through the automated messaging system press-one-say-one, dialing 0 after every option to just get a human voice even if that human voice is on the opposite side of the globe.
What luck!
Paul, my coworker, was born in England, but
raised in Indiana. He is known to redundantly say "I'm from England" in a discordant Midwestern drawl. I get a kick out of people's bemused reaction as they process this information. Paul somehow abets the propriety that is as preternatural to European culture as the gulf stream winds and the midwestern simplicity that congruous to Walmart and tacit adages. And bars decorated with taxidermy. Think of a ruhbarb tart. Brilliantly crafted and with a bitterness that makes you wonder if it can even be considered dessert. Then take Edy's Vanilla ice cream and dump it on top. That's Paul.
And he knows how to play cricket! I of course seek his wisdom. He stumbles over his words in a humbleness lacking only an "aw shucks." But my list is growing:
New things to add to cricket list:
1. A bowler throws a ball to a WICKET.
2. The wicket consists of three sticks with a fourth stick resting on top.
3. The bowler wants to knock of the fourth stick with a big cork ball.
4. The batter wants to block this and hit the ball towards...
5. Boundary, white line, two people run to make the point, the fielders catch it like this, no gloves, it bounces in the grass, six points, he thinks, two points or one point to switch batters.
I lost him around this point.
My last interview was the nanny for the family I babysit for in Brooklyn. Bibi speaks with a Guyanese accent. That kind of West Indies English that has a cadence so different from ours, it is almost impossible to stay with her train of thought. I comprehend 70%of what Bibi says. Thank god she repeats herself constantly... either as a reassurance that the idiot Americans understand her or perhaps reiteration is a result of 13 years of communicating to children. If I stop concentrating like a Russian trannslator listening to radio signals in 1954, I loose her all together. I listened hard because this was my moment to learn FIRST HAND.
Investigative journalist: "Bibi, do you like cricket?"
4 foot 11 inch Guyanese woman: "Ohhh Creecket de best. Number one in our country. My son. My son he play de cricket. Very very good. Teddy! Eat your shrimps. Number one sport. My son, he love creecket. You finish de shrimps now Teddy?"
A proud moment of accomplishment: In my research I learned about the faster bowler in cricket, the pride of Pakistan, Shoaib Akhtar. A fast paced bowl clocks in at around 154 km/hr. The fastest was thrown by Akhtar a whopping 161.3 km/hr. That is 100.2 mph for us non-metric fools. And of course he dashingly handsome. And of course he is Punjabi. Maybe we can dance Bhangra together, and he can knock the stick off my wicket with his infamous yorker*.
*Yorker is a term used in cricket that describes a delivery where the cricket ball bounces on the cricket pitch on or near the batsman's popping crease. -Wikipedia.
I have no idea what that definition means.
8 AM my father calls with concerns about a recent spike in the Lizzie anxiety EKG. I reassure him that my new obsession with Netherland and cricket is guaranteed to mollify any internal tension. He offers a few platitudes on the impact of the sport in the New York area. "Well... you know where they always play..." Said to the beat of (Da... da DA da da DAda da). He'd rather pontificate on the Twins. I use 20 minutes of my lunch break to watch You Tube videos of bowlers throwing a ball and suddenly cheering, which (due to my lack of insight) reminded me of when people are talking a foreign language and start laughing. Same awkwardness and yet strange impulse to join in.
At this point, I knew I needed personal explanation. I wanted this with an impatience analogous to waiting through the automated messaging system press-one-say-one, dialing 0 after every option to just get a human voice even if that human voice is on the opposite side of the globe.
What luck!
Paul, my coworker, was born in England, but
raised in Indiana. He is known to redundantly say "I'm from England" in a discordant Midwestern drawl. I get a kick out of people's bemused reaction as they process this information. Paul somehow abets the propriety that is as preternatural to European culture as the gulf stream winds and the midwestern simplicity that congruous to Walmart and tacit adages. And bars decorated with taxidermy. Think of a ruhbarb tart. Brilliantly crafted and with a bitterness that makes you wonder if it can even be considered dessert. Then take Edy's Vanilla ice cream and dump it on top. That's Paul.And he knows how to play cricket! I of course seek his wisdom. He stumbles over his words in a humbleness lacking only an "aw shucks." But my list is growing:
New things to add to cricket list:
1. A bowler throws a ball to a WICKET.
2. The wicket consists of three sticks with a fourth stick resting on top.
3. The bowler wants to knock of the fourth stick with a big cork ball.
4. The batter wants to block this and hit the ball towards...
5. Boundary, white line, two people run to make the point, the fielders catch it like this, no gloves, it bounces in the grass, six points, he thinks, two points or one point to switch batters.
I lost him around this point.
My last interview was the nanny for the family I babysit for in Brooklyn. Bibi speaks with a Guyanese accent. That kind of West Indies English that has a cadence so different from ours, it is almost impossible to stay with her train of thought. I comprehend 70%of what Bibi says. Thank god she repeats herself constantly... either as a reassurance that the idiot Americans understand her or perhaps reiteration is a result of 13 years of communicating to children. If I stop concentrating like a Russian trannslator listening to radio signals in 1954, I loose her all together. I listened hard because this was my moment to learn FIRST HAND.Investigative journalist: "Bibi, do you like cricket?"
4 foot 11 inch Guyanese woman: "Ohhh Creecket de best. Number one in our country. My son. My son he play de cricket. Very very good. Teddy! Eat your shrimps. Number one sport. My son, he love creecket. You finish de shrimps now Teddy?"
