"I'm a big kid now!"

So, apparently I'm an adult now. Or, at least, this is what I've been told. I guess this has something to do with the fact that I'm graduating in May and am waiting to here back from Teach for America to see if I have a job. If I didn't make it, I'll be in the same boat as most people in my year at school, not really knowing what form of employment I'll have after graduation. This means I'll be going to numerous job interviews, which led me to buying a suit.

Yup. It's official; I own a suit. I'm grown.

Not just one, but TWO suits. I bought them on this crazy awesome sale at the Deer Park Tanger Outlet Mall last Saturday. It seemed silly to just buy one when for the same amount I could buy two. I need to get them hemmed and one of the jackets altered, so you could say it's not quite official yet, but we're getting' there.

Also, prompted by my mom, I've decided (as I'm now a grown up) I should get some perfume. Now, I'm not one to be wearing cosmetics in general, but there's something so supremely feminine and womanly I find about perfume. The right perfume, that is. The only perfume I've ever used has been this scent a friend of mine bought me at a perfume factory in France when she was visiting family. It's really nice, but a bit too juvenile for my tastes now. Thus, I spent about an hour in Sephora's the other day, spraying about thirty-five different fragrances on those little sample tabs. I was in completely new territory. It was pretty daunting to be faced with all those bottles, not having a clue what I was looking for. I came up with a strategy of first going for the bottles that were nearly empty; to me, that meant that lots of people had tested it, either because they liked it or had been told it was a good scent. A lot of them really stunk. For the ones I liked, I wrote down their name and price on the tag, then looked them up on-line for a better deal.
It seems I'm on my way to not only looking, but smelling like a woman.

"Just click your heels three times..."

I spent a lot of today around Columbus Circle in Manhattan today, that lovely part of Midtown that sits quite awkwardly after Lincoln Center and before Times Square and smells distinctly of hot sauce and horse. Somewhere between being asked by Scandinavian twenty-somethings if I wanted a ride in their rickshaw (no pun intended), I was able to appreciate the true beauty of this area. A lot of wonderful things sit here, like the Moma (even if they decided to hike their prices up a year and a half ago, I still need to give them props) and Ricky's (a New York chain icon). The monument smack in the center of Columbus Circle itself is actually quite beautiful (if you ever take a minute to just look at it, that is).

Yes, Columbus Circle is one of those quintessentially New York City locations, (I mean, it was even in Enchanted), managing to be so the money and not even know it and not even give a crap because it has too many other things to be doing while you stand there and take up space!

:sigh: There's no place like home.

One slight anomaly to this neighborhood is the Time Warner Building. This Trump masterpiece houses office buildings, a sound studio and a high-end shopping mall on the bottom three floors. What makes the shopping center odd, though, is the fact that there's a Whole Foods in the basement. Stranger still, there's a Borders Books front and center on the second floor. Thanks to these few mid-range shopping destinations, the Time Warner Building attracts tons of different kinds of people, allowing folks like me to walk past Coach and Pink and act like I'm supposed to be there. In being a total anomaly, the Time Warner Building actually manages, like Columbus Circle, to be quintessentially New York, welcoming Diamond Dogs and Urban Slummers to dwell in the same halls.

"I really learned it all from mothers." *

Lots of women I know have mother-daughter days out about town, shopping and getting facials. My mom and I certainly like to get our shop-on together, but more often than not we tend to have mother-daughter days in. I'm proud to say that my mom is the person who first taught me how to loaf around; stay in your pajamas all day, watch three movies in a row, eat sugary snacks and drink warm beverages, loafing. We had one of those days today. Normally, the day after Christmas we like to go to the mall to get in on all the super sales happening. This year, however, we decided to switch it up, opting to check out the new Tanger outlet mall in Long Island and stay in for today. As I wrote yesterday, now that I'm starting to feel healthy, I'm able to enjoy loafing around.

The highlight of the day was, without a doubt, brunch, for which I made myself an omelet, bacon and a fried tomato. The day was consumed with planning our shopping adventure for tomorrow. We have a mall map, a route plotted, driving directions, shopping lists, and (perhaps most importantly) coupons. It is on. As usual, the day was topped off by a cup of tea, made even better by some tiramisu. Life is sweet. Thanks for teaching me how to taste it, mom.

* Dr. Benjamin Spock

"And to all a good night!"

As this Christmas comes to a close, I'm given a chance to reflect on how this was a rather odd holiday for me this year. Normally, I'd spend the day at my aunt's house with family in Long Island. Being as ill as I've been the past few days, though, I decided it was best I stay home and continue recuperating. While it was a bit lonely at a few points through out the day, I actually quite enjoyed myself. You see, I'm someone who prizes her solitude. Since I've been home and sick with my parents off from work, solitude is something that has been greatly lacking in my life. So, I guess the best gift I got today was just to be left alone. I don't mean that in a Scrooge, “Bah-humbug” sort of way, (although you should try it sometime, it is fun to say), but in an “O! The cleverness of me!”* sort of way.

Today was really the first day I didn't have any halting coughing attacks, (Mmm, sexy), I thought about what I really wanted to do.

Dance. It. Out.

I don't think there's a day that goes by where I don't have at least fifteen minutes of dancing. With my parents constantly hovering over me and my lungs about to collapse, this hadn't really been possible to do until today. I broke my dance fast with Gopher Mombo by Yma Sumac. Give it a listen. You will be wigglin' in your seat.

Next, I sat down to actually enjoy a couple of movies without having to stop ten minutes in to hack up a lung and go through a quarter of a tissue box. Rather than going for some old standards, I decided to check out a few flicks I'd been meaning to see but hadn't had a chance to. First on the gamete was THX 1138 (1971), a sweet sci-fi number directed by George Lucas. Oh yeah. Quality. Next, I figured I'd stick with the theme of futuristic distopia and directors named George, so I watched Things to Come(1936). Allow me to say, George Orwell knew his shit. Pardon my French. Okay, actually no pardons. I meant it!
When the folks got home in the evening I was treated to the finest of left-overs. I topped it all off with a hot cup of tea while the three of us watched The Incredibles (2004) on tv. God bless us, everyone.

Indeed it was a good Christmas.

* Peter Pan, by JM Barrie

So sick of this

Every winter, I realize that I had forgotten how cold it actually gets. Just like in summer, I forget how hot it gets. Similarly, every time I get sick, I seem to have forgotten just how much it sucks to be sick. I had the fortune to get sick right when I arrived home for the holidays. This is why I haven’t been updating as much as I said I would. I don’t call this fortune because I’m sick, but because it’s way better to be sick at home that to be sick at school. There I’d still be stuck in final exams and eating sub-par dining hall cuisine. Here, at least I get to be spoiled rotten by my parents who miss me and feed me home-made chicken soup. Plus, on top of everything, I get to have my bed.

I used to love being home sick when I was in high school. It meant I was allowed to a) miss school, and b) stay home alone. My favorite sick activity of the time was watching Jerry Springer. I don’t normally watch it, but when I’m feeling really crappy it’s one of the few things that makes all my problems seem insignificant. Now that it’s the holiday season, the great thing about being home sick is, without a doubt, the Bond-a-thon on Spyke tv. It makes me that much more satisfied to shake my cough syrup, (as opposed to stirring it).

