A quick stop at the hobby store for some felt and costume crisis solved!
Saturday, December 30, 2006
Cubed!
I'm going to a rockin' new year's party tomorrow night and the theme is eighties icons. I was going to go as David Bowie, but realized I didn't have the wardrobe or eye-shadow collection to pull it off properly. But, I'm no square, I've decided to go as something more craftacular...
A quick stop at the hobby store for some felt and costume crisis solved!
A quick stop at the hobby store for some felt and costume crisis solved!
Wednesday, December 27, 2006
Dangling
I have a post-it note crammed full of things I ought to do to get my new career rolling. I procrastinated on all of them today, except for the cleaning up of my email boxes. Deleting is easy. But, that item doesn't really get crossed off either, because I didn't write back any of the lovely people whose correspondence I've shelved until the semester is over. But Molly, you say, the semester IS over. Yeah, and I don't know what to do with myself. I feel launched with no target. I feel propelled with no purpose. I'm coasting on flat ground with my wheels spinning, no effort on my part, only passive momentum being dragged to a slow stop by resistance. If I tip toe, I can slip back quietly into my old job and never mention the masters degree ever again. It will be the dirty little secret between me and my student loan company.
[Image from: http://www.cameldive.com/advanced-course.htm]
[Image from: http://www.cameldive.com/advanced-course.htm]
Thursday, December 21, 2006
Unplugged
This afternoon I had an interview with a certain technology and culture magazine that is “plugged in,” so to speak. Not such a great interview for various reasons, but that’s beside the point. The point, Vanessa, is that the guy said to me, “Well you obviously have a lot of life experience, and that is a good thing.” That is actually more succinctly put than what he said, but what he said was kind of a rambling, stumbling, oops what is coming out of my mouth, now I’ve done it, verbal diarrhea thing that is fine for schizophrenic blogs, but confusing and scary in an interview. He said it almost like this: “Oh don’t worry about not being that great or having just said the wrong thing or that you are obviously one of our last choices because we are looking to hire someone by NEXT WEEK and we must have offered the job to about 12 other people before desperately calling you. Don’t worry about those things because you have got one thing going for you: you’re old.” I know this is what he meant, because I’m young and I’ve said this to old people when I was feeling self conscious about my lack of experience. “You’ve got a lot of life experience.” Well, maybe I never said it out loud, but I probably thought it. Here I am thinking I’m young and at the beginning of my career and the guy who is potentially going to hire me is getting self conscious about maybe having to ask me to do the menial tasks associated with an internship. Gee, who thought that at 31, you would be considered over the hill by your peers? Didn’t he get the memo that 40 is the new 30?
[Image from: http://www.buffalocomputertraining.com/?key=599CD]
[Image from: http://www.buffalocomputertraining.com/?key=599CD]
Pie Are Round
Yes, I'm back. Yes, I'm a big loser--I couldn't juggle a blog and about three other full-time occupations. In a span of about 3 weeks, I've written over 300 math problems (a third of those in the last 48 hours) a 4000-word term paper, and I've been applying for jobs. But no, I have not been blogging.
Chapter Review
1. If each of Molly's days is divided into 3 equal segments, what is the probability that she's slept during one of those segments.
[Ans: According to the line of best fit in the scatter plot that is her life, the probability that Molly has not slept at all and is exhausted is 1.]
Did I mention I have a masters degree now? Did I mention I don't know how to spell masters degree? They don't teach you that in school. Is it title caps? Is masters possessive? Is it plural? I guess I have to wait until the degree arrives in the mail or however I get the damned expensive thing. It better look fancy--it better be embossed!
[Image from: www.capsandgownsdirect.com/mastersgown.html]
Chapter Review
1. If each of Molly's days is divided into 3 equal segments, what is the probability that she's slept during one of those segments.
[Ans: According to the line of best fit in the scatter plot that is her life, the probability that Molly has not slept at all and is exhausted is 1.]
Did I mention I have a masters degree now? Did I mention I don't know how to spell masters degree? They don't teach you that in school. Is it title caps? Is masters possessive? Is it plural? I guess I have to wait until the degree arrives in the mail or however I get the damned expensive thing. It better look fancy--it better be embossed!
[Image from: www.capsandgownsdirect.com/mastersgown.html]
Wednesday, November 08, 2006
A Democrat Leaves Texas
Yesterday’s gubernatorial race was perhaps enhanced in a small way by my own race to the polls. I foolishly waited until the last minute—almost literally, with only five minutes to spare until the election closed—to vote for the first time in Massachusetts. It was close, with a late bus forcing me to take a subway that would drop me almost a full mile away from my assigned voting area, obliging me to practically run even though I was overloaded with all my schoolbooks. I shoved aside dogging flyer distributors who were insistently pushing their political agendas right outside the polling place. I argued with election officials who eyed my Texas driver’s license suspiciously and almost refused me my hallowed right of citizenship, until I presented my science museum membership card that proudly proclaimed that I did in fact live here. I fumbled with the foreign ballot system that involved yet a new permutation of marking and verifying and inserting into ballot boxes. But finally, I voted.
And, how satisfying it was to wake up in the lovely state of Massachusetts and discover that almost ALL of the fine people I voted for won their races! This was quite a shock, let me tell you. I come from a land where, if you are a liberal, this does not happen. I actually live amongst people who share my same values. How lovely! How satisfying! My vote doesn’t count any more than it did in Texas—the races aren’t close in either state—but what a wonder sensation to feel part of the victory.
And, how satisfying it was to wake up in the lovely state of Massachusetts and discover that almost ALL of the fine people I voted for won their races! This was quite a shock, let me tell you. I come from a land where, if you are a liberal, this does not happen. I actually live amongst people who share my same values. How lovely! How satisfying! My vote doesn’t count any more than it did in Texas—the races aren’t close in either state—but what a wonder sensation to feel part of the victory.
Monday, November 06, 2006
Birthday Binge
Last night a friend of a friend made me the most delicious birthday dinner. We had endive boats with apple, arugula, and manchego cheese, braised lamb with fig current sauce, acorn squash filled with yam puree, and sautéed kale. For dessert we had baked pears with a fig balsamic reduction on vanilla ice cream! Apparently, he’s graduating from cooking school. And apparently, it was worth his time and effort to go there.
For some reason, these pics make it look like we had this dinner in the 70's, but don't be fooled--this meal rocked us in '06.
1st course - delish dish engineered by Paula
main course - Toby's masterpiece with complementing acorn squash creations conceived by Paula
dessert - Toby wins and provides me with a reason to go on living for another 31 years: I may run into this dessert again!