A proud moment of accomplishment: In my research I learned about the faster bowler in cricket, the pride of Pakistan, Shoaib Akhtar. A fast paced bowl clocks in at around 154 km/hr. The fastest was thrown by Akhtar a whopping 161.3 km/hr. That is 100.2 mph for us non-metric fools. And of course he dashingly handsome. And of course he is Punjabi. Maybe we can dance Bhangra together, and he can knock the stick off my wicket with his infamous yorker*.
*Yorker is a term used in cricket that describes a delivery where the cricket ball bounces on the cricket pitch on or near the batsman's popping crease. -Wikipedia.
I have no idea what that definition means.
Thursday, May 13, 2010
I can barely understand baseball...
The first pages of Joseph O'Neill's Netherland suggest that it will be an amazing book. Unfortunately, good books come with some major research....this one involves research on cricket, which I admit I don't understand in the slightest bit. The research on CLR James I can handle- I love all that commie, marxism, red-flag stuff- his influence on O'Neill I cannot. How on earth does one play this game? Goal: Understand cricket and the postmodern American tradition by the end of the book.
What I know:
- Cricket is DEFINITELY an English game.
- It is the second most popular sport in the world.
- You play on an oval field with a rectangular dirt strip in the middle called a pitch.
- An aerial view of the field stirs an impulse to flick giant coins through the pitch.
- Players wear white.
- C.L.R. James wrote a book called Breaking a Boundary (which I'll admit, I previously thought it was about racism in America. It is. But its also about cricket). This book is considered one of the greatest sports books ever written, according to O'Neill. It is at least considered the greatest cricket book ever written according to The Secret Bureau of Cricket Book Lovers aka the staff of the Guardian.
- What would be considered an "out" in baseball is called being "dismissed" in cricket. How English.
What I do NOT know:
- How to play Cricket.
Sunday, April 11, 2010
Desiderata
Running is a desideratum in my life.
And I have to take a break because of my knee. Apparently according to my coach (MJ) and Bryant, the personal trainer at Track and Field, something is rotten in the state of my IT band*. This was confirmed in what was SUPPOSED to be sexy leg massage from MJ that turned into, "Oh my god, what the hell it this." ("This" being the giant knot in my IT band). Mood killer. Total mood killer.
See the gray part? The Iliotibial Band is a muscle that lacks the same blood flow as other muscles, therefore has a tendency to get less oxygen, hence tightening. Tightening would eventually lead to tearing so- RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. Awesome motto for the next couple of weeks. Expect a lot of blog posts.
Such is my life that whenever bad news hits, happy mood-lifters make there way into my life:
First came the greatest nature video I have ever seen. The fact that this movie has not had commercial success in the United States speaks to our lack of empathy and integrity in this heartless society. I blame capitalism. Just try not to cry at the end of this clip:
The cougar represents the voracious nature of time, coming to devour us all. The bear represents myself, especially what I will look like after this running break.
Then came the word of the day (I have a mild obsession with both Merriam-Webster and Anu Garg (wordsmith.org)). The latter has weekly postings where people contribute their personal relationship with words. Lexicographic therapy. Desideratum was one of the words that I used above to describe my relationship to running. It is a noun: something desired or needed. A word etched into perpetual memory by the Max Erhmann poem of the same name:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
OK YES. This poem is cheesy. The subsequent greeting cards, T-shirts, billboards, day calendars, chain letters sent from my mom, etc. that this poem has engendered encourages the cheesiness. But during this running sabbatical I am going to take a few lines a day to focus on as my mantra. If I write about it, the 'Blues will be featured on Oprah in no time and I'll be sharing couch space with good ole Elizabeth Gilbert.
Tomorrow is:
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
* Hamlet reference. We all make them at some point. Here is a video rendition of Act I, iv, when H confronts his father's ghost. Low budget but NOT Kenneth Branagh.
And I have to take a break because of my knee. Apparently according to my coach (MJ) and Bryant, the personal trainer at Track and Field, something is rotten in the state of my IT band*. This was confirmed in what was SUPPOSED to be sexy leg massage from MJ that turned into, "Oh my god, what the hell it this." ("This" being the giant knot in my IT band). Mood killer. Total mood killer.
See the gray part? The Iliotibial Band is a muscle that lacks the same blood flow as other muscles, therefore has a tendency to get less oxygen, hence tightening. Tightening would eventually lead to tearing so- RICE: Rest, Ice, Compression, Elevation. Awesome motto for the next couple of weeks. Expect a lot of blog posts.Such is my life that whenever bad news hits, happy mood-lifters make there way into my life:
First came the greatest nature video I have ever seen. The fact that this movie has not had commercial success in the United States speaks to our lack of empathy and integrity in this heartless society. I blame capitalism. Just try not to cry at the end of this clip:
The cougar represents the voracious nature of time, coming to devour us all. The bear represents myself, especially what I will look like after this running break.
**************
Then came the word of the day (I have a mild obsession with both Merriam-Webster and Anu Garg (wordsmith.org)). The latter has weekly postings where people contribute their personal relationship with words. Lexicographic therapy. Desideratum was one of the words that I used above to describe my relationship to running. It is a noun: something desired or needed. A word etched into perpetual memory by the Max Erhmann poem of the same name:
Desiderata
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
As far as possible without surrender
be on good terms with all persons.
Speak your truth quietly and clearly;
and listen to others,
even the dull and the ignorant;
they too have their story.
Avoid loud and aggressive persons,
they are vexations to the spirit.
If you compare yourself with others,
you may become vain and bitter;
for always there will be greater and lesser persons than yourself.
Enjoy your achievements as well as your plans.
Keep interested in your own career, however humble;
it is a real possession in the changing fortunes of time.
