Deadbeat Odyssey

On Point

2011-01-17T21:28:00.002-05:00

"The Hazards of Duke" article from The Atlantic is probably soon to be one of the most commented on, liked, dugg, tweeted, etc. links on the Internet this month. And reading it makes me angry. The author pretty much tears apart poor (and by now notorious) Karen Owen not just for her viral powerpoint on "horizontal academics", but basically for being a travesty of a woman desperately seeking approval from a bankrupt culture of youth, wealth, snobbery and lust. But I disagree. Ms. Owen simply made a stupid mistake. Now everything is getting blown way out of proportion.

In The Atlantic article, there is no mention of the ridiculous double standard that allows college men to drink profusely and hook-up whenever, but forbids young women from so much as getting buzzed or even wanting to hook up. The blame also seems to rest on no one but Duke University as an institution, and there's no suggestion of the larger trends at play or what to do about them.

#1: There's nothing wrong with young women wanting to have or having sex. It doesn't have to mean something political, and it's not necessarily a sign of depleted self-confidence or attention seeking. For the most part, women have sex for pretty much the same reasons men do: it's fun and it feels good. Also, women have been having (and enjoying) sex for generations in America. They just didn't used to talk about it.

As a twenty-something female I am so sick of hearing all of the moralizing and rationalizing about the youth these days. Just stop. It's upsetting to me to hear about these kinds of double standards still being perpetuated. In my opinion, there's not very much difference between a girl hooking up because she feels like it and a guy doing the same. I'm not in to one-night stands, but I don't judge people who have them. Consenting adults are free to do what they want. Why is this concept not a part of this article?

There are nuances that Owen liked to get drunk and hook-up, or that she had a weird thing for aggressive partners. But whatever. None of her descriptions of her escapades mention lack of consent. (I don't want to get in to a weird area of whether or not someone can even give consent after imbibing, but Owen's boasting about her experiences makes me think this wasn't an issue for her, as it's not an issue for many college women).

If 'boys will be boys' and hooking up is considered masculine and normal, why isn't it also considered an natural expression of femininity in women? Recognizing what you want, and using your powers of seduction or feminine wiles or whatever to go for it? Doesn't anyone remember the feminist argument about self-objectification as a form of empowerment? Manipulating one's own image to achieve power over the opposite sex? Wasn't this an issue with Madonna's whole "boy toy" deal in the early '90s (now repeated with the same critiques of Lady Gaga)?

Here's another question I think a lot of people my age are also asking: why are people still talking about this? There's nothing wrong with us. I don't understand why there's not a companion article to this one about how insecure young men must be because they keep getting drunk and having sex. How it must be such a travesty of our modern culture that men feel they have to seek attention in these ways. Maybe it's just gotten to a point where women sometimes have sex for the same reasons men do, namely fun.

What are we supposed to do? Wait for marriage? Some people do (male and female). Good for them. Sexual expression is a personal choice and like I said, consenting adults can do what they want.

#2: It's not a Duke issue. It's your issue. There's nothing special about Duke that makes it a breeding ground for insecure women, chauvinistic men, or serialized criminal sex encounters. As a grad student, I'll say that the undergrads can be annoying as hell. But I'm sure I'd feel that way anywhere. Suggesting that Duke somehow caused this is like saying Anna Karenina is a novel about trains. That's a part of it, but it's nowhere near the whole story.

Which brings me to point #3: this article mis-assigns blame and also has no suggestions for what, apparently, we young women need. Maybe Duke seems like an dirty empire of Caligulan proportions, but for once can we place the blame squarely where it's needed? On everyone? First of all, it was Owen's choice to have sex with those men; just like it was her stupid choice to make a powerpoint about it. In interviews, she said that she regrets everything. But I honestly believe she wouldn't have regretted it if she didn't get caught.

Secondly, if any moralizing schoolmarm wants to find a scapegoat for a girl's youthful transgressions, why not look to the parents? Or the high school? Or her peers? Or to a culture that allows men to shamelessly pursue casual sex without consequence? Or to a generation of feminism that asserted women should be able to enjoy all the things men do, equally?

This is what the decline of the twentieth century hath wrought: a sea of confused women. We've been told to assert ourselves, but not too much. Go to college, but still be willing to stay home with the kids. Embrace your sexuality, but only within a committed and traditional long-term relationship. Don't be dependent on men, but don't be a frosty bitch either. You deserve equality, but not in everything. We're all grinding our teeth hoping that we're doing enough of everything.

How did this happen? Why can't we just be happy? Is there really anything so wrong about college kids having sex? Or getting drunk? I'll agree that plenty of times people pursue sex for the 'wrong' reasons (low self-esteem, peer pressure). But those aren't the only reasons women have sex. Owen was an idiot for putting her personal life into a viral format. That said, her own life should be her own business. Not The Atlantic's, not Duke University's and not the public's. It's not for anyone else to tell her what she should be ashamed of or what she must have been thinking. Like most young adults, I'm sure she'll figure it out for herself.

Bending Spoons With Sarah Palin

2010-11-30T21:32:00.002-05:00

I'm glad I don't have a TV. Sometimes I miss things like 9 hour blocks of 'What Not to Wear', but overall I think going tubeless has a positive effect on my productivity. There's always Hulu, you know?

Also, if I had a TV, I'm sure Sarah Palin would transcend her ubiquity and actually start to inhabit my brain. I would be under her spell... as it appears the majority of America is (or at least the press and a very vocal minority). I don't like Sarah Palin. That is, I don't think I like her politics or her posturing. I do find her entertaining. Sort of in the way I find YouTube videos of cats riding on the backs of turtles entertaining. The thing is-- I'd be scared shitless is I thought a cat on the back of a turtle was going to be running the Free World.

I've been ruminating on this because of both the recent New York Times op-ed titled something like "Will She Run in 2012: You Betcha" (too lazy to look it up right now) and a panel discussion about media coverage of the midterm elections I went to two weekends ago. The mind reels at Palin's adroit manipulation of the media. It's impressive. Either she has a crack team working for her, or she's stupid like a fox (and I don't mean 'fox' in a MILF way here, although I do know a lot of people like her because of that). So what, really, is the difference between Sarah Palin and Lady Gaga?

The whole experience is enough to have me running back to 1) my Marshall McCluhan, and 2) Chuck Klosterman's great essay "Bending Spoons With Britney Spears". In the essay, Klosterman is interviewing a teenage Britney Spears and attempts to confront her about her sexy style and doesn't she think she's setting a bad example for little girls and all that. And Brit is unwavering in her professed ignorance. He'll ask her about her revealing outfits and she'll simply respond that it's just a skirt and a shirt or something. Question after question she deflects this way. Then Klosterman thinks of the seminal sci-fi movie The Matrix: in order to bend the spoon you must first realize that there is no spoon. In order to wag the dog, you must first realize there is no dog....

Palin is unwavering in her self-assuredness despite onslaught after onslaught of evidence contradicting any basic political competencies. Britney would never admit to playing up a contrived Lolita stereotype to get attention. Palin will never admit glossing over being grossly unqualified for policy making by striking a pose as a faux-outsider dead set on shaking up the system (that she doesn't seem to know anything about). And, you know, if you act it long enough you start to believe it.

It's also been a while since I read 1984, but I clearly remember a part where the narrator is being tortured and is asked how many fingers a guard is holding up. He sees 4 (or whatever) but gets badly beaten every time he answers "4". The guard tells him it's 5. After being ruthlessly beaten, eventually the narrator looks up and honestly does see 5 fingers. Even though he knows that that can't be the case. His reality has been sufficiently warped.

That's a very negative analogy, but maybe Sarah Palin is on to something. If you tell a story long enough, maybe you start to believe it. And maybe it's your ability to sway other people that can eventually make it true (or at least "truthy"). There's a total cult of personality around Sarah Palin. I'd like it better if she could dance like Britney, or dressed like Gaga (or write like Klosterman). But she's undeniably mastered the art of bending spoons. So welcome to Palin's America: where the very laws of physics can be rewritten for convenience.

But even when you're watching someone bending a spoon, there's still no spoon. Perhaps Americans will become tired of the gimmick and