For some reason, these pics make it look like we had this dinner in the 70's, but don't be fooled--this meal rocked us in '06.
1st course - delish dish engineered by Paula
main course - Toby's masterpiece with complementing acorn squash creations conceived by Paula
dessert - Toby wins and provides me with a reason to go on living for another 31 years: I may run into this dessert again!
Saturday, October 28, 2006
Hallowhine
It was a crisp October 31st five years ago when I first began to worry about our nation’s youth. I had just moved into my first house, after years of apartment living in stark complexes populated mostly by students and childless, young professionals. I was excited about Halloween because now that I lived in a traditional, suburban neighborhood, I could finally participate in the age-old tradition of handing out candy to the kiddos.
In anticipation of the evening’s fun, I had purchased six bags of candies: Twizzlers, Hershey’s dark mini-bars, and for variety, some Reece’s peanut butter cups. There were no disappointing stickers, pencils, or sugar-free suckers here. Kids coming to our house could expect the highest quality Halloween fare for their creative labors.
Porch light on. Jack-o-lanterns lit. Dragonfly costume donned. I was ready for the river of adorableness and gratitude to flow past my front door.
While waiting, I reminisced about the menagerie of costumes my siblings and I used to wear. We turned up our noses at those commercial getups: the flimsy, plastic mask of your favorite cartoon character and cheap tieback suit emblazoned with matching logo. Why would He-Man wear an outfit with his own face printed on the tummy? Why would Wonder Woman not carry a golden lasso? The rule at my house was nothing store-bought. We had to make our own.
One year I went as a bunch of grapes, another year a birthday present. The poster-board wings of my bat costume were cute, but my arms grew tired from repeated demonstrations that I was not Batgirl. One year, my friend and I went as a two-headed monster. The next, I was a robot--a cardboard box covered in shiny foil, paper tube arms, and a flashing LED on an elaborate control panel. Now that was a great costume!
The doorbell disturbed my nostalgic reverie. The trick-or-treaters had arrived! When I opened the door, what would I see? “Please let it be something creative, something hysterical, something downright precious,” I thought. I didn’t want to run out of candy before the real geniuses had arrived.
But when I answered the door, I was stunned. The two kids on my porch were not wearing costumes. They looked at me nervously, arms outstretched, empty loot bags agape. One mumbled an incomprehensible phrase ending in “treat.”
Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. Was I missing a subtle clue? Perchance they had jettisoned an itchy mask or an uncomfortable accessory. Were they superheroes in their daytime alter-ego attire? Did the one with glasses look anything like Harry Potter on summer vacation? No, in fact, they were not wearing costumes. Nor had they ever any intention of doing so. There I was, a crazy lady in a sparkling cocktail dress, hastily stitched diaphanous wings, and crooked antennae staring down at two beggar children.
I gave them their candy. I tried to be friendly. I didn’t say a word about their naïve social blunder. I shook it off, hoping that the next transaction would go better. Nearly an hour passed before a princess and a power ranger arrived. Later, two other sets of costume-less kids came and went, but that was it. At ten o’clock, I turned off the porch light. I was stuck with five pounds of candy and a bad case of the “what-happened-to-the-good-old-days.”
Now, I understand that being a kid these days might be tough. Neighborhoods are purportedly not as safe as they used to be. Parents work longer hours. Weekly allowances can’t keep up with inflation rates. More yummy foods seem to be bad for you than ever before. Politically correct agencies increasingly take the fun out of religious and secular holidays, all in the name of cultural sensitivity. But, whatever happened to Halloween?
There’s evidence of its existence at every corner store. Seasonal shelves groan with giant bags of candy, orange holiday lights, and plastic singing pumpkins. But, where are the paper-bag vests, tinfoil armbands, and picnic-plate masks of yesteryear? Are pipe cleaners now considered unsafe? Has glitter been shown to cause asthma? Do we mind that a whole generation of children has been robbed of participating in America’s greatest creative tradition? I mind. And, if it takes handing out costumes along with candy this year, I’m going to put the fun back into trick-or-treating.
* * *
This photo is from a couple years ago, but it's a great illustration of how it should be:
Ada's parents are keeping the Halloween flame lit!
In anticipation of the evening’s fun, I had purchased six bags of candies: Twizzlers, Hershey’s dark mini-bars, and for variety, some Reece’s peanut butter cups. There were no disappointing stickers, pencils, or sugar-free suckers here. Kids coming to our house could expect the highest quality Halloween fare for their creative labors.
Porch light on. Jack-o-lanterns lit. Dragonfly costume donned. I was ready for the river of adorableness and gratitude to flow past my front door.
While waiting, I reminisced about the menagerie of costumes my siblings and I used to wear. We turned up our noses at those commercial getups: the flimsy, plastic mask of your favorite cartoon character and cheap tieback suit emblazoned with matching logo. Why would He-Man wear an outfit with his own face printed on the tummy? Why would Wonder Woman not carry a golden lasso? The rule at my house was nothing store-bought. We had to make our own.
One year I went as a bunch of grapes, another year a birthday present. The poster-board wings of my bat costume were cute, but my arms grew tired from repeated demonstrations that I was not Batgirl. One year, my friend and I went as a two-headed monster. The next, I was a robot--a cardboard box covered in shiny foil, paper tube arms, and a flashing LED on an elaborate control panel. Now that was a great costume!
The doorbell disturbed my nostalgic reverie. The trick-or-treaters had arrived! When I opened the door, what would I see? “Please let it be something creative, something hysterical, something downright precious,” I thought. I didn’t want to run out of candy before the real geniuses had arrived.
But when I answered the door, I was stunned. The two kids on my porch were not wearing costumes. They looked at me nervously, arms outstretched, empty loot bags agape. One mumbled an incomprehensible phrase ending in “treat.”
Perhaps there was a misunderstanding. Was I missing a subtle clue? Perchance they had jettisoned an itchy mask or an uncomfortable accessory. Were they superheroes in their daytime alter-ego attire? Did the one with glasses look anything like Harry Potter on summer vacation? No, in fact, they were not wearing costumes. Nor had they ever any intention of doing so. There I was, a crazy lady in a sparkling cocktail dress, hastily stitched diaphanous wings, and crooked antennae staring down at two beggar children.
I gave them their candy. I tried to be friendly. I didn’t say a word about their naïve social blunder. I shook it off, hoping that the next transaction would go better. Nearly an hour passed before a princess and a power ranger arrived. Later, two other sets of costume-less kids came and went, but that was it. At ten o’clock, I turned off the porch light. I was stuck with five pounds of candy and a bad case of the “what-happened-to-the-good-old-days.”