Oh yeah. I’m so cool.

déjà vu

This feels like déjà vu. It’s certainly been a while since I last posted, but with winter break on the horizon, I feel you have a good month worth of posting to look forward to.

I had a similar, very odd feeling of déjà vu this morning as I ate my breakfast. As I was eating a clementine and watching the beginning of After the Wedding (a film I need to finish watching tonight before its due back tomorrow), I had the strangest feeling of being back in Bristol. I realized that this is because what I was doing (eating a breakfast of clementines and watching a movie) was ma routine for most of my time there. Before I began my day, I usually had enough time to watch movie or a few episodes of a television show. It was a pretty sweet deal. I got to catch up on a ton of movies I’d mean meaning to watch. They were mostly classics. I’m glad to say my cinematic references expanded quite a bit.

Right now, as I finish my 7th round of college exams, (7/8th of my undergraduate degree completed!), I’m realizing probably won’t get to loaf around like that again for a very long time. So, in spite of appearing like a bit of a lazy bones recluse for five months, I’m looking at that time as fuel for the years of work ahead of me until I reach retirement or become a professional writer, whichever comes first. I’m aiming for writing picture books for children. Writing. Not illustrating. I’ll leave that to someone with more talent and time of their hands.

The BIG one.

Let me begin by stating that I had every intention of coming to the library to do work. I did. I brought all my work, headphones, caffeine, water, snacks, my lap top (the very thing I'm typing on right now).

Let me continue by stating that certain foods constitute library snacks while others don't. Nilla wafers: library snack. Chicken masala: Not library snack. Generally, the unspoken rule is that anything with a particularly strong odor capable of distracting other library patrons from their work should be left at home. Sorry pizza. Adios tacos. Why then am I left here to endure the savory aroma of something very much like a meat ball hero? Who does this person this she is that she can just do that? At least I'm full. I suppose things could be that much worse if I were hungry. Then the smell would be taunting me.

Let me further state that I have severe doubts about being able to hold out here and complete all the work I was intending to do. Having just completed a major assignment this morning (which isn't even due until the end of this week) I've convinced myself that I deserve a bit of a break. I'm contemplating a nap back in my room at some point...

No! I must stay strong. What would become of the world if people gave into the temptations of meat ball heroes and naps? Nothing would get done. Well, a lot of sleeping and eating would get done, I suppose, but that hardly seems productive.
Productive. Produce. I must produce. Continue producing.

I saw the Disney film WALL-E over Thanksgiving. Several friends had been telling me to watch it since it came this past summer, but I never got around to it. Finally, last Wednesday my parents and I decided to sit down and watch it. It's one of the few movies we've all watched together all the way through. I loved it but I found myself so completely depressed by the whole first half hour of the film. Several times I was near the point of tears. While the end (the credits especially) was extremely hopeful and optimistic, everything up until that point was a classic urban dystopia, the kinds of stories I'm addicted to even though they keep me up at night.

What if it's true? What if I'm destined to produce and produce without any real purpose to my production?

What will I produce? How can I be sure it holds meaning?

I guess the big question is: Does all THIS mean anything?

I'm not sure how I got from the library to THE question. You'd think I could find the answer here, among this vast collection of human knowledge.

Whatever. So long as you keep reading, I'll keep producing. I guess that means something.

Where did you go (my lovely)?

If I were a Peanuts character, I would undoubtedly be Frieda. It's not because I'm a “chatter box” or play baseball or because I get thirty valentines each year. None of these things are true of me. But I do have naturally curly hair, or at least I used to.

Normally, the mop of brown hair on my head, varying from shoulder to shoulder blade length, is composed of tight, corkscrew curls. My friends (and even people I don't know that well) take great joy in “boinging” my curls. I, too, from time to time, have enjoyed stretching them out to their full length before letting go and watching them spring back to their length somewhere between my shoulder and shoulder blade.

Every now and then, I like to straighten it, just for the heck of it. This will usually happen in the winter when there's less of a chance of humidity ruining the hour and a half of work that goes into straightening my hair. In general, it freaks people out when they see me with straight hair and they're not expecting it. My favorite reaction to my non-curly hair happened earlier this week when a friend of mine, after greeting hello contorted her face in confusion before uttering, disgusted, “What the hell?” As she explained, the space around my face didn't match.

Normally, once my hair gets wet, any suggestion of straightness disappears and my hair reverts to its natural state. This time, however, my curls haven't returned. This past week I used a new flat iron that I had never used before. I washed my hair a day later and it stayed straight. I've been washing my hair for the past four days and still nothing. I'm starting to get anxious. Where have my curls gone? I want them back.

Like many latin women, my hair has always been a contentious issue; it manages to encompass all issues of race and gender dynamics within our culture. I hated my hair as a child. Neither I nor my parents quite knew how to manage it as it was an odd combination of my mother's thick wavy hair and my father's fine straight hair. Many a weekend was dedicated to hot blow dryers and giant painful rollers like so many others of my ilk. My grandmother always said I looked “greñado”, i.e. “a complete mess” in puertorrican. Only once I was in the final stages of high school did I really figure out how to manage it and realize that I actually loved it. It's become a huge part of my look, my image, my ideology of self. And it's gone. Well, on vacation. I hope. Right now it feels like I'm wearing someone else's hair on my head, like there's some random guest staying with me and I'm waiting for the usual tenant to come back.

Wherever you are, if you can hear me, Curls, come back to me.

Good Advice

A couple of days ago a friend of mine remarked how funny she found it that guest speakers always try to dispense what they consider useful life advice when giving lectures on college campuses. They seem to really take to heart the possibility that what they have to say may have a profound affect on our futures. It seems like an enjoyable task: to mold us. I can understand the appeal; it's pretty satisfying when you're able to save someone from making the same mistakes you've made, teach others how to avoid the pitfalls you may have encountered and to prevent the frustration you've had to endure. I do, indeed, enjoy giving advice.

I've got to say, I also love receiving advice. Even bad advice. That's not to say that I heed all of the advice I receive, I simply enjoy learning how people see the world and what others find worth sharing. One of my favorite pieces of advice came from The Odd Couple t.v. show in the jury duty episode in we are shown just how “assume” makes “an 'ass' out of 'u' and 'me'.” Genius. As cliché as it sounds, I actually have gotten a lot of good advice in college, though none of it gat in lectures. For instance, one of my favorite pieces of advice comes from the same friend who made the aforementioned comment.

After all is said and done, you can't go pleasing everyone, so screw it.

It's actually a John Lennon quote, so I guess it's advice from him, but my friend is the person I heard it from, so technically it's advice from her.
The second best piece of advice I received was from a professor. I know, I was shocked, too. But it wasn't given in an class, nor was it truly very helpful, I just liked the analogy he used.

Think of your life post graduation the same way the Communists thought of Russia; have a Five Year Plan.

My final favorite piece of advice comes from a place of many pearls of wisdom: a bathroom stall.

Lovers may not be perfect but love can be.

I'll be sure to keep all this in mind on my way to the top.

Oops!

The best plans are often times the ones that go wrong. Take penicillin, for example. Or even better, cheese. Had it not been for some careless oversight, two of the greatest contributions to humanity would never exist.

This evening followed the schedule of one such failed plan.

The plan was simple. Shower, do some reading, straighten my hair while I watched Flash Gordon Conquers the Universe. Simple.

How wrong I was.