Exercise caution in your business affairs;
for the world is full of trickery.
But let this not blind you to what virtue there is;
many persons strive for high ideals;
and everywhere life is full of heroism.
Be yourself.
Especially, do not feign affection.
Neither be cynical about love;
for in the face of all aridity and disenchantment
it is as perennial as the grass.
Take kindly the counsel of the years,
gracefully surrendering the things of youth.
Nurture strength of spirit to shield you in sudden misfortune.
But do not distress yourself with dark imaginings.
Many fears are born of fatigue and loneliness.
Beyond a wholesome discipline,
be gentle with yourself.
You are a child of the universe,
no less than the trees and the stars;
you have a right to be here.
And whether or not it is clear to you,
no doubt the universe is unfolding as it should.
Therefore be at peace with God,
whatever you conceive Him to be,
and whatever your labors and aspirations,
in the noisy confusion of life keep peace with your soul.
With all its sham, drudgery, and broken dreams,
it is still a beautiful world.
Be cheerful.
Strive to be happy.
OK YES. This poem is cheesy. The subsequent greeting cards, T-shirts, billboards, day calendars, chain letters sent from my mom, etc. that this poem has engendered encourages the cheesiness. But during this running sabbatical I am going to take a few lines a day to focus on as my mantra. If I write about it, the 'Blues will be featured on Oprah in no time and I'll be sharing couch space with good ole Elizabeth Gilbert.Tomorrow is:
Go placidly amid the noise and haste,
and remember what peace there may be in silence.
* Hamlet reference. We all make them at some point. Here is a video rendition of Act I, iv, when H confronts his father's ghost. Low budget but NOT Kenneth Branagh.
Tuesday, April 6, 2010
The Chatroulette Soundtrack
Every 1.5 years I go through a phase where I listen to nothing but Ben Folds for about a week. It reminds me of driving around in Doug's minivan in high school in the snow listening to the most appropriate song for a snowing evening in Queens (Selfless, Cold and Composed). Doug always drove the minivan with the brights on; I think he was trying to emulate Eurolights (those bluish lights that blind you in the rear-view mirror). He had that Kaufmanesque humor. I never knew if it was serious admiration of a new cultural phenomenon or a satire of it.
More Ben Folds Five music on iLike
I am one of those rare people that actually has a favorite song. In 2003 I committed to Emaline. I wrote it down somewhere. From this day forward, I, Elizabeth Jane Fielder, hereby commit to answering "Emaline" when asked what my favorite song is. I've got the notarized version somewhere.
I took my middle name from (Jane) from a Ben Folds song (Jane).
I want "Fair" to be my wedding song because I believe it is an accurate representation of relationships. Especially one that includes smashed dishes.
More Ben Folds Five music on iLike
I have dedicated "Protection" to an ex-boyfriend I ever went through a break-up with. Even if I dumped them.
I like Ben Folds. So what.
It resurrected recently when I found out about Chatroulette a week ago. Yeah I know I'm late and everyone's already over it and had their fill of voyeurism. Let me at least explain it to my Mom (avid reader of the 'Blues). It is a website where you are randomly paired with strangers anywhere in the world on their webcams. About 80% of the strangers are penises. What are we doing wrong in our society that makes us hold our reproductive organs to cameras for millions of strangers to see? Should we be killing gazelles? WWFD? What Would Freud Do? There is a chance that some member of Freud's family tree is wiggling his willy in front of the little green light at the top of his Macbook screen. Wild.
So I tried it and I got some college kid who looked surprisingly innocuous. He said I was the first human face after 3 dicks. He was probably chatting from the dorm across the street from me. It was really awkward. I feel uncomfortable enough making small talk with friends, this was a new crevice of social anxiety I could barely withstand. I asked him if he liked roller coasters or ice cream better. He said ice cream. I signed off before he told me his favorite flavor. I thought the word flavor sounded dirty and I got scared.
I will never do that again. BUT back to Ben Folds. Garrett and MJ described this to me:
Which Mr. Folds stole from a much funnier version from Mr. Merton, a mysterious pianist:
There is one point in the video where a girl requests that song "Fireflies" and he plays the best version of that song that could exist. This guy somehow applied his prodigy to the latest asinine internet fad.
The brilliant talent of our generation shares performance space with the common dick. Are we heading toward mindless ignorance or true democracy?
Monday, April 5, 2010
Define explicit...
Working backwards morally:
Actual job posting Lauren found on Craig's List:
Clean apartments in your bikini make $100+/hr (Downtown)
Looking for atractive females with beautiful figures to entertain wealthy clients by cleaning there apartments in sexy outfits. All of our clients are screened and have background checks. No explicit activity involved.
Yeah. OK. The author of this also works part time as a Princeton grammarian. But we have all been there. Desperate. I confess that I considered being a product representative, passing out shots of some new alcohol mixed with caffeine and pomegranate to guys whose 'game' includes questions about your 'other life' when your wearing a mid-rift tank top, wearing enough makeup to protect your face from a nuclear explosion and hope the disguise would work if a business suit from college walks into the bar saying, "Oh I was just taking those Creative Writing courses for fun." "Oh you majored in English?" "How did that working out? Still writing?"
I never did it. But MJ did. He was Captain Morgan. In an
alternate universe, I actually met him while being a Captain Girl. A Bucaneerette, if you will.. And he courted me with his pirate accent and his mysterious fake beard. We stole a bottle, got drunk, and ended up married the next day, which was annulled because of false identities. He is not actually, "The Captain," as was written on the marraige certificate, and my name is not "Tennille." But love kept us together, and we created some prevarication for the kids.