Now, I understand that being a kid these days might be tough. Neighborhoods are purportedly not as safe as they used to be. Parents work longer hours. Weekly allowances can’t keep up with inflation rates. More yummy foods seem to be bad for you than ever before. Politically correct agencies increasingly take the fun out of religious and secular holidays, all in the name of cultural sensitivity. But, whatever happened to Halloween?
There’s evidence of its existence at every corner store. Seasonal shelves groan with giant bags of candy, orange holiday lights, and plastic singing pumpkins. But, where are the paper-bag vests, tinfoil armbands, and picnic-plate masks of yesteryear? Are pipe cleaners now considered unsafe? Has glitter been shown to cause asthma? Do we mind that a whole generation of children has been robbed of participating in America’s greatest creative tradition? I mind. And, if it takes handing out costumes along with candy this year, I’m going to put the fun back into trick-or-treating.
* * *
This photo is from a couple years ago, but it's a great illustration of how it should be:
Ada's parents are keeping the Halloween flame lit!
This American Rejection
Ree-Jeck-Sheeown. Damn, it feels like crap to want something really badly and then not get it. I got my second rejection letter from my favorite radio show last night. It was word-for-word the same as the one I received when I applied for the internship last spring. They had changed only the date—a form letter disguised as a heartfelt and personalized “nice try.” This one even came a week before they were supposed to make their decision, which I have decided means “hell no and please leave us alone.” I can take a hint. Me and Ira were not meant to be coworkers. Alas. I’m going to wallow this weekend. Wallow with all my heart, my little broken heart.
[Image courtesy of Susie Holderfield]
[Image courtesy of Susie Holderfield]
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Webutante
This week has been my turn to be the admin of our class website. It’s not a particularly difficult job, but it involves skills I have never gotten around to learning before now. Which, if you think about it is kind of odd in this day and age—an age in which people spend most of their working life on the internet. I’ve had a particularly delightful time going in and monkeying with the source code. I’ve learned to change the colors of text. And, even more exciting, I’ve figured out how to add a button!
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Putting the Spirit Back into Spirituality
Some people believe in things that I do not. But, I’d like to think that I am open-minded and respectful of all faiths. I’d like to think that the dogmas that other people hold dear fulfill the same human need that I have for spiritual understanding and that we’ve all just put a different face on similar philosophies.
The local “paranormal investigators” meeting that I went to tonight challenged all that. I visited a meeting of these spirited ghost hunters in order to gather sound for a radio show on Halloween. Their thing is going to cemeteries, old houses, dark basements, and sometimes just the grocery store to look for and capture signs of ghosts. They use voice recorders, video cameras, temperature sensors, EMF detectors, Geiger counters, and even compasses to detect the dead. One guy I interviewed gave me a business card that says, “Specializing in the removal, of ghosts, poltergeists, and other unwanted spirits.” He was very passionate about his work, which, as he described it, sounded like he was a crisis counselor for dead people.
I think the truly sad part was that they knew that I was not with them. I could feel the palpable sentiment that I had invaded their safe haven, that I was there to mock them or judge them. I could see the tightness in their expressions, the defensiveness in their voices. I didn’t think that I had come there to judge them. I thought that I had come to report on real ghosts, kind of an investigative feature to go with a soft news holiday theme. I thought, “You want to talk about ghosts? Then go to the experts.” But, the real story that I’d found was that I had stumbled upon a sad little cult for lonely people. And, to think so is truly judgmental of me.
[Image courtesy of Faust73, www.faustfoundation.net/]
The local “paranormal investigators” meeting that I went to tonight challenged all that. I visited a meeting of these spirited ghost hunters in order to gather sound for a radio show on Halloween. Their thing is going to cemeteries, old houses, dark basements, and sometimes just the grocery store to look for and capture signs of ghosts. They use voice recorders, video cameras, temperature sensors, EMF detectors, Geiger counters, and even compasses to detect the dead. One guy I interviewed gave me a business card that says, “Specializing in the removal, of ghosts, poltergeists, and other unwanted spirits.” He was very passionate about his work, which, as he described it, sounded like he was a crisis counselor for dead people.
I think the truly sad part was that they knew that I was not with them. I could feel the palpable sentiment that I had invaded their safe haven, that I was there to mock them or judge them. I could see the tightness in their expressions, the defensiveness in their voices. I didn’t think that I had come there to judge them. I thought that I had come to report on real ghosts, kind of an investigative feature to go with a soft news holiday theme. I thought, “You want to talk about ghosts? Then go to the experts.” But, the real story that I’d found was that I had stumbled upon a sad little cult for lonely people. And, to think so is truly judgmental of me.
[Image courtesy of Faust73, www.faustfoundation.net/]
Sunday, October 15, 2006
Cosmic Forces
Don’t you love it that you live in a modern age, in which you can think of a product that would solve all your problems and can then walk down the street and purchase said product, not having known previously that it ever really existed? Now that my cat Cosmo is living with us (I retrieved him from Texas last week), we are dealing with the unsavory problem of dogs getting into and snacking from the kitty litter box. Yuck! Also, the dogs like to eat the cat food and get runny poos. More yuck!! So, I was thinking, if only there were such thing as a toddler gate that you didn’t have to screw into the bathroom door frame (a land lady no-no) and that didn’t require an engineer to let you into the bathroom each time you wanted to use the facilities. This way, Cosmo could escape being dogged by the dogs, we could eliminate the source of the diggity cat-poo breath, and we wouldn’t have to barricade our main toilet. Whad’yaknow, the pet store had about five versions of this magical appliance, all for under $100. We purchased and installed one tout de suite, and now our happy family lives in perfect harmony. For now.
The latest political scandal: Kittygate
The latest political scandal: Kittygate
Friday, October 13, 2006
On the Err
Today’s show was a success, though we had a minor technical glitch. Actually it was major, because it involved some dead air (a radio sin), and it also meant that one person’s piece didn’t air--such a waste! However, we had a studio guest, a phoned-in guest, a minidisk package, an mp3 package, the next guys’ CD cued up, and sound clips from a movie (Friday the 13th) and a Stevie Wonder song (Superstition). All I needed was something from an LP to use every piece of equipment in the studio--not too shabby for only our third show.
I think if I ever get my own studio, I will make sure to have one slide on the soundboard reserved for some emergency audio. This would be vital sound that I would fall back to should I have technical difficulties with any other part of the show. Today, I had to improvise and relied on Stevie a little too much, but hey, a show with too much Wonder is still wonderful.