I did get to shower. Thank goodness. Not a moment passed that I returned to my room that one of my friends knocked on my door. I answered and found her practically glowing with satisfaction at the new coat she had bought and was now wearing. I invited her in to share the tale of her shopping quest.

Over the next three hours we were joined by two other friends and had amazing conversations. They ranged from the most inane and hilarious of topic to the most serious and down right heavy. I still ended up straightening my hair but I nixed the readings for class. I can do those tomorrow.

The point is, the evening couldn't have been better or more fulfilling if I had planned it to be so.

Thank you Chance and Mishap. You two sure know what you're doing.

Follow Your Nose

It's true what they say; smell is the strongest sense of memory. I can't count how often I will be somewhere, smell something and be taken back to a specific, long ago moment in time and space. There are a few particular scents that I come across more often than others.

One smell that often comes back to me is this soapy, eucalyptus scent that matches the smell of a bubble bath I used as a child. As soon as my nose registers it, I'm immediately placed in the bathtub at my grandparents' apartment. I'm four. It's after school, before dinner and I've just finished watching Power Rangers. This was my daily ritual until I was about eight years old. I still watch Power Rangers, though. On occasion.

The next smell I encounter less often but it's all the more wonderful when I come across it. I last smelled it this summer while in the elevator at the 92nd street YMCA as I was headed to the gym. I entered the elevator and behind me entered a man who appeared to be a few years older than me. He had the distinct smell of my preschool. It was that unique combination of dish soap, water based paint and sand box. I'm not sure if it was his deodorant, his detergent or if he actually worked with small children, but he was coated in this wonderful smell. I had to restrain myself from pressing my nose into his shirt. That would have been awkward.

This last smell pops up fairly often. It's the smell of books, specifically my paperback copy of The Lord of the Rings. Strangely enough, last week something in the bathroom on my floor smelled distinctly of the pages of Tolkin's volumes. I was instantly brought back to the first time I read it in 7th grade, over winter break by the afternoon light that streamed into my parents' bedroom.

I wish I could bottle these and create my own perfume line. I'd call it Memory. I'd make millions. But then again, memories like those are priceless.

It's been a while

Let me begin with an apology. I went away without hardly a word and have been gone for so long. I allowed myself to get bogged down in the hellish academia that a place like this will envelope you in. I told myself I had no time to write for a blog when I barely had time to write the dozens of papers that are due in a given month or to read the hundreds of pages due in a given week. This was a lie. I waste enough time doing nothing. Some of this is constructive mind cruising with the windows rolled down, (as brain with traffic like mine tends to do), but a lot of it is time consumed by worrying about how much work I have to do or how tired I am. There's no point to this.
My original reason's for writing this blog had to do with practice in writing for an audience. That objective has changed as a) I'm back in school and simply practice by doing, and b) it's really more relaxing writing for myself on a daily basis than it is to sit around being exhausted. I find myself being particularly exhausted today due to the amount of physical activity I undertook. Recently, as an off-shot of the dance troupe I'm a member of, I've started playing capoeira. In case your not familiar with it, capoeira is a Brazilian martial art form that's fairly acrobatic and fluid. (Read: it kicks your ass into shape with a hammer). While my body is feeling much of the strain from my two hours of playing today, the sport is fairly addictive. I can't quite explaining but once your realize that your body is capable of things you never imagined you gain the drive to push it as far as it can go.
As a child I was treated like glass; I never had a real cultivated sense of adventure or risk. I find I'm discovering my inner Lara Croft now that I'm coming into my own as a person. I realize that if I fall on my face or my ass, I'm not going to break. I mean this figuratively as well as literally. In capoeira you fall on your ass and your face often when you begin. It hurts but the blisters hurt more. Kind of like running, though, you see the progress you make and the results in your body fairly quickly. I have more upper body strength than I've ever had before. I can do cartwheels in both directions!
I'd like to believe that I'll keep up with capoiera after this dance is over and once I graduate. I can't be sure of that but I am sure that I'll be making a more concentrated effort to keep up with this blog. Not just for you few who actually read it and have asked me to continue writing, but for myself as well. Because while I'm learning lot's of neat new stuff, it's good to hold on to the old.

I'm just saying...

Like most other college campuses, my school has an over abundance of random and inane clubs; knitting club, Irish step dancing club, chocolate lovers club, surf club, I like to scratch my butt club, etc. I love it. I truly love that people are able to make clubs and societies pertaining to whatever it is their hearts desire. All of these clubs are well attended, which shows it isn't just one person sitting around trying to get funded by the student government. I think it's cool that no matter how obscure your interest, there are probably ten other people who are just as interested in it as you. From time to time, however, there are a few interest groups that make me cringe, shake my head or at least ask, “Is that really such a good idea?”

Case in point: Anime club.

Let me begin by saying that I am a fan anime. I'm not saying I'll fall head-over-heels for a show or a movie just because it has people with giant eyes and animal ears, but I do have a couple shows and movies I enjoy. I respect anime (or Japanamation as I grew up knowing it) as a valid art form and find it generally entertaining and full of incite in many cases. There are also many aspects of the genre by which I am completely bewildered and disgusted but I'd say that's true of most other visual mediums. No, my issue is not with the fact that there is an anime club on campus but rather the general tone of said club.

It's a discomfort that's hard to pin-point. It's the same kind of discomfort I get when a person's first or only exposure to African American culture is through gangsta' rap. Similarly, it holds a subtle hint of racism when a person's only or first exposure to Japanese culture is through anime. It doesn't make your a racist if rap or anime is your first exposure to another culure but it does underscore the racial unawareness in your world. Everyone has to start somewhere, a problem arises, however, when that first introduction becomes an essentialization of a culture and the lens through which one understands said culture. Here, I feel the fandom of anime has a tone of fetish, another way of tiptoeing dangerously close to racism and often times crossing the line.

I'm not saying this club should disband, I'm just saying maybe liking anime shouldn't be your reason for learning Japanese or studying in Japan for a semester. I'd kind of like a class on anime to be taught here, either in the film or sociology departments, just to put a different, more culturally aware perspective on this phenomenon. I'd register for it, just as long as I wouldn't have to sit next to someone wearing wings and a pink wig in class and be expected to act like it's normal, 'cuz it's not.

It's the simple things in life- tres

Today was one of those wonderfully dank and damp days; very English. The sky was the kind of gray you can't even paint but you can feel. Perfect for taking a brooding stroll or staring at from inside with a hot cup of tea or a warm bowl of soup. I got to do all three of those things along with some oatmeal cookies to go with the tea. Another wonderful sensation on a day such as this it putting on clothes fresh from the dryer. Nothing feels quite so toasty and comfortable; it's like getting a hug from your clothes. What bothers me is that it's not the same with keeping clothes cold. Earlier this month, when it was still sweltering and gross, I tried the trick I learned from The Seven Year Itch and put my underwear in the ice box. The cold only lasted for a few moments before I was just hot again. It didn't last nearly as long as tea or soup. Especially not as long as fresh laundry. The warmth from the dryer stays with you longest; it reaches your soul. The cold from the fridge is just a tease. I think that's why I enjoy the cold more than heat: you can always put more clothes on but you can only take so many clothes off. Plus, being super cold outside makes coming inside that much more satisfying.

Yes, I'm a woman of simple pleasures. Of course, I'll be a whiny punk once the winter comes.