Better than meeting outside Randall Balmer's Religious History class at Barnard? I don't know. But the latter brings us once step closer to Stephen Colbert:
Earlier that Easter Sunday...
The 15th Street Religious Society of Friends
My first meeting. I overdressed, even though Michael said simplicity was paramount to these people. I thought my stilettos and red lipstick would somehow be apropos. Maybe it's all that Roman Catholic/High Anglican pomp I grew up with.
Basically you sit on these wooden pews (I can't believe they make pews more uncomfortable than the Grace Church pews I grew up with. What factory in Dante's Inferno makes those bloody things) and everyone faces each other and you sit for an hour in silence. Some people were meditating with their eyes closed, others were turning at every noise and checking out other congregants. Others were ostensibly sleeping. Occasionally someone would stand up and say something, which would invariably cause someone to jump in shock of the broken silence. I find this occurrence extremely funny, so that part was hard for me. People talked about non-violence A LOT. I give the coffee hour a 7. Not as good as the Pure Land temple on 105th and Riverside, but there was some amazing cranberry walnut bread. The people were interesting, but they always are when you drop into a religious environment like that. Besides there is a certain type of person who always volunteers him or herself for the welcoming committee, and they usually have colorful personalities. Despite that, I think I may have stood out. Thanks to my Latino heritage, it is hard to separate the religious experience from tambourines, the apogee of modern religion.
But the Quakers accept everyone, even JEWS and AGNOSTICS! And they don't hate homosexuals. So that makes them the best sect of Christianity in the world.
MJ and I talked about religion for hours afterward. We brainstormed on our "most religious experiences." We agreed on running. There is a euphoric point during an unexpected run where the body disappears and so does our boundary with our surroundings. Sometimes I feel myself running into the molecules in the air in front of me. But I do not brandish them, rather, I meld into them. It usually tingles in the scalp at this point. I also get a similar feeling in dance, but there is also a connection to the people around me, which can be insanely powerful. I think number one however is hiking. Hiking in the Hudson Valley region. With Daphne. And that deserves its own post.
Actual job posting Lauren found on Craig's List:
Clean apartments in your bikini make $100+/hr (Downtown)
Looking for atractive females with beautiful figures to entertain wealthy clients by cleaning there apartments in sexy outfits. All of our clients are screened and have background checks. No explicit activity involved.
Yeah. OK. The author of this also works part time as a Princeton grammarian. But we have all been there. Desperate. I confess that I considered being a product representative, passing out shots of some new alcohol mixed with caffeine and pomegranate to guys whose 'game' includes questions about your 'other life' when your wearing a mid-rift tank top, wearing enough makeup to protect your face from a nuclear explosion and hope the disguise would work if a business suit from college walks into the bar saying, "Oh I was just taking those Creative Writing courses for fun." "Oh you majored in English?" "How did that working out? Still writing?"
I never did it. But MJ did. He was Captain Morgan. In an
alternate universe, I actually met him while being a Captain Girl. A Bucaneerette, if you will.. And he courted me with his pirate accent and his mysterious fake beard. We stole a bottle, got drunk, and ended up married the next day, which was annulled because of false identities. He is not actually, "The Captain," as was written on the marraige certificate, and my name is not "Tennille." But love kept us together, and we created some prevarication for the kids.Better than meeting outside Randall Balmer's Religious History class at Barnard? I don't know. But the latter brings us once step closer to Stephen Colbert:
| The Colbert Report | Mon - Thurs 11:30pm / 10:30c | |||
| Holy Water Under the Bridge - Randall Balmer | ||||
| ||||
Earlier that Easter Sunday...
The 15th Street Religious Society of Friends
My first meeting. I overdressed, even though Michael said simplicity was paramount to these people. I thought my stilettos and red lipstick would somehow be apropos. Maybe it's all that Roman Catholic/High Anglican pomp I grew up with.
Basically you sit on these wooden pews (I can't believe they make pews more uncomfortable than the Grace Church pews I grew up with. What factory in Dante's Inferno makes those bloody things) and everyone faces each other and you sit for an hour in silence. Some people were meditating with their eyes closed, others were turning at every noise and checking out other congregants. Others were ostensibly sleeping. Occasionally someone would stand up and say something, which would invariably cause someone to jump in shock of the broken silence. I find this occurrence extremely funny, so that part was hard for me. People talked about non-violence A LOT. I give the coffee hour a 7. Not as good as the Pure Land temple on 105th and Riverside, but there was some amazing cranberry walnut bread. The people were interesting, but they always are when you drop into a religious environment like that. Besides there is a certain type of person who always volunteers him or herself for the welcoming committee, and they usually have colorful personalities. Despite that, I think I may have stood out. Thanks to my Latino heritage, it is hard to separate the religious experience from tambourines, the apogee of modern religion.But the Quakers accept everyone, even JEWS and AGNOSTICS! And they don't hate homosexuals. So that makes them the best sect of Christianity in the world.
MJ and I talked about religion for hours afterward. We brainstormed on our "most religious experiences." We agreed on running. There is a euphoric point during an unexpected run where the body disappears and so does our boundary with our surroundings. Sometimes I feel myself running into the molecules in the air in front of me. But I do not brandish them, rather, I meld into them. It usually tingles in the scalp at this point. I also get a similar feeling in dance, but there is also a connection to the people around me, which can be insanely powerful. I think number one however is hiking. Hiking in the Hudson Valley region. With Daphne. And that deserves its own post.