Have a listen at this link:
October 13th show - LUCK
[Image from: http://steviewonder.free.fr/html/photoGallery7.html]
I think if I ever get my own studio, I will make sure to have one slide on the soundboard reserved for some emergency audio. This would be vital sound that I would fall back to should I have technical difficulties with any other part of the show. Today, I had to improvise and relied on Stevie a little too much, but hey, a show with too much Wonder is still wonderful.
Have a listen at this link:
October 13th show - LUCK
[Image from: http://steviewonder.free.fr/html/photoGallery7.html]
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
Bee Butts
Last weekend my little brother (seven years old) asked me a real stumper of a question. Why do bees die when they sting you? I thought I had the answer until he explained his query further. What is it about the bee anatomy that makes having an intact stinger essential to homeostasis? I’m paraphrasing of course. I couldn’t answer him until after a friend of mine explained it in class today. She is writing a paper on bee parasites, so I asked her to ask one of her bee keeping sources this pressing inquiry. She found out!
Apparently, bee stingers are attached to the muscles and viscera of their pelvises. This allows the stingers to continue flexing and digging into your flesh once they have stung you--even after the stinger has fallen away from the bee’s body. There’s no evolutionary reason to keep the bee alive after they sting you because they are protecting the hive. And, it makes no sense to have a bee equipped with an extra, metabolically-expensive set of stinging muscles that are needed only in an emergency. Thus, they “detach” and use the same muscles to sting you as they would otherwise need to carry on living. How freakin' cool is that?!
[Image from: http://www.hellkvist.org/photos/china.php]
Apparently, bee stingers are attached to the muscles and viscera of their pelvises. This allows the stingers to continue flexing and digging into your flesh once they have stung you--even after the stinger has fallen away from the bee’s body. There’s no evolutionary reason to keep the bee alive after they sting you because they are protecting the hive. And, it makes no sense to have a bee equipped with an extra, metabolically-expensive set of stinging muscles that are needed only in an emergency. Thus, they “detach” and use the same muscles to sting you as they would otherwise need to carry on living. How freakin' cool is that?!
[Image from: http://www.hellkvist.org/photos/china.php]
Sunday, October 08, 2006
Day-Long Nappies
I think I slept all day yesterday. I got up at 7 am, did one maybe two hours of work, napped until 3 pm, ate lunch, and then fell asleep while reading until 8 pm. I then watched a movie and went back to bed. I think I was making up for a month’s worth of cutting corners on rest. Sleep is like money. You can bank it and then borrow from a stash every once in a while. Or, you can take out a sleep loan to get all you need done during a tough week. However, you will eventually have to pay it back with a “wasted” day of napping.
[Image from: http://www.reflectiveimages.com/CatNap.htm]
[Image from: http://www.reflectiveimages.com/CatNap.htm]
Friday, October 06, 2006
Radio Interference
Hah! What a hilarious clash of characters we have in the college radio studio every Friday morning. The radio show I produce with two other graduate students is modeled after public radio--we try to mix serious with challenging with accurate with sweet with funny with sad, you know, to get that This American Life meets Living on Earth meets Talk of the Nation feel to it. Anyway, the two-hour morning radio show that we interrupt is hosted by these two undergrads. They are pretty cute--sorry to sound so condescending, but it’s hard to think of a more flattering yet still accurate word for their dejaying style--perhaps precocious? Hmm, still condescending.
At any rate, we three ladies are trying to cue up our minidisk tracks and download our mp3s in preparation for a heartwarming show about “challenges” in which we have a story about an all-women’s triathlon, another story about a political race between two candidates who happen to be women, and then a live guest interview with a doula (kind of a like a midwife)--coincidently a very feminine show. Meanwhile, these two young punks, who are reluctant to give up the soundboard they are hogging, are doing their best impression of Howard Stern (btw a BU alum!) with some vulgar banter about their experiences with dating bisexual women and having three-way sex.
Now, I couldn’t tell you if either of these guys had really had a ménage a trois, but something tells me that on some level of consciousness this topic was for our benefit. Or maybe it wasn’t. But, it certainly was a hilarious juxtaposition. I mean, what were the station managers thinking when they put our shows together? What radio audience would listen to them and then stick around for us? And, who of those that tuned in for us would want to listen to them? Now I see why radio stations don’t mix genres. It just doesn’t work.
Have a listen at this link:
October 6th show - CHALLENGES
[Image from: http://www.colorado.edu/physics/2000/schroedinger/index.html]
At any rate, we three ladies are trying to cue up our minidisk tracks and download our mp3s in preparation for a heartwarming show about “challenges” in which we have a story about an all-women’s triathlon, another story about a political race between two candidates who happen to be women, and then a live guest interview with a doula (kind of a like a midwife)--coincidently a very feminine show. Meanwhile, these two young punks, who are reluctant to give up the soundboard they are hogging, are doing their best impression of Howard Stern (btw a BU alum!) with some vulgar banter about their experiences with dating bisexual women and having three-way sex.
Now, I couldn’t tell you if either of these guys had really had a ménage a trois, but something tells me that on some level of consciousness this topic was for our benefit. Or maybe it wasn’t. But, it certainly was a hilarious juxtaposition. I mean, what were the station managers thinking when they put our shows together? What radio audience would listen to them and then stick around for us? And, who of those that tuned in for us would want to listen to them? Now I see why radio stations don’t mix genres. It just doesn’t work.
Have a listen at this link:
October 6th show - CHALLENGES
[Image from: http://www.colorado.edu/physics/2000/schroedinger/index.html]
Thursday, October 05, 2006
Belly Flopsy
Okay, well now I know my limitations. I can’t take a six-day, heart-wrenching trip to Texas in the middle of the semester and still write a decent paper on the current state of the stem cell controversy. I tried, but it was a big flop. And, so was my radio story on how stem cells were going to revolutionize gay marriage. My equipment failed during the interview, so I was unable to capture a single good quote--even though I practically gave the researcher his nobel-prize winning idea for his next experiment. Then, one of the main researchers played lame games with me for two weeks, sometimes promising to talk and other times acting like I was a kid. Well damn it, it IS for a student publication, but it's still going to be on the internet and it's only 10 freakin' minutes of your time!
From now on I will take on only cheese-fluff journalism assignments. I’ll save the world-changing, heavy-hitting investigative meat for when I’ve got the time and resources. I think that everything that I have worked on so far this semester has failed. Fortunately, when you are in school, you can start fresh all over again with the next round of papers. And, you can think with satisfaction, “At least I’ve really learned something.” Great. Why doesn’t that feel as satisfying?