Rear Window

For reasons I don't understand, I absolutely love riding backwards in cars. I can remember, as very small child, kneeling on the back seat of my parents' car, looking out to the road behind us, seeing the oncoming headlights of cars and how they clashed with the street lights. When I started riding in friends' station wagons I was usually the one who had to sit in the back because I was smallest and the seat belt could fit me. Now, I find I'll look for an excuse to sit in the back of a hatch-back, even when there are no seat belts. It's not just in cars either. On trains, buses and ferries I'll find reasons to ride facing opposite of the direction I'm headed.

I think it's the sensation of moving backwards instead of forward that I like. It's a very different ride than everyone else in the vehicle has. The image of things getting farther is somehow way more aesthetically appealing to me than things getting closer. I guess it it's because I like to see where I've been more so than where I'm going. That can be read in one of two ways; either that I reminisce rather than move forward or that I like to reflect rather than speculate. It's probably more of the latter though, I must admit, I have been guilty of the first.

I'm not really sure where I'm going with all this. It's just an observation. Although, I may not know where I'm going simply because I'm facing the other way and I like it.

"What's a motto with you?"

The illustrious Tim Gunn of television’s Project Runway has a certain catch phrase that serves a sort of motto for the designers on the show as well as everyone at my school: Make it work.

Don’t have enough sequins to cover a model's boobs?
Make it work.
Need to write a 20 page paper in 24 hours?
Make it work.
Your meal plan only covers 14 meals per week yet you find yourself hungry a third time each day?
Make it work.
Ran out of all your toiletries? At the same time?
Make it work.

This phrase, really, can be applied to all realms of life but tends to work particularly well when applied to situations of high stress. When you have no idea what to do, this motto tells you exactly what to do in three simple words. For certain situations, however, I’ve created a new phrase: Make it happen.

Want some ice-cream?
Make it happen.
Need a sweater-like-item for the cold?
Make it happen.
Think you might look good with bangs?
Make it happen.
Wishing for a reason to dance?
Make it happen.

It seems like I so often forget that I have the power to make things happen. My hope is that with this new little catch phrase I can regain the sense of control I've lost in my life. I'd like to get some of that control back. I intend to Make It Happen.

Adventures in Fishsitting

While my friend is away this weekend, I've agreed to feed her beta fish in her absence. I actually volunteered for the job since it meant I'd be able to hang out in her slightly messy but soon to be super swanky room. She, by the way, has the most awesome, most comfortable, full-sized bed. I had spend a good part of the prior evening hanging out in her room, mostly lounging in her bed when I realized, as she cooed and chatted with her fish, Monet, no one would be around to feed him.

My impression of Monet has changed since our first meeting. I've come to realize he's quite a friendly, conscious and smart little fellow. He shows a curiosity and interest when people pass by his bowl. He responds to voices, especially the high-pitched baby talk of my friend when she addresses him. I tried to imitate this intonation when I fed him today but it just didn't work. I don't know why, but I find it difficult to talk to pets (and babies I guess) in cooing, baby-talk fashion. I inevitably end up talking to them as if they were people my own age. I greet them as I would normal people; “It's been real,” were I believe my parting words to Monet. He seemed, in a fishy way, confused by this.

Fish, I learned, are incredibly easy to talk to. They don't judge you or as questions; they just swim. In Monet's case, being the curious little dude that he is, he comes to the side of his bowl and watches me when I get particularly excited or passionate about something.

I knew that my friend, (his “Mom” as I started to refer to her while talking to him), often reads to him, so I thought it might be nice to keep up this routine. Unfortunately, all that I found strewn about were academic books; hardly bed-time material. Instead, I read him a hilarious, slightly less intellectually challenging, article on-line about pancake batter in a can. He seemed interested by the end, or maybe he was just intrigued because I was laughing so enthusiastically over the article. Who can say? He swam away as I closed out of the Internet but came racing back when I said, “Goodnight.” I think he understands that word. He also seems to respond to his own name. It seems like something that could be tested. Yes; before I get to attached to this guy I should start treating him like a scientific experiment. That'll be sure to stop any emotions from getting involved. After all, he's not my fish.

The sound and the fury

For some reason or other, I have a knack for making involuntary, interrupting noises in situations when one should otherwise be quiet. More than once I've inexplicably needed to sneeze when a professor is waiting for someone to raise their hand and comment or answer a question. My stomach has been known to grumble at similar moments. There's also the odd yawn or two that have definitely earned me a death glare from a rightfully frustrated prof. These sounds aren't always biological. Often, it might be a trip or the dropping of an object or a whole tray of food in the middle of the dinning hall, but who notices that?

I can recall two instances today where such involuntary sounds were produced by me. The first was in the movie theater. My friend and I thought we would be incredibly devious and go see a movie at 5pm on a weekday! Once we got over the fact that we were actually incredibly pathetic for thinking we were in any way B.A.s, we went to get dinner. Being that we needed packable foods we could sneak into the theater, I went for carrot sticks and celery. Bad move. There's nothing quite a deafening as the crunch of produce whole opening credits are rolling by. The second instance was, of course, in the library. When I got up from a long while of reading (a good half an hour!) my chair screeched outrageously loud and long as I stood to leave.
Cinema and library; the two places that have explicit signs asking for your quiet. I just need to find some places of worship and I'm set. Maybe a funeral for good measure.

Maybe I should just cut my ear off...

When my parents came to drop off the rest of my junk, my dad bought me sunflowers. Sunflowers are without a doubt one of my favorite kinds of flowers. I love that they have no scent, not because I don't like the scent of flowers, but because it just seems very defiant of them. I love big and hefty they are; their stems are like branches!
Sadly, the sunflowers are beginning to wilt. I can't help but think that if I had just been a little more attentive to them, if I had given them more water, sooner, they would be a bit healthier. Granted, these flowers are over a week old, but I still wish they could last a bit longer. All in all, it's a bit depressing.

"Hot potato, hot potato!"

While there are numerous events pointing to the possibility that I am part old man and part teenage boy, I believe there's another part of me that is a six year-old child. The gender of this child doesn't matter much. Though, if I had to guess I'd say that, like my other alter egos, it's male.
In my fridge right now there are several packets of Mott's Apple Sauce. On my shelf I have Kix cerial (kid tested and mother approved) and GoDieogGo fruit snacks. On my desk I have a McDonnalds toy version of the Batmobile as well as a matchbox car I found as a prize in a box of Cheerios. There is a small wooden giraffe that smiles at me while holding random notes I need to remember. By my window sill there perches a battery operated talking parrot as well as a plushie of Robin of Loxley, the animated fox version of Robin. On my wall there proudly stands a Transformers poster (hanging directly above my desk as a source of inspiration) as well as a giant paper clip which is just begging to be attached to giant paper (which I also have); that's going to happen soon.
Did I forget to mention that I collect buttons? I suppose button collecting can be an old-woman thing as well as a little kid thing. As supported by the above evidence, however, I'm going to go with child for now.
Who knows? Maybe one day I'll manage to be one age and gender at the same time but I don't see that happening any time soon. But where's the fun in that? Besides, all my alter egos need other egos to keep them company. It's possible some others will crop up as the semester unfolds.

A little conceptual physics never hurt anyone... right away.

Recently, a friend of mine stated that she enjoyed the way I and my plutanic life mate occupy the same mental space.