Thursday, April 1, 2010
An Undefinable Woman
I am currently breaking a rule MJ and I set for this week. No computer after 11pm. In addition to our "walk Daphne first thing in the morning" rule- which I have adhered to diligently, but I second guess whether or not he has. But it's rapidly becoming 2AM and I am writing in my blog. Maybe it is revenge on MJ for trimming his facial hair to best make himself look like a molester/Civil War hero/Guy who can't get into Studio 54. Mustachioed. He is mustachioed. Maybe I am tried of this "break."
I blame this country's health care system for why I don't have time to write because I am constantly on the phone/internet with the insurance companies. It has become as essential to my daily routine as my post-breakfast cookie. It has less to do with my full-time job/ major project/ teaching dance/ running constantly/ planning a wedding/ having a boyfriend (who thank Jay-sus is just as busy as I am and doesn't mind when I stumble in sweaty and tired at 10pm eat a carrot, give a quick kiss while I park myself behind the computer to do more work) and more to do with health care. You see, figuring out how I simultaneously have three insurance options while having none at the same time swallows up most of my creativity leaving me too dessicated to wring out even the simplest of catchy social commentary.
I couldn't figure out what to write about. Then, Lakshmi (who watches over me) heard my prayers and sent a sign at 9:45AM at the store where I work on Madison Ave. The store does not open until 10, but the cleaning guy left the door unlocked and before I could stop her, Yoko Ono walked into my store. At first I thought the little septuagenarian Japanese woman with the hat and sunglasses just merely looked like Yoko. Three hoodie sweatshirts, a tank top, and an AMEX card (all items black) later, I realized BY GOD it is her. Her card said Yoko Ono Lennon. I got the shakes, and thanked her for... I thanked her and said it was amazing to meet her. She was adorable. She laughed a lot. She has a generation under her belt, and I could see it in her face.
And what has Yoko done? A gallimaufry of extraneous things the average person would not consider necessary for life. She is a simple artistic statement imbued with color and controversy. She lived the life of an Andy Warhol painting. She has at the same time done nothing. As ethereal as my insurance plan.
The lesson: Being a human is a career. Yoko is the hyberbolic character that moralizes this, a Chanticleer* of sorts. Her personality is enough, no excuses, no subtitles, no 5 year plan. If someone asked her what her job was, she could say, "Everything" or stare blankly in silence. Either way, she is right. When the pressure of coming up with something interesting hinders me from posting, I'm going to just "Dear Diary" a posting and hope that my daily trials, tribulations, and small-yet-amazing incidents do justice to Yoko's eclectic life. This is either inspiration from above, or delusions of grandeur.
The lesson is void if you are boring.
"Nobody told me there'd be days like these. Strange days indeed."
*If you forgot your high school English Canterbury Tales, this obnoxious allusion is to the Nun's Priest's Tale- read it and then you to can make these kinds of literary references.
I blame this country's health care system for why I don't have time to write because I am constantly on the phone/internet with the insurance companies. It has become as essential to my daily routine as my post-breakfast cookie. It has less to do with my full-time job/ major project/ teaching dance/ running constantly/ planning a wedding/ having a boyfriend (who thank Jay-sus is just as busy as I am and doesn't mind when I stumble in sweaty and tired at 10pm eat a carrot, give a quick kiss while I park myself behind the computer to do more work) and more to do with health care. You see, figuring out how I simultaneously have three insurance options while having none at the same time swallows up most of my creativity leaving me too dessicated to wring out even the simplest of catchy social commentary.
I couldn't figure out what to write about. Then, Lakshmi (who watches over me) heard my prayers and sent a sign at 9:45AM at the store where I work on Madison Ave. The store does not open until 10, but the cleaning guy left the door unlocked and before I could stop her, Yoko Ono walked into my store. At first I thought the little septuagenarian Japanese woman with the hat and sunglasses just merely looked like Yoko. Three hoodie sweatshirts, a tank top, and an AMEX card (all items black) later, I realized BY GOD it is her. Her card said Yoko Ono Lennon. I got the shakes, and thanked her for... I thanked her and said it was amazing to meet her. She was adorable. She laughed a lot. She has a generation under her belt, and I could see it in her face. 
And what has Yoko done? A gallimaufry of extraneous things the average person would not consider necessary for life. She is a simple artistic statement imbued with color and controversy. She lived the life of an Andy Warhol painting. She has at the same time done nothing. As ethereal as my insurance plan. The lesson: Being a human is a career. Yoko is the hyberbolic character that moralizes this, a Chanticleer* of sorts. Her personality is enough, no excuses, no subtitles, no 5 year plan. If someone asked her what her job was, she could say, "Everything" or stare blankly in silence. Either way, she is right. When the pressure of coming up with something interesting hinders me from posting, I'm going to just "Dear Diary" a posting and hope that my daily trials, tribulations, and small-yet-amazing incidents do justice to Yoko's eclectic life. This is either inspiration from above, or delusions of grandeur.
The lesson is void if you are boring.
"Nobody told me there'd be days like these. Strange days indeed."
*If you forgot your high school English Canterbury Tales, this obnoxious allusion is to the Nun's Priest's Tale- read it and then you to can make these kinds of literary references.
Friday, March 26, 2010
Sunday, March 21, 2010
My first half marathon
Not so bad.
5:45AM wake up. Bathroom-check! Standard Nature's Valley granola bar and cup of tea. Bathroom- check!! Re-read a race day advice email on the course. Take it easy in the park. Looked at the course again. Made last minute decisions with MJ on outfits, bibs, meeting points, etc. Watch or no watch? No watch. Good. Last minute coaching, Don't go out too fast. Jogged over to 95th St and 5th in a sweater that doesn't fit me anymore and I was meaning to donate. Left the sweater behind, regrettably because after Mary Wittenberg's plethora of announcements and speeches I started to get cold. I was in the second corral. I had no reason to be there, everyone around me had raced before...probably really well. Everyone around me was wearing a Garmin. The good one with the GPS. I know cause I sell them.