[Image from: http://redneckgames.tripod.com/id4.html]
From now on I will take on only cheese-fluff journalism assignments. I’ll save the world-changing, heavy-hitting investigative meat for when I’ve got the time and resources. I think that everything that I have worked on so far this semester has failed. Fortunately, when you are in school, you can start fresh all over again with the next round of papers. And, you can think with satisfaction, “At least I’ve really learned something.” Great. Why doesn’t that feel as satisfying?
[Image from: http://redneckgames.tripod.com/id4.html]
Monday, October 02, 2006
Memorial Drive
I took a road trip this weekend from Austin to Dallas to attend Pete’s memorial service. It’s three to four hours each way, depending on how bad traffic is. I usually hate driving, but something about nice weather, missing Texas, a couple of gorgeous sunsets, lots of good music, and not having driven in so long really made this a soul-nurturing trip. I also just needed the hours and hours to think about old friends and really reflect on what the hell I’m doing. Plus, Pete and I made this trip a couple of times to see his family way back, so it made him seem really present even in the silence.
I feel like I’m always crying in my car these days, which people always say not to do while driving, but they can go to hell. Your car is just about the most private sanctuary you have when you don’t have a garden, and it’s got that comforting white noise and rhythmic ambience to get you back on track. I guess I needed a good cry, because before I even left Travis County, I went through a half box of Kleenex. On the way out of town, after an hour of driving in rush-hour traffic I realized I had left my wallet at my sister’s house on the other side of town. I was already tense with stress from what I was setting out to do, but now I was stuck at a gas station with no money, no ID, barely any gas, and strong feeling of panic that I was going to miss my friends’ flights. It took ten minutes of hysterical weeping before I realized that I was still in the same town as my mother. Who else can you call in the middle of the work day and ask to meet you on the highway with $400 in cash? I guess you never really stop needing parenting--you just don’t need it as often.
Thanks to Mom, I was able to meet my friends in Dallas without too much trouble. The memorial service was beautiful. Seeing all those good-looking pictures of Pete’s life and talking to his grieving friends and family really stirred up a lot. On the one hand, we all clearly knew the same guy. Nothing anybody said surprised me. If I hadn’t already heard a story from Pete’s own lips, it was something I could easily see Pete doing. I guess I had feared that he had had these compartmentalized secret lives or some major quarter-life-crisis in which he underwent a serious personality change, but no, he was basically the same guy to me that he was to everyone. Really that is comforting. On the other hand, the service seemed a bit too positive--not because memorial services should portray anything but the positive sides of a loved one--only, there is this slight feeling of emptiness when you overlook certain aspects of someone’s personality. I don’t think they should have done it differently. Only, I was glad to have the quiet pockets of close friends to cherish the real guy in secret over his favorite cheap beer and a greasy enchilada. I guess that is what you miss when someone passes away: you miss getting to experience all of them, even the bad. To get past the pain, you mistakenly try to think of only lovely things and squelch all the hard things. But really, no one is complete without the awkwardness to balance the charm, and the stinky to offset the beautiful, and the flakey to equalize the genius.
A stunning picture of Pete in Vietnam
[Image from his memorial website]
I feel like I’m always crying in my car these days, which people always say not to do while driving, but they can go to hell. Your car is just about the most private sanctuary you have when you don’t have a garden, and it’s got that comforting white noise and rhythmic ambience to get you back on track. I guess I needed a good cry, because before I even left Travis County, I went through a half box of Kleenex. On the way out of town, after an hour of driving in rush-hour traffic I realized I had left my wallet at my sister’s house on the other side of town. I was already tense with stress from what I was setting out to do, but now I was stuck at a gas station with no money, no ID, barely any gas, and strong feeling of panic that I was going to miss my friends’ flights. It took ten minutes of hysterical weeping before I realized that I was still in the same town as my mother. Who else can you call in the middle of the work day and ask to meet you on the highway with $400 in cash? I guess you never really stop needing parenting--you just don’t need it as often.
Thanks to Mom, I was able to meet my friends in Dallas without too much trouble. The memorial service was beautiful. Seeing all those good-looking pictures of Pete’s life and talking to his grieving friends and family really stirred up a lot. On the one hand, we all clearly knew the same guy. Nothing anybody said surprised me. If I hadn’t already heard a story from Pete’s own lips, it was something I could easily see Pete doing. I guess I had feared that he had had these compartmentalized secret lives or some major quarter-life-crisis in which he underwent a serious personality change, but no, he was basically the same guy to me that he was to everyone. Really that is comforting. On the other hand, the service seemed a bit too positive--not because memorial services should portray anything but the positive sides of a loved one--only, there is this slight feeling of emptiness when you overlook certain aspects of someone’s personality. I don’t think they should have done it differently. Only, I was glad to have the quiet pockets of close friends to cherish the real guy in secret over his favorite cheap beer and a greasy enchilada. I guess that is what you miss when someone passes away: you miss getting to experience all of them, even the bad. To get past the pain, you mistakenly try to think of only lovely things and squelch all the hard things. But really, no one is complete without the awkwardness to balance the charm, and the stinky to offset the beautiful, and the flakey to equalize the genius.
A stunning picture of Pete in Vietnam
[Image from his memorial website]
Sunday, September 17, 2006
I Miss Ruby’s
Why can’t I find good barbeque in this town? How hard can it be? After the meal I had last night, I don’t know why people aren’t rioting in the streets. Here’s an excerpt from my restaurant review:
“While waiting for your meal, you can carefully consider five flavors of barbeque sauce laid out at a serve-yourself plunger bar: regular, sweet, and spicy versions of the house sauce and sauces that supposedly hail from North Carolina and South Carolina. Although the copious array of choices indicates that the makers of Soulfire at least understand the basic philosophy of barbeque—the sauce makes or breaks the meal—the sauces themselves disappoint. For the house sauce, think baked-bean-juice with a little chili powder, and the sweet and spicy versions having only a little more sugar or a little more chili. While the careful labeling of the Carolina sauces conjures up visions of feuding redneck-family codgers, glaring from either side of a state line, barrel of precious BBQ sauce in one hand and protecting shotgun gripped in the other, don’t be fooled. North Carolina tastes suspiciously like apple-cider vinegar thickened with chili powder and South Carolina like yellow mustard cut with same powder. And, the sausage plate comes with a mysterious sixth sauce, which appears to be the love child of the two dueling condiments.”