I feel this statement reqires a couple of definitions.

Plutanic Life Mate: (a phrase of my own creation) A non-familial friend with whom you will spend most of your life in close proximity but for whom you feel zero physical attraction toward. You may find yourself reffering to this person as your sibling of cousin in conversations to simplify explinations of your relationship.

Same Mental Space: (a phrase created by my friend who made the above statement) An identical working between two or more minds. This similarity occupys a “space” of inexplicable comprehension. Similar to this are overlapping mental spaces and neighboring mental spaces.

I had never put our relationship put this way but in all truth it is the best summation of our interactions and responses to each other. He truly is my “brother from another mother”. Ever since this phrase has entered my frame of reference I’ve been applying it whenever I can, seeing moods and conversations as venerable ven diagrams of mental spaces shifting their coordinates on a plane. That sounds a bit like Flatland, but as abstract as that may seem it actually takes away the two most troublesome dimensions of spacetime.

Revenge is a dish best served. Period.

As it happens, I am a huge James Dean fan. I'm not sure when this love started but it was well before I had seen any of his movies. It was more the icon of James Dean and all that he stood for more so than the actor that I was enamored with. Now that I've seen all three of his films, it's both. Two years ago, based on this love, my friends thought it would be a great idea to get me a birthday present that had something to do with James. The opted for a life-sized cardboard cut-out. Imagine my surprise when I saw this massive thing was my gift. Apparently they didn't have as big an imagination because they saw the need to scare the ever-livin' out of me in the process of giving it to me.
Somewhat elaborately, they were able to coax me away from my room once I had unlocked it that evening. While I was somewhere else, half of them assembled it and lay the cut-out on its side on my bed. Initially, when I came back into my room I didn't see it; all the lights were out and my friend had left all of her crap on the floor, so I was mostly focused on getting her to get her junk out. I noticed that all of my friends were huddled around the entrance, staring at me expectantly. One of them turned the lights on and I got the hint that there was something behind me. Slowly turning around, I saw the figure of a human and nearly shat my pants. I screamed and fell to the floor amid their hysterical laughter. It was one of the greatest birthdays I can remember.
Yesterday, my parents brought the rest of my stuff from home that didn't fit into the car last week. Among that stuff was my James Dean cut-out. Once I had it assembled, the spirit spoke to me and gave me divine inspiration. My life-sized cut-out in hand, I creped down the hall to my friend's room. Her room is conveniently shaped like an “L”, with her bed situated around the corner such that she can't see anyone who enters her room if she's on her bed. As if preordained, this happened to be the case. Slowly, I moved the cardboard cut-out around the corner, as if James Dean were peaking. She flipped. There was a gasp and a scream. I don't really know what she looked like because I was around the other side of the corner but I can only imagine the look of horror on her face. “That's how I felt!” I yelled. “Yeah, but he wasn't moving!” she countered.
What can I say? I'm an instrument of God.

* This royal throne of kings, this sceptred isle...

My day won't start properly until I've visited my favorite toilet stall. This is true for biological reasons as well as emotional ones. I have a favorite toilet stall in almost every bathroom on this campus. I think I like those stalls more than the individual bathrooms that are completely private; just the one room with a sink and a toilet feels strange to me. Maybe it's because those stalls are usually meant to be wheelchair accessible (but never actually are) and seem cavernous.
My favorite bathroom on campus is actually on the first floor of the library. Besides containing some wonderful and insightful conversation on it's walls (which thankfully was not painted this past summer) in the corner stall there is a fun project of filling all the lines of grout between the tiles with words and phrases pertaining to the word “line”. Crammed into these little spaces is everything from “Sweet Caroline” to “Walk the Line” to “incline”. The other stall actually gave me one of the best bits of wisdom I've ever received: Lovers can't be perfect but love can be.

*William Shakespeare, "King Richard II", Act 2 scene 1

We find our hero near Camelot...

Yesterday I learned (confirmed rather) that I have the aesthetic of an old man. This was revealed at the first meeting of my Legends of Arthur class. First, let me say I was really worried this would be a class filled with high level nerds, the geekdom of which I would never dare to challenge or reach. Thus, it had the potential to be really wonderful or extremely awful. Little did I know, I would end up looking (possibly being) the biggest dweeb there.
After passing around the syllabus and taking attendance, the professor (a monumentally cool Canadian woman) asked us all what we could remember as our first exposure to the Arthurian myths and legends. A few different sources were mentioned. When she called on me, I told her that my first exposure to the legend was through Prince Valiant in the Sunday comics. “Thank you for reminding me of Prince Valiant!” she exclaimed. Apparently, in all her years of teaching the course, no one had ever mentioned Prince Valiant before. (Here's where I become an old man): Prince Valiant is how her father was exposed to the legends as a child growing up in the 1930's.
Maybe I should just buy a sweater vest and call it a day.

Simon Says

I'm a little amazed at how quickly I'm able to mimic people's behavior and vocal inflections. In certain academic circles this is called “code switching”. I've done this most of my life. Since Kindergarden, I've been going from a fairly working class neighborhood where I live to an extremely affluent one for school, then back again in the evening. In each place I behaved some what differently.
In the Disney movies The Jungle Book and Tarzan there are scenes of Mowgli and Tarzan learning to speak like an animals and humans, respectively. That's how I feel. I never really took note of it until last year when I did it again for a field work assignment in which I traveled from school, in one of the wealthiest neighborhoods in the nation, to my field placement, to one of the poorest in West Philly. It made me extremely aware that I severely compartmentalized my life in order to maintain my mimicry. Keeping things separated made it easier to identify their key characteristics and embody them. In high school, I never had friends from school over to my house, not because I was ashamed of where I lived or how my family was but because I wasn't sure how I was supposed to behave. Was it a school or a home moment?
I'm glad to say, I'm much more confident with myself now. I know how to behave and when and it isn't usually based on mimicry. I'm able to be myself (now that I know what that is) and decompartmentalize the different spheres of my life and alow people into all of it. I do still, however, tend to speak the way the people around me speak. This includes accents and turns of phrase. While I was abroad, I definitely caught myself using an English accent once or twice. Now, I sound a lot like a friend I've been spending a lot of time with. I guess old habits die hard.

Welcome Back

Ahh! I'm finally moved into my room at school. I arrived two days ago but everything was such a mess, “I couldn't really call it “moved in” until this morning when I woke up and realized that a) I knew where everything was and b) the walls were put up.
I must say, even though this room was my last choice, it really is quite lovely. With the exception of the massive globular stain on the floor (the story behind which I learned yesterday), I love everything about it. It's bigger than I thought it would be and the view rivals one of Eden. The first night I was here a hawk perched about seven feet from my window! I was staring at it for about fifteen minutes before it flew away, majestically.
There are a couple things I've realized in the past two days. 1) Putting up posters and things on your walls actually takes a lot out of you. It involves more climbing and reaching than I remember. 2) I remembered my love for duck tape. I think it and I are about to re-enter a committed relationship.
All my junk isn't here yet. Ma' n' Pa' are being kind enough to make a second trip down here next weekend with the rest of my crap. Perhaps then I'll be fully move in. Until then, this suits me just fine.