Horn goes off and I start to jog to the start line. I can't believe I am running the same race as Olympic athletes. Personal mantra- keep your emotions in check. When I watch marathons I get so inspired I cry. I see the little kid shouting Run Mommy!! and I get the lump in my throat. But now I'm running and that lump is blocking my airwaves and I need the salt from those tears goddammit. SO I have to NOT get excited, NOT get emotional. I have my medical info on bib. Next to Mitral Valve Regurgitation I should have put: Tendency to have emotion produced panic attacks when inspired by signs and little children.
I go out too fast.
I slow it down after 2 miles. More because I don't want to hear it from MJ later when he looks at my splits. My hands start to swell. They swell so bad I have to put my engagement rock-of-a-diamond into my running shorts pocket. They swell so bad they look HILARIOUS. They stay that way for the rest of the race. I don't understand why. At mile 4 MJ joins me for the rest of Central Park. He runs 6 miles or so with my backpack on giving me water and affirmations. I make him take the subway at Times Square because I want to finish this, "by myself." Running through Times Square in that state of mind reminds me of the feeling I got in Taos when Jill Lauren and I were doing some yoga in that canyon: I may be 5'2 and 105 with my shoes on, but I felt the same size as the skyscrapers around me. I legit felt taller. Times Square looks different when running, there is a quaintness it adopts as the runner says, "I just matched you in craziness, bitch."
I almost had an asthma attack from the excitement. My breath shortened and I tried to ignore all the people and focus on the sky. Haile Gebreselassie of Ethiopia was probably not used to the ravine that is 7th Ave, and actually had an asthma attack and pulled out of the race. He has never lost on American soil.
West Side Highway. I consider pushing it and making qualifying time. 4 miles left and 30 minutes to qualify!! I could have done it easily...if it was my first 4 miles. The debate was do I push it or not. Then a man jogged up to me and said, "A little advice. You are getting tired and you're swinging your arms across your body like crazy. Forward and back, forward and back, don't forget your form." Then he sprinted away. I have no idea who this man was necessarily. Maybe the ghost of Steve Prefontaine. But he saved my ass. I fixed my form, took it easy and enjoyed the sunshine as my body slowly broke down.
I kept pace but the last 3 miles were hard. HARD. My legs felt heavy, I felt an ache in my chest that was my heart saying, Screw you I'm tired Dude. (My heart has a California accent.) Like a snare drum in my chest. Not a kick drum. A nasty snare. And I begged for Mile markers and the finished. I ran through my mantras, Always be passing (I was passing no one at this point, my legs wouldn't do it), Get them on the hills (Shit, there are no hills), and I resorted to my last one: Just finish. Over and over and over. The last 400m, I thought Just once around the track, just like the old relays. Then at 200m I saw the finish line and just sprinted it home at 1:44:19. I don't know where, I don't know where my legs got the juice to sprint and what I perceive as a print might have been akin to a motivated gr I wanted to run it in under 2 hours, and I did so with gumption. No GU, no power bars or salt tablets, one two moments of hydration at Miles 5 and 6.
1:44:19
7:58 pace (I wanted it under 8! Yes!)
Out of 557 women in my age group (20-24) I came in 57!!
Out of 6,071 women, I came in 578!!
I didn't have negative splits, but I that is a matter of training. I built my base and I intend to CRUSH the next half.
After the race MJ and I had a big brunch at Community where I crushed this HUGE omelette so hardcore that the waiter actually laughed at me. My body is so sore and I am limping all around and can't walk down stairs, but I feel great. I got an extreme Gift Certificate from MJ to a spa for a massage and I can't wait to use it.
All in all I'm happy with my performance and ready for next time. Stay tuned for race day pictures.
5:45AM wake up. Bathroom-check! Standard Nature's Valley granola bar and cup of tea. Bathroom- check!! Re-read a race day advice email on the course. Take it easy in the park. Looked at the course again. Made last minute decisions with MJ on outfits, bibs, meeting points, etc. Watch or no watch? No watch. Good. Last minute coaching, Don't go out too fast. Jogged over to 95th St and 5th in a sweater that doesn't fit me anymore and I was meaning to donate. Left the sweater behind, regrettably because after Mary Wittenberg's plethora of announcements and speeches I started to get cold. I was in the second corral. I had no reason to be there, everyone around me had raced before...probably really well. Everyone around me was wearing a Garmin. The good one with the GPS. I know cause I sell them.
Horn goes off and I start to jog to the start line. I can't believe I am running the same race as Olympic athletes. Personal mantra- keep your emotions in check. When I watch marathons I get so inspired I cry. I see the little kid shouting Run Mommy!! and I get the lump in my throat. But now I'm running and that lump is blocking my airwaves and I need the salt from those tears goddammit. SO I have to NOT get excited, NOT get emotional. I have my medical info on bib. Next to Mitral Valve Regurgitation I should have put: Tendency to have emotion produced panic attacks when inspired by signs and little children.
I go out too fast.