[Image from: http://www.rubysbbq.com/]
“While waiting for your meal, you can carefully consider five flavors of barbeque sauce laid out at a serve-yourself plunger bar: regular, sweet, and spicy versions of the house sauce and sauces that supposedly hail from North Carolina and South Carolina. Although the copious array of choices indicates that the makers of Soulfire at least understand the basic philosophy of barbeque—the sauce makes or breaks the meal—the sauces themselves disappoint. For the house sauce, think baked-bean-juice with a little chili powder, and the sweet and spicy versions having only a little more sugar or a little more chili. While the careful labeling of the Carolina sauces conjures up visions of feuding redneck-family codgers, glaring from either side of a state line, barrel of precious BBQ sauce in one hand and protecting shotgun gripped in the other, don’t be fooled. North Carolina tastes suspiciously like apple-cider vinegar thickened with chili powder and South Carolina like yellow mustard cut with same powder. And, the sausage plate comes with a mysterious sixth sauce, which appears to be the love child of the two dueling condiments.”
[Image from: http://www.rubysbbq.com/]
Friday, September 15, 2006
New...uhm…Job
Yesterday I was woken up by a phone call with an offer for a part-time job: Associate Producer of a science podcast. They actually offered me a similar pay to what my first job was straight out of college! This may seem like a step backward, but it feels like progress after a summer of making $25 a day. Also, I took it as a sign that I’m finally trained enough to be a professional journalist. (Can you smell the new job optimism? Surely, this won’t last.) On my first day, I spent 9 hours editing audio for the podcast, which was actually quite fun. Editing audio is a strange activity. It uses some parts of the brain that you use for editing print--you have to think about what the people are saying and keep their content intact--but it also feels a bit like needle-point or some other crafty, fine-handiwork thing. You get into a groove in which you become a physical extension of the keyboard-mouse-software system. You develop shortcut moves, reflexes almost. You hear a sound, deal out a series of strokes, and then the sound is improved. After trimming and cleaning up different tracks, I spent most of the day removing people’s uhms and ers and repeat mumbles. Now they all sound like polished spin doctors of science. By all means, have a listen: Go to the New Scientist podcast website and download today’s show.
[Image from: http://alts.homelinux.net/task.php?task=multimedia&view=alt]
[Image from: http://alts.homelinux.net/task.php?task=multimedia&view=alt]
Wednesday, September 13, 2006
Medium
Here are the results of my first day of photojournalism class where we actually got to hold a camera:
Eric
Pat and Liz
Kirk
Kate
Eric
Pat and Liz
Kirk
Kate
Wednesday, August 30, 2006
Levity to Cut Blog Fog
I’m having a bit of a blogging impasse, hence the lack of entries lately. Everything I think to write seems either silly and shallow (not worthy of following my post about Pete) or incredibly personal (too delicate for a blog post). Perhaps a photo-heavy blog entry documenting my recent feats of tourism will build a bridge back into my normal bloggerhood.
Cape Cod cuties
En route to Liberty Island
Mme. Liberte et Moi
Liberty clones in various stages of undress
Flirting with the camera
Molly takes Manhattan
View from the 86th floor
Meanwhile, my porch-bound tomatoes bear fruit!
Cape Cod cuties
En route to Liberty Island
Mme. Liberte et Moi
Liberty clones in various stages of undress
Flirting with the camera
Molly takes Manhattan
View from the 86th floor
Meanwhile, my porch-bound tomatoes bear fruit!
Tuesday, August 22, 2006
Pete
There’s going to be a memorial service for an old boyfriend of mine, Pete. He disappeared from a boat a month ago. From what I understand, they never found him, but they presume he is dead. Here is the horrible news that came in a message through the grape vine, originally from his family:
“We are trying to locate Peter. On July 24th, he boarded the passenger boat Hiryu at 8pm local time, traveling from Naha, Okinawa, Japan to Nagoya, Japan. He was last seen at 9pm, and was discovered missing at 9:30pm. It was dark, the waves were 3’ swells, and the boat was approximately two miles from the shore of Ie Jima island.
At this point, Pete’s parents believe that Peter died while in the water. We hope he may be staying with friends in Japan. Could you please send us (or call us with) any contacts you might know of Peter’s friends everywhere.”
It’s been probably ten years since I loved Pete. And it wasn’t one of those serious loves--no, it was more like a confusing, precious learning experience with lots of potent memories--so typical of the infatuations of one’s early twenties. I don’t think we’ve corresponded once since we broke up, but I have been tracking his adventures through a mutual friend who loves us both. At one point he was traveling the world and finding odd jobs, such as working at a Chinese publishing company where he read American best sellers and made recommendations for Asian publication, or at least that’s how the glamorous occupation appeared through the lens of a nostalgic old flame.
I knew Pete before he’d caught his international travel bug. I knew him when he was all about listening to the Flaming Lips, hiking with his two short-hair German pointers (Luke and Leia), quitting crappy jobs, finding the perfect inexpensive snack food, soaking at local swimming holes, dying his hair flame-tipped orange, getting a girlie tattoo, drinking cheap beer, and taking road trips in his sexy, red Buick convertible.
The funniest thing he ever told me is that a group of his best high-school buddies went on a camping trip to the Grand Canyon, and at the last minute he wasn’t allowed to go along with them. I can’t remember why, but they ran out of water somehow on their multi-day hike, so they were cotton-mouthed and pissing sludge by the time they were “rescued” days later. Pete told me that he was green with envy, because they had gone through such an adventure together and he had missed out on the experience. At age 20, this sentiment struck me as crazy, because as much as I loved camping, I liked my adventures tame. (Probably why we never made it as a couple.) Now that I think about it, it seems less shocking that he would die in some bizarre way--washed off a boat in an oriental sea. I’m not going to say that he would have wanted it that way--he wouldn’t have. He would have wanted to live to tell the story.
I’m afraid to go to his memorial service, afraid because I have this sinking feeling that Pete will pull a Tom Sawyer on us and show up, smiling his funny smile and only half aware that everyone assembled is grieving the loss of him. And we would all be angry and happy and furious for the worry that he had caused. And I can’t bear the thought of him getting into so much trouble for just being his adventurous, carefree self. Or, maybe what I’m really afraid of is that we’ll all show up secretly hoping for his miraculous return, only to feel like tragic fools when we realize that such an appearance is a fantasy and he really is gone.
A mutual friend said to me, “We loved him best.” It’s true. We loved him at that delicate and beautiful age when we were just discovering our adult selves and our place in the world and you could first see the basic shape of our lives forming.