Sometimes I'm an ASS

Sometimes my ignorance shines through, exploding in a foux pas of epic proportions. This happened yesterday, though, thankfully, it was in the safety of my own home.
Over the summer, New York got a new governor because our old one, Eliot Spitzer, was revealed to be a pedophile. Oops! Stepping up to fill the position was David A. Patterson, a quality politician working hard (though falling short) to fix New York’s budget.
The other day, Governor Patterson was giving a televised speech when I remarked, “Damn, that guy is squinty.” Both of my parents turned to me, silent and stunned. “You’re joking, right?” my dad asked. My mom remained silent for a little longer before saying, “He’s blind.”
Oops!
I couldn’t stop laughing for about fifteen minutes straight. I felt like such a jerk. I had no idea that our governor is legally blind. The whole process of his instatement happened so quickly, I hardly had a chance to learn his physical biological record. Still, how did I not know this? I suppose I could have been a little more on top of things. I’m now obsessive about watching the news, not just because the DNC national convention is happening but because apparently there’s been talk of Governor Patterson’s eye operation.

"What once was lost has now been found..."

Myapologies for not posting these past couple of days but I've been on a miniature quest for lost relics of unquantifiable value.

I'm usually pretty good at finding things quickly. It's rare that I misplace something longer than a few days. In fact, my friends usually recruit me to find objects in their own rooms that they have misplaced. Thus, I've been a bit out of sorts in trying to find my string lights
as well as - I later discovered was misplaced - my passport. I wracked my brain and tore it apart trying desperately to think of where these items could be before reverting to a tactic I had never thought worked. I thought hard about where I had left it last. My criticism of this has
always been “Well, if I could remember where I had it last, it wouldn't be lost.” Also, I had already done this and was still unable to find what I was looking for. Yet I tried again, reverse remembering why I had put it where I had (a shelf under a canvas box), what it actually looked like and why I would have thought to move it. IT WORKED!

My passport I had moved to a more secure location. I remembered this first then recalled that I had put it inside my money belt then inside... my trunk!

One down. One to go.

With the string lights, this process did not work. I had not seen these things since January. The last place I could picture them was in another state. Finding them really consisted of looking in the one place I hadn't. I hadn't checked this place yet because it was dusty and difficult to reach. Of course, this is where I found my string lights. Go figure. I guess this means my skills of detection are back.

"There's something lost that can't be found..."

I began sorting through all my junk to find the good stuff that’s coming with me to school. With the miraculous wonders that are space bags, I managed to fit all my bedding into a neat little cube.
During the excavation of my room, I was unable to find a set of string lights that I absolutely love. This saddens me as 1) those string light are the perfect level of light for watching movies, and 2) I CAN’T FIND THEM! I hate it when I can’t find something in a small space, like a drawer or my room. It should be there, wherever you left it, yet that spot always manages to hide behind some random materialization of antimatter. There are some typical items that get sucked into this vortex; keys and socks especially, as well as phone numbers, tools, and other items. Apparently we can add string lights to that list.

Mild Fuzz

This morning I popped open the grill and torched all my flash cards and notes from my G.R.E. review. It was SO satisfying to see the source of my summer’s frustration go up in flames. It brought back memories of my first academically destructive bon fire. Closely following were my memories of a bon fire that was put to a stop by the fuzz. Actually, it was more like ambitious campus security officers but for the sake of this story, it was the fuzz.
I and some friends had been destroying all evidence of the classes that had made our semesters a living hell with a cleansing fire in the long-jump pit behind our dorm. Out of nowhere, we were ambushed on both sides by two public safety vehicles. That meant that all two of the public safety officers on duty were on our butts. I think it was the shuttle bus driver who called us in. What a square! Anyway, one of them was so excited to bust us while the other thought we were hilarious. The one who wanted to bust us wanted all of our names, but I stepped forward and gave my name, explaining that the whole thing had been my idea (which it was) and that he didn’t need to know who anyone else was. It was kind of a Jedi moment; “You don’t need to know their names.” This made the guy really angry since he knew we weren’t afraid. He called in the situation in to H.Q. (i.e. the public safety office). The person who answers also thinks we’re hilarious and gives no validation to the dude who wants to bust us.
Long story short, in spite of the fact that I gave some lip to the public safety officer who wanted us reported (my argument was that the paper was “biodegradable” and, thus, not litter), we were doing nothing wrong as a) it was our own property being destroyed and, b) eagle scouts couldn’t have built and put out a fire any better if Smokey the Bear was guiding them every step of the way.
By keeping my cool, I managed to keep me and my friends from being reported to their respective deans and having our parents called. For once I was the hero and it was all thanks to the confidence granted by a controlled dose of pyromania. Jedi mind tricks helped, too.

... You should see the other guy.

Today I faced the G.R.E. It was a blood bath. I WON! Suck it G.R.E.! At the end of the exam, when you’re given the choice to cancel your score or view it, I learned that I did better than I thought I would. I’m pretty proud of myself.
This weekend I’m burning my study notes and flash cards. Fire, I bleive (and as my friends have learned), is very clensing.

Testing my Patience

This is it. Tomorrow is D-Day. Tomorrow I take the G.R.E.
I’m not too worried. Really, I’m not. It’s not because I think I’ll do exceptionally well, in fact, I have no idea how I’ll do. I just know it’s going to do me no good to worry. Also, I’ve already conceived the worst possible outcome of the exam. That would be that I completely fail and don’t get into my top choices of grad school programs in the United States. This doesn’t bother me that much since my second choice of schools is actually in Canada and they don’t require the G.R.E. for admission because the colder the climate, the warmer your heart. Also, there are two reasons I don’t think this would actually happen. 1) My complete failure on the G.R.E. isn’t sufficient reason for a school to turn me down as the G.R.E. merely tests one's ability to take the G.R.E.. My academic record speaks for itself. I completely bombed my S.A.T.s and still got into one of the best schools in the country because the admissions office was able to look beyond that score and knew I wouldn’t be a risk. 2) Based on the rules of probability, since I’ve already conceived this possibility it is that much less likely to happen out of all other possible outcomes.
After the four hour ordeal, I plan to treat myself with tea, shopping and a healthy dose of psychotherapy.
See you on the flip side.

Chévere: *

A few moments ago I viewed something truly amazing.

While watching Mythbusters (one of the best shows on television) on TLC, a channel aired in English, I saw a commercial in Spanish. The commercial was a car commercial for Infinity and, more importantly, there was nothing distinctly Latino about it. It was not “targeting” a consumer group with a gimmick in any way other than the language in which it was spoken. The man in the commercial wasn't driving to a quinceañera or through el barrio. It was the same commercial that would have been used in English. The only difference was the voice over.

I don't know if airing this commercial on TLC was an accident but I'd like to hope it wasn't. If it wasn't, infinity is presuming that people who speak Spanish watch English speaking channels. It takes note not of a non-English speaking population in the United States, but of a bilingual one, an ever growing one that will soon, I believe, make our nation virtually a bilingual one. With actors like James Roday, one of the stars of Psych, (whose real name is James Rodriguez), coming forward as Latino is a good example of the growing importance of a Latino presence in media.

This excites me for two reasons. 1) Way to go Infinity for not using a gimmick. Those “cultural gimmicks” are the reason I couldn't stand some of the earlier McDonalds “I'm lovin' it” adds, as they clearly and specifically targeted an “urban” audience (read: black/ African-American) or “general” audience (read: white). 2) Infinity and TLC recognize that language is not a barrier; it's a bridge.