I slow it down after 2 miles. More because I don't want to hear it from MJ later when he looks at my splits. My hands start to swell. They swell so bad I have to put my engagement rock-of-a-diamond into my running shorts pocket. They swell so bad they look HILARIOUS. They stay that way for the rest of the race. I don't understand why. At mile 4 MJ joins me for the rest of Central Park. He runs 6 miles or so with my backpack on giving me water and affirmations. I make him take the subway at Times Square because I want to finish this, "by myself." Running through Times Square in that state of mind reminds me of the feeling I got in Taos when Jill Lauren and I were doing some yoga in that canyon: I may be 5'2 and 105 with my shoes on, but I felt the same size as the skyscrapers around me. I legit felt taller. Times Square looks different when running, there is a quaintness it adopts as the runner says, "I just matched you in craziness, bitch."
I almost had an asthma attack from the excitement. My breath shortened and I tried to ignore all the people and focus on the sky. Haile Gebreselassie of Ethiopia was probably not used to the ravine that is 7th Ave, and actually had an asthma attack and pulled out of the race. He has never lost on American soil.
West Side Highway. I consider pushing it and making qualifying time. 4 miles left and 30 minutes to qualify!! I could have done it easily...if it was my first 4 miles. The debate was do I push it or not. Then a man jogged up to me and said, "A little advice. You are getting tired and you're swinging your arms across your body like crazy. Forward and back, forward and back, don't forget your form." Then he sprinted away. I have no idea who this man was necessarily. Maybe the ghost of Steve Prefontaine. But he saved my ass. I fixed my form, took it easy and enjoyed the sunshine as my body slowly broke down.
I kept pace but the last 3 miles were hard. HARD. My legs felt heavy, I felt an ache in my chest that was my heart saying, Screw you I'm tired Dude. (My heart has a California accent.) Like a snare drum in my chest. Not a kick drum. A nasty snare. And I begged for Mile markers and the finished. I ran through my mantras, Always be passing (I was passing no one at this point, my legs wouldn't do it), Get them on the hills (Shit, there are no hills), and I resorted to my last one: Just finish. Over and over and over. The last 400m, I thought Just once around the track, just like the old relays. Then at 200m I saw the finish line and just sprinted it home at 1:44:19. I don't know where, I don't know where my legs got the juice to sprint and what I perceive as a print might have been akin to a motivated gr I wanted to run it in under 2 hours, and I did so with gumption. No GU, no power bars or salt tablets, one two moments of hydration at Miles 5 and 6.
1:44:19
7:58 pace (I wanted it under 8! Yes!)
Out of 557 women in my age group (20-24) I came in 57!!
Out of 6,071 women, I came in 578!!
I didn't have negative splits, but I that is a matter of training. I built my base and I intend to CRUSH the next half.
After the race MJ and I had a big brunch at Community where I crushed this HUGE omelette so hardcore that the waiter actually laughed at me. My body is so sore and I am limping all around and can't walk down stairs, but I feel great. I got an extreme Gift Certificate from MJ to a spa for a massage and I can't wait to use it.
All in all I'm happy with my performance and ready for next time. Stay tuned for race day pictures.
Saturday, March 20, 2010
half
It is just another long Sunday run.
Only with thousands of people and cameras and bands.
And Deena Kastor.
And Gebreselassie.
I've got a belly full of pesto pasta, sweet potato fries, bread, a beer, and frozen yogurt. I hit all major categories of food. My unbelievable MJ got me a Spa Ja certificate for a post race massage. I'm ready! I may have a fever, a headache, and a flared up old dance injury in my foot but all in all, it is just another long Sunday run!
Tomorrow. Bright blue Lucy top and Track and Field white shorts. I'll be the girl smiling with a crinkled nose that says, "I want this race to end so I can go to the bathroom."
Now for some inspiration:
Only with thousands of people and cameras and bands.
And Deena Kastor.
And Gebreselassie.
I've got a belly full of pesto pasta, sweet potato fries, bread, a beer, and frozen yogurt. I hit all major categories of food. My unbelievable MJ got me a Spa Ja certificate for a post race massage. I'm ready! I may have a fever, a headache, and a flared up old dance injury in my foot but all in all, it is just another long Sunday run!
Tomorrow. Bright blue Lucy top and Track and Field white shorts. I'll be the girl smiling with a crinkled nose that says, "I want this race to end so I can go to the bathroom."
Now for some inspiration:
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Eat, pray, break something.
This is about traditions that celebrate embarkation.
One of my favorites is ship christening: an expensive bottle of champagne is broken (traditionally by a female) to bless a vessel's maiden voyage. Imagine for a second we christened our children in this method. It developed in the maritime glory days of the 1800s. If the bottle didn't break, it was a bad omen. The Camilla's bottle remained intact foreshadowing how later the intestines of its passengers did not; they all contracted a virus and blamed it on the bottle. The USS Maine had 16-year-old Alice Tracy Wilmerding, the granddaughter of the Naval Secretary successfully break the bottle over the hull in Brooklyn. That turned out awesome...the Maine is one of history's great naval blights.
One of the first films recorded by Thomas Edison, the burial of the Maine's victims:
Every 1st of the month, MJ wakes up to his vibrating phone alarm, holds it about 3cm from his de-spectacled eyes and says, "Oh! Rabbit, rabbit day." I thought this was one of those weird OCD things we held onto from childhood (I have one where I have to lift my hand over the trees while sitting in the passenger seat of the car). BUT, I Wikipediaed it and it is an old Anglo tradition that somehow snuck into various parts of our country, including Central Pennsylvania. It brings good luck apparently. I seriously don't understand why rabbits are lucky in this world. No matter what though, watching him say, "OH! rabbit rabbit" is a good way to start any month.
Some people start a journey with their right foot.
Some people tie dollar bills around their new car.