Rest in peace, sweet friend.
Peter Vlach (March 26, 1976 - July 24, 2006)
Pete when I knew him
[Both images from his memorial website]
“We are trying to locate Peter. On July 24th, he boarded the passenger boat Hiryu at 8pm local time, traveling from Naha, Okinawa, Japan to Nagoya, Japan. He was last seen at 9pm, and was discovered missing at 9:30pm. It was dark, the waves were 3’ swells, and the boat was approximately two miles from the shore of Ie Jima island.
At this point, Pete’s parents believe that Peter died while in the water. We hope he may be staying with friends in Japan. Could you please send us (or call us with) any contacts you might know of Peter’s friends everywhere.”
It’s been probably ten years since I loved Pete. And it wasn’t one of those serious loves--no, it was more like a confusing, precious learning experience with lots of potent memories--so typical of the infatuations of one’s early twenties. I don’t think we’ve corresponded once since we broke up, but I have been tracking his adventures through a mutual friend who loves us both. At one point he was traveling the world and finding odd jobs, such as working at a Chinese publishing company where he read American best sellers and made recommendations for Asian publication, or at least that’s how the glamorous occupation appeared through the lens of a nostalgic old flame.
I knew Pete before he’d caught his international travel bug. I knew him when he was all about listening to the Flaming Lips, hiking with his two short-hair German pointers (Luke and Leia), quitting crappy jobs, finding the perfect inexpensive snack food, soaking at local swimming holes, dying his hair flame-tipped orange, getting a girlie tattoo, drinking cheap beer, and taking road trips in his sexy, red Buick convertible.
The funniest thing he ever told me is that a group of his best high-school buddies went on a camping trip to the Grand Canyon, and at the last minute he wasn’t allowed to go along with them. I can’t remember why, but they ran out of water somehow on their multi-day hike, so they were cotton-mouthed and pissing sludge by the time they were “rescued” days later. Pete told me that he was green with envy, because they had gone through such an adventure together and he had missed out on the experience. At age 20, this sentiment struck me as crazy, because as much as I loved camping, I liked my adventures tame. (Probably why we never made it as a couple.) Now that I think about it, it seems less shocking that he would die in some bizarre way--washed off a boat in an oriental sea. I’m not going to say that he would have wanted it that way--he wouldn’t have. He would have wanted to live to tell the story.
I’m afraid to go to his memorial service, afraid because I have this sinking feeling that Pete will pull a Tom Sawyer on us and show up, smiling his funny smile and only half aware that everyone assembled is grieving the loss of him. And we would all be angry and happy and furious for the worry that he had caused. And I can’t bear the thought of him getting into so much trouble for just being his adventurous, carefree self. Or, maybe what I’m really afraid of is that we’ll all show up secretly hoping for his miraculous return, only to feel like tragic fools when we realize that such an appearance is a fantasy and he really is gone.
A mutual friend said to me, “We loved him best.” It’s true. We loved him at that delicate and beautiful age when we were just discovering our adult selves and our place in the world and you could first see the basic shape of our lives forming.
Rest in peace, sweet friend.
Peter Vlach (March 26, 1976 - July 24, 2006)
Pete when I knew him
[Both images from his memorial website]
Sunday, August 13, 2006
Park-pourri
What a lazy day. I got lost in winding paths of Central Park, found myself but got lost again in the Natural History Museum’s minerals and meteors galleries, napped in the dappled sunlight that peaked through the tall trees, eavesdropped on gossiping picnickers, wrote a letter, caught up on some phone calls, and finally walked back through the park past the carousel, the large central fountain, giggling playgrounds, a disco roller skating contest, and a Dominican pride parade. My favorite part (besides the nap) was this 34-ton meteorite in the basement of the museum. I get scared about how small I am when I touch things from outer space.
Children blur past this retired giant
Worthless sparkling rock
Children blur past this retired giant
Worthless sparkling rock
Saturday, August 12, 2006
What’s All the Stink About?
Today, in hot pursuit of a journalism goldmine, I went to the Brooklyn Botanical Gardens in order to smell the Amorphophallus titanium, a.k.a. corpse flower. A corpse flower is a unique flowering plant from Sumatra that blossoms only once every few to ten years with a single giant flower that can be three to seven feet tall and three feet wide. Size isn’t this bud’s only talent. It also stinks of dead meat. This enticing quote from the garden’s website says it all: “Notable not only for the stature of its bloom, the well-named corpse flower also produces a revolting stench of putrefaction.”
I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to get some good tape for my radio show of crowds of people groaning from the stench and botanists speechifying about how glorious this stinker is. Sadly, I was a day late and an odor short of a great radio story. The corpse flower only reeked for 8 hours and I missed the window by an entire day. Who’d have thought that such a veggie beastie would be so shy? No worries, because the flower was still impressive in height, though not all stinky. Check out the pics:
Me and “Baby” the corpse flower
Close up of “Baby”
Water lilies looking
Children feeding the unruly horde of killer koi
I thought this would be an excellent opportunity to get some good tape for my radio show of crowds of people groaning from the stench and botanists speechifying about how glorious this stinker is. Sadly, I was a day late and an odor short of a great radio story. The corpse flower only reeked for 8 hours and I missed the window by an entire day. Who’d have thought that such a veggie beastie would be so shy? No worries, because the flower was still impressive in height, though not all stinky. Check out the pics:
Me and “Baby” the corpse flower
Close up of “Baby”
Water lilies looking
Children feeding the unruly horde of killer koi
“The Man” Is Conned (with My Assistance)
Wow, this happened to me the other day, and I’ve been trying to figure it out for weeks: I was trying to fill my subway (MetroCard) at a vending machine. I couldn’t get it to work. This guy says, “Hey I’ll swipe you and you can pay me back.” The train was coming, so I felt this pressing need to make a decision (my Achilles heel). I knew to be suspicious of someone in New York trying to be friendly, but I had the correct change in my hand and thought, “Why not?” He swiped me in on his card, I gave him $2 and we were both on our way. Nothing came of it, but I just knew he was making money off of someone. I just couldn’t figure out what. Had I narrowly escaped victimization? Has he found a way to make a couple of bucks off the system? Or, was he just a nice guy? Unlikely.
But I finally discovered what the scam was! In a search for MetroCard prices on the internet, I found the following description of a scam, and bingo it matches my experience exactly. Fortunately, I was not victimized. For some reason though, I find it hilarious to be called a “mark.” I suppose in other circumstances I would not feel that way.
from Wikipedia:
“The MetroCard system is susceptible to various types of frauds, perpetrated by clever con artists, who have figured out how to get the turnstile to release without charging a fare.