Let's face it, Mythbusters is awesome, no matter what language you speak. But then, this could have all been an accident.

*Chévere: old-school Newyorican** word for cool, fantastic

** Newyorican: a New Yorker of Puertorrican decent.

It's the simple things in life: Part II

Some things in this wold make no sense. If you recall, I began to explore this in my previous post. Granted, some of those nonsensical things are a good source of frustration others, however, bring pin sized gifts of whimsy to our lives. Like Nicolas Cage.

I'm not sure who it was that first thought, “Nick Cage; now there's an action star!” I have to say to that person, THANK YOU, whoever you are, for bringing joy to my life. It kind of makes me feel like I could some day be an action star. Also, as was pointed out to me by an extremely intuitive friend of mine, whoever thought the format of Proper Noun Adjective for a film title is a genius and should be rewarded.

Work It Out

Since starting to go to the gym this summer, I’ve come to appreciate that people go to the gym for many different reasons. Some people are trying to lose weight, some are training for a sport of some kind, others are just trying to keep active and healthy. Then there is the rare breed of gym patron: the T.V. watchers. Yes, I’m talking of course of those who use the treadmill or whatever other cardio machine, it would seem, in order to watch television. Don’t you have a t.v. at home? Wouldn’t it waste less time and resources if you had stayed home on your couch as you would have gotten the same amount of exercise as you are at the gym? I suppose there is the possibility that said individuals don’t have television sets and are just trying to catch up on current events. There’s also the need to get out and about rather than become a shut-in. There is one woman, though, whom I’ve seen on several occasions actually engaging with the show that she’s watching, getting angry at chefs for giving poor instructions or disagreeing with talk show hosts. To her I would say, if you’re going to get combative about it, just stay home. She has some serious issues to work out.

Traffic Update

My driving lessons with Pa have been progressing. Today was my fourth time driving with my dad since I got my learners permit. He dared to suggest I actually try to drive on actual roads in the Bronx. What is he, CRAZY? As soon as putting my foot on the gas, I would have instantaneously crapped my pants. No, no. I decided to keep to the conveniently constructed driving course at the Whitestone Cinemas. Allow me to explain just how massive the parking lot to this place is; it used to be a drive-in theater with THREE SCREENS. There are no less than five stop signs and four speed bumps. What kind of extreme parking are they expecting to go on here? Not that I mind. This works really well to set up many different driving situations. There is some random company there, though. In addition to the few matinee movie-goers we encounter at 10 in the morning, yesterday there were two fire trucks testing their hoses and ladders. Today there was some random dude sitting on the side of the road eating pancakes.
What makes the experience a bit more enjoyable and makes me feel like less of a looser for not knowing how to drive is that there are ALWAYS other people learning how to drive there. It’s kind of a rite of passage for anyone who grew up here; when you learn to drive, you go to the Whitestone.
I was particularly proud of myself for being able to parallel park today. We used giant plastic garbage bins as stand-ins for cars. Granted, my dad was shouting instructions at me from outside the car, but I did it! I’m thinking next week I’ll be ready for real, honest to God, New York City roads.

Made for Comfort

I find myself in a bit of an awkward situation. My parents want me to be dating a friend of mine. There are several issues I have with this. 1) Eeew. I don’t like the idea of my parents being involved in my romantic life. 2) I’m not physically attracted to this person. 3) It’s not just my parents. Apparently my other friend’s mom and a couple of my friends think we should be together.
It’s rather frustrating that this thought had been planted in my head. This person whom my parents want me to be with (we’ll call him Person X) is actually someone I used to practically be in-love with. He had a girlfriend at the time, so I never pursued him. We remained good friends but never anything more. When I went away to school absence made my heart grow fonder. I always looked forward to seeing him whenever I could when I was home telling myself that there was no point in wanting him. About a year and a half ago, I learned that he had broken up with his girlfriend a few months prior. This reawakened my crush came back with a vengeance. I stewed in this until we saw each other again later that year. What I found when we finally saw each other again, though, was that I was no longer attracted to him. Was it because I could finally go after him? Or was it his recently receding hair line? I’m guessing it was the superficial latter reason as nothing else about him had changed.
Further frustration comes when I try to understand why I’m no longer attracted to him. I don’t want to believe I’m as shallow as I think I am (though I probably am), so I wonder if maybe it has something to do with how hard I worked to get over him. I think about how comfortable I am with him and get even more frustrated; it would be really convenient for me to like him. He fits my life like an old shoe. But I’m not sure I’m ready for an old shoe in my life yet. I do so love stilettos.

Read it and weep

Recently, a friend and I were discussing our love of books. This is not to say that we enjoy reading, which we do, but that we absolutely love the qualities of books as objects. Everything about a book is absolutely wonderful: the spine, the smell, the weight, the binding and the sheets of paper with a multitude of variation in type face. To hold a book in your hands and turn the pages is one of the most soothing sensations in the world. I remember when digital books first became available; people were able to download novels and news papers onto their palm pilots. For a little while people were saying that because of this, books would become out-moded, that they would eventually be replace by this new digitized form. That really upset me. I tried to imagine a world without book shops or even the massive conglomerates, or a room with a shelf of neatly lines data pads. What kind of a future was that? One without dust or paper cuts, I suppose. Fortunately that didn’t happen. I think those few who actually purchased the program to download a copy of Huckleberry Finn or whatever other of the few books available in 1999, realized a) that the font of their palm pilots was too small, b) they looked like a crazy person staring at an electronic devise on which they weren’t playing a video game, and c) it just wasn’t as satisfying as physically turning a page, dog-earing it or lovingly placing a book mark (which I collect) on the page you know you’ll come back to. Books are sacred, precious, and I hope that never changes.

Driving me up a wall

Like many other fathers of daughters, I think my dad stopped knowing what to do with me the day I started wearing a bra. He really has no idea how to interact with me in any normal every day situation. He either treats me like a toddler or a potential rape victim. There exists no in between where I'm a real person. There used to be only one way we could ever bond: action movies. I love action movies, as does he, and watching one together is one of the few ways we're able to be in each other's company for several hours in a row. With my new driving permit, though, I've found a new way for us to interact together: driving.

Since I got my permit last week, my dad has been teaching me to drive. He's pretty good at it. He's a post man, so he actually drives a truck for a living every day. He's the person who taught me mom to drive when they were first dating. It's one of the few times, I've noticed, that he's able to treat me as a novice, as a normal person rather than a role. It's nice. Maybe we'll both grow through this experience.

Weep not for the memories

Do you ever relive memories? I do. Constantly. With as graphic an imagination as I have, it’s a bit more intense than a flash back. Sometimes they can be good, fun even, like when I recall some shenanigan with my friends or when I first heard a good joke. Usually, though, it’s something embarrassing that I would rather never remember until the end of my days. It’s always something mundane that triggers it, and object or a sound. Sometimes it’s nothing at all, the memory just works its way from the inner most reaches of my mind to the forefront, like an obnoxious patron bustling its way to the front of the line, busting onto the scene like a diva. I begin to experience the memory with pain, physically cringe at the recollection, moan in pain and frustration, mutter the words that could have altered the situation in my favor. (This becomes a little awkward if I’m in public or other people happen to be around.) Rapidly, every detail of the experience will come rushing back to me. The episode will then play over and over in my head like a scratched record. It takes a little while for the memories to die down, and just when I think I’ve put them back in their rightful place, they pop back up for the rest of the day.
Skeletons in my closet are one thing, but these phantoms in my brain will never be exercised.