Hindus pray to Ganesha when starting something new. We did this in India the first day shooting the Masala Bhangra workout video. There was a statue of Ganesh placed on a plastic chair, surrounded by incense. A little ghetto, but no different than some of the makeshift altars in my childhood Catholic household that consisted of those 99 cent store glass candles with pictures of La Virgen. Som, our director, broke a coconut to symbolize how their are always arduous obstacles in our journeys. Also the importance of breaking our own inner hardness (represented in our ego), in order to let the nectar of fruition flow.
Last weekend during my teacher training, we informally prayed to Ganesh and between him and Lakshmi who watches over me (I'm convinced), I'm set to go. The only minor setback is that I don't really have a great picture of myself dancing Masala Bhangra. I cropped a picture from the photo shoot for New Women Magazine (Indian publication), and by GOD is it cheesy. Don't laugh:
Bitch, you laughed.
In my oneiric fantasies, I WANT to appear straight out of a Bollywood film, yes it is true. But I think I dreamed too hard and ended up as a 1970s Indian heroine. I even have the hair bump. Compare to photographs taken by Jordan Matter, some of the coolest shots of dancers I've ever seen, and I grew up as an avid New York City Ballet playbill collector.
The rest are just as inspiring.
Dear Ganesh and Lakshmi,
I know I am supposed to eliminate inner-ego in order to have a more pure journey as a teacher, BUT can you please open the opportunity for me to have a promotional picture where I look KICK ASS and less like an 8-year-old girl playing dress up. Thank you. I will bring lotus and marigolds to your temples next time I'm in the motherland.
Namaste,
Lizzie
One of my favorites is ship christening: an expensive bottle of champagne is broken (traditionally by a female) to bless a vessel's maiden voyage. Imagine for a second we christened our children in this method. It developed in the maritime glory days of the 1800s. If the bottle didn't break, it was a bad omen. The Camilla's bottle remained intact foreshadowing how later the intestines of its passengers did not; they all contracted a virus and blamed it on the bottle. The USS Maine had 16-year-old Alice Tracy Wilmerding, the granddaughter of the Naval Secretary successfully break the bottle over the hull in Brooklyn. That turned out awesome...the Maine is one of history's great naval blights.
One of the first films recorded by Thomas Edison, the burial of the Maine's victims:
Every 1st of the month, MJ wakes up to his vibrating phone alarm, holds it about 3cm from his de-spectacled eyes and says, "Oh! Rabbit, rabbit day." I thought this was one of those weird OCD things we held onto from childhood (I have one where I have to lift my hand over the trees while sitting in the passenger seat of the car). BUT, I Wikipediaed it and it is an old Anglo tradition that somehow snuck into various parts of our country, including Central Pennsylvania. It brings good luck apparently. I seriously don't understand why rabbits are lucky in this world. No matter what though, watching him say, "OH! rabbit rabbit" is a good way to start any month.
Some people start a journey with their right foot.
Some people tie dollar bills around their new car.
Hindus pray to Ganesha when starting something new. We did this in India the first day shooting the Masala Bhangra workout video. There was a statue of Ganesh placed on a plastic chair, surrounded by incense. A little ghetto, but no different than some of the makeshift altars in my childhood Catholic household that consisted of those 99 cent store glass candles with pictures of La Virgen. Som, our director, broke a coconut to symbolize how their are always arduous obstacles in our journeys. Also the importance of breaking our own inner hardness (represented in our ego), in order to let the nectar of fruition flow. Last weekend during my teacher training, we informally prayed to Ganesh and between him and Lakshmi who watches over me (I'm convinced), I'm set to go. The only minor setback is that I don't really have a great picture of myself dancing Masala Bhangra. I cropped a picture from the photo shoot for New Women Magazine (Indian publication), and by GOD is it cheesy. Don't laugh:
Bitch, you laughed.
In my oneiric fantasies, I WANT to appear straight out of a Bollywood film, yes it is true. But I think I dreamed too hard and ended up as a 1970s Indian heroine. I even have the hair bump. Compare to photographs taken by Jordan Matter, some of the coolest shots of dancers I've ever seen, and I grew up as an avid New York City Ballet playbill collector.
The rest are just as inspiring.
Dear Ganesh and Lakshmi,
I know I am supposed to eliminate inner-ego in order to have a more pure journey as a teacher, BUT can you please open the opportunity for me to have a promotional picture where I look KICK ASS and less like an 8-year-old girl playing dress up. Thank you. I will bring lotus and marigolds to your temples next time I'm in the motherland.
Namaste,
Lizzie
Tuesday, March 16, 2010
The census form should incorporate pictures like I do.
I'm pissed Michael wouldn't let me put "Indian" as my race on our Census form. We barely completed it due to the entertainment factor of possible false scenarios and hyperbolic living conditions:
Person 3
Last Name:
Fielder-Ewing
First Name:
Daphne
Age as of April 1st:
N/A possibly 7, which in dog years is like mid-40s or something.
Ethnicity:
12 in. Beagle (although there is debate on adulteration of this. Possible mix of Jack Russel Terrier, Chiwawa, Spaniel, wild deer.
How is Person 3 related to Person 1:
Strange love triangle.
Person 4:
Last Name:
Popowski
First Name:
Rob
Age:
21
Ethnicity:
Australian
How is Person 4 related to Person 1:
Occasional Lodger
SO TEMPTING. But alas, as we carefully insert the form into the return envelope and lick it close, MJ turns to me and says, "God we are such sell outs for filling this out correctly."
There was a time I would have flipped off the government in colorful prevarications, but the most controversial move I made was classifying myself as the "other" category of Biracial. I know I'll get a phone call about that one.
All-American family doing our patriotic duty. Go Bears!
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