A typical con involves deliberately jamming a MetroCard vending machine in a station, and then waiting for somebody to try buying a new card just as a train is approaching. As the innocent customer discovers that the machine is broken, the con artist offers to swipe the mark through the turnstile on their own card in return for $2 (the same as the regular fare). If the mark accepts, the con artist swipes their altered card, and lets the mark go through the turnstile. The mark comes out even (they lost $2 but got a ride out of it), the con artist makes $2, and the MTA is stiffed a fare (plus the cost of fixing the damaged vending machine). This scam is often run by a team of 2 or more people, with one person working the turnstile and the others acting as lookouts.
There are reports of people making $200-$300/day running this scam. A report from New York State Senator Martin J. Golden claims this scam is costing the MTA $260,000/year, and some con artists are making up to $800/day executing it.”
[Image from: http://www.sheilacallaghan.com/images/metrocard.jpg]
But I finally discovered what the scam was! In a search for MetroCard prices on the internet, I found the following description of a scam, and bingo it matches my experience exactly. Fortunately, I was not victimized. For some reason though, I find it hilarious to be called a “mark.” I suppose in other circumstances I would not feel that way.
from Wikipedia:
“The MetroCard system is susceptible to various types of frauds, perpetrated by clever con artists, who have figured out how to get the turnstile to release without charging a fare.
A typical con involves deliberately jamming a MetroCard vending machine in a station, and then waiting for somebody to try buying a new card just as a train is approaching. As the innocent customer discovers that the machine is broken, the con artist offers to swipe the mark through the turnstile on their own card in return for $2 (the same as the regular fare). If the mark accepts, the con artist swipes their altered card, and lets the mark go through the turnstile. The mark comes out even (they lost $2 but got a ride out of it), the con artist makes $2, and the MTA is stiffed a fare (plus the cost of fixing the damaged vending machine). This scam is often run by a team of 2 or more people, with one person working the turnstile and the others acting as lookouts.
There are reports of people making $200-$300/day running this scam. A report from New York State Senator Martin J. Golden claims this scam is costing the MTA $260,000/year, and some con artists are making up to $800/day executing it.”
[Image from: http://www.sheilacallaghan.com/images/metrocard.jpg]
Friday, August 11, 2006
Frank Lloyd--Right On!
I finally went to some art museums today. It was simultaneously lovely and overwhelming. I saw a terrific show of Klimt and Schiele at the Neue Gallery. It was fun, because I went alone and got to see every single piece and listen to every single segment on the audio tour without anyone being impatient or not understanding my need for compulsive thoroughness.
I also heard a lot of people talking loudly and stupidly about the art. I don’t have a problem with people having little art history education--in fact, I laud them for going to museums anyway to absorb a little culture. And, I also think that people should not be afraid of forming their own, even naïve, opinions about art--that’s what it’s there for: interpretation. However, I really don’t want to hear the bull when I don’t know you from Adam. It was pretty annoying to hear these uncouth loudmouths trying to sound smart and critical, professing in stentorian voices to their timid wives or friends on subjects they clearly knew nothing about. What happened to the rule about using your “gallery voice”--didn’t their mother teach them anything? Anyway, it didn’t get better at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, even though that museum is one thousand times larger with more rooms to hide from the yahoos.
After the tiny, manageable Neue Gallery, the Met’s gargantuan-ness rendered me speechless. I spent the first 30 minutes in a confused panic. “What should I see today? How the heck do I get there? How can I possibly cram 12 more trips here before the end of the summer? Oh my god, I haven’t even considered the Guggenheim, the MOMA, and the Brooklyn Museum of Art. I’m screwed!” In the end, I tried to find the modern art section, got lost in the British fashion exhibit, found refuge on the rooftop garden, and gave up and had dinner in the shi-shi café. After gathering my wits over a bowl of pesto pasta and glass of sparkly water (feeling particularly fancy), I decided to take a guided tour. A lovely college intern raced us around in a whirlwind tour of about 8 eras and cultures, which helped me form a plan of attack for next time: scrap the Egyptians and Greeks, go straight for the Moderns, and try to find some Dutch masters. If I stumble upon the Japanese or Russian section, it will just be icing on the cake.
I love traveling alone sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I also enjoy a terrific travel buddy, but there are some very delicious things that happen when you are a solo tourist. It’s just so quiet and self reflective and you get to indulge yourself in every decision. Perhaps it’s from growing up in a family of five children, but I like getting my way and getting to eat whatever is on my plate.
A couple favorites
I also heard a lot of people talking loudly and stupidly about the art. I don’t have a problem with people having little art history education--in fact, I laud them for going to museums anyway to absorb a little culture. And, I also think that people should not be afraid of forming their own, even naïve, opinions about art--that’s what it’s there for: interpretation. However, I really don’t want to hear the bull when I don’t know you from Adam. It was pretty annoying to hear these uncouth loudmouths trying to sound smart and critical, professing in stentorian voices to their timid wives or friends on subjects they clearly knew nothing about. What happened to the rule about using your “gallery voice”--didn’t their mother teach them anything? Anyway, it didn’t get better at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, even though that museum is one thousand times larger with more rooms to hide from the yahoos.
After the tiny, manageable Neue Gallery, the Met’s gargantuan-ness rendered me speechless. I spent the first 30 minutes in a confused panic. “What should I see today? How the heck do I get there? How can I possibly cram 12 more trips here before the end of the summer? Oh my god, I haven’t even considered the Guggenheim, the MOMA, and the Brooklyn Museum of Art. I’m screwed!” In the end, I tried to find the modern art section, got lost in the British fashion exhibit, found refuge on the rooftop garden, and gave up and had dinner in the shi-shi café. After gathering my wits over a bowl of pesto pasta and glass of sparkly water (feeling particularly fancy), I decided to take a guided tour. A lovely college intern raced us around in a whirlwind tour of about 8 eras and cultures, which helped me form a plan of attack for next time: scrap the Egyptians and Greeks, go straight for the Moderns, and try to find some Dutch masters. If I stumble upon the Japanese or Russian section, it will just be icing on the cake.
I love traveling alone sometimes. Don’t get me wrong. I also enjoy a terrific travel buddy, but there are some very delicious things that happen when you are a solo tourist. It’s just so quiet and self reflective and you get to indulge yourself in every decision. Perhaps it’s from growing up in a family of five children, but I like getting my way and getting to eat whatever is on my plate.
A couple favorites
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