There goes the neighborhood

There are very few white people who are ever in my neighborhood. The most common kind of white person you’ll see around here is the odd cop or fire fighter as well the occasional social worker. They all live somewhere else, of course. Those that live here are mostly crack heads and a few Morman missionaries. All of these people are male and single. Thus, imagine the community’s surprise when a white family moved in down the street. As wrong and politically incorrect as it is, it has become a mutual pass time among all my neighbors to collect and pass on information about them amongst ourselves. It’s kind of like a game. I was finally able to add my bit to the vat of gossip when I overheard the father of this family talking on his cell phone. Apparently, he has what sounds like a Scandinavian accent. That only gives me more questions than answers.
I think of them as pioneers; the White Younger family of 2008. Free at last, free at last.

Are you one, are you two... are you EIGHTY?

Today was my grandmother’s 80th birthday. We think. At least, this year her birthday was today. Officially she was born on August 9th, 1928 but that’s only what her birth certificate says. Like many people born in rural locations, her birth was never actually reported to government officials until someone had to go into town for something. It went something like, “Oh, the mule needs a new shoe and could you tell them we have another baby?” Due to this, the actual date of her birth is debatable. In addition to this, her native home of Puerto Rico has endured many a hurricane. These annual tropical storms destroy many crops but rarely do they do much harm to buildings as people there have learned from experience and build everything out of solid concrete. While buildings aren’t damaged, everything gets flooded, including the basements of government buildings that hold all sorts of records, including births. Thus, when the second copy of her birth certificate was written up, it had to be written from memory of an already disputed date.
I’m fairly certain there’s another unspoken reason my grandmother’s birthday is celebrated on any number of different days in the month of August. There’s an old superstition that jealous rivals and witches will curse you so that some terrible misfortune will befall you on your birthday. If you make your birthday on a different day, you can out smart them. Without getting into too much detail, I’ll simply say that it is plausible that there are people who would want to curse my grandmother. Either way, today she turned 80 and doesn’t look a day over 70, so she’s managed to out-fox all ill-wishers thus far. What can I say? She’s a pretty foxy lady.

Drifting to the next level

Finally, I have my learner’s permit. I got it yesterday on 34th street, Harold Square. I'm not sure why I waited so long to do something so simple. Myabe it was because I didn't want to give part of my soul to the D.M.V.
In addition to making you wait an inordinate amount of time, the D.M.V. sets you up for an odyssey. Fortunately, I wore my Berkenstocks, so I was ready for anything. I got out without any scrapes or bruises but the friend I went with wasn't so luckey. He ended having quite an odyssey. He didn't not get to take the written test at the same time as me because he didn’t have any I.D. with proof of age. Apparently, even though your state I.D. has your birthday on it and counts for all 6 points of identification, it doesn’t actually prove your age to the D.M.V. even though they're the ones who gave it to you! Go figure. If only he had been a member of the Mohawk tribe of Canada and had his membership card and birth certificate. He would have been set. Instead, he called his dad to bring him his passport. And did you know that your permit costs money? Those miserable curs charged me $58! The dumbest charge on my recipt was for "photo documentation retrieval", which consisted of the person giving me my permit to copy and paste the photo taken for state I.D. three years ago. My friend "Jason the Argonot" happened to finished his test and get his number right when their credid card machines went down, so he had to get out of line, go downstairs, finde a cash machine, go back upstairs, get a new number and wait to pay for his permit.
When I came home with the flimsy slip of paper that represented my temporary permit, I wanted to post it on the refrigerator. I haven’t been so proud of a piece of paper since elementary school. I settled for tacking it to my bulletin board.
Now, I embark on the epic search for driving classes. I’m not feeling too daunted. I’m sure my days will look like this-> http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=N2IWxqvsSY8 in no time.

I'll dress you up in my love

Every now and then I need to play dress up. Not just because it’s fun but because I need to a) clean out my closet, b) figure out if I need anything, and c) figure out ways to rework things I already own into new outfits. Since the beginning of the summer, I’ve gotten rid of four bags of clothes, rediscovered a bent, and realized I need four blouses.
Dressing up really triggers the kind of deep joy, the same kind I had when I dressed up as a child. I think that’s why I’m so good at making costumes for myself and others. I’m able to look at objects and recognize the way the material works and am, thus, able to say, “That’s a skirt,” or “Those can be overalls”. I’m proud to say that I’ve been responsible for at least five other people’s costumes for various occasions. What can I say? It’s a gift.

It hurts so good!

Have you ever seen a bad movie that tricked you into watching it by macerating about like it’s a good movie? I don’t just mean the blurb on the back or picture on the front of a DVD. It has good actors, an interesting plot, talented writers, and somehow it just falls short. It’s as though someone said to everyone involved with the film, “Here’s a piece of paper. Here’s a set of scissors. Turn this piece of paper into two piece of paper.” Twenty minutes later there’s still one piece of paper and everyone is like, “I really don’t know what happened.”
I think the ultimate example of this is Elizabethtown. I think I could actually write a short book on all the things wrong with this movie. James Cameron makes good films. That’s not an opinion; it’s a fact. One would assume that a project he felt so passionately about would be excellent. The cast wasn’t the worst; Susan Sarandan and Kirsten Dunst are well trained actors who carefully choose most of their roles. They wouldn’t be in a movie that completed sucked? Right? Then there was Orlando Bloom. Okay, I admit he should have been a big red flag, but he’s no Keanu Reeves, so I gave the film a chance. By the end, I decided that it might have made three separate and fairly decent movies; however, all together it was like a circus train on fire in a war zone.

The Fantastic 4: Rise of the Silver Surfer is another example. Somehow they managed to make one of the most fascinating comic book characters (The Silver Surfer) into one of the most frustratingly boring.

On the other hand, some movies that should be awful actually turn out to be amazing. Case in point: Wanted. To quote John Stewart, “By all accounts, this movie should suck.” The previews and plot set it up to be just another flashy, action packed, special affect ridden monstrosity that would rake in a ton of money during the summer movie season. Yet, there was something almost impossible to place, that made it really good. Granted, the cast (Angelina Jolie, Morgan Freeman and James Macavoy) were all excellent actors, but Elizabethtown managed to slip pass the crap radar all the way to cinemas. I think it had something to do with the way it didn’t take itself too seriously. It was almost as if the movie was saying, “I know this is ridiculous and could never happen, but don’t you wish it could?” It owned its own implausibility and dared audiences to take the journey from start to end.

The third film type that manages to evade quality classification is those that are so “bad”, they loop all the way back around the circle to “good”. Wanted was almost like this, but one of the best examples of this is Indiana Jones and the Kingdom of the Crystal Skull, i.e. "Indiana Jones 4". It was so dead-pan, over the top and serious that it ended up being completely hilarious. I found myself guessing the most outrageous direction the plot could go and time and time again found myself being correct. I felt vindicated and entertained. Without a doubt, the films that best demonstrates this quality of film were made in the 1980’s. Earth Girls are Easy, Night of the Comet, anything with Muppets, the list goes on and on for weeks of flicks to satisfy every mood and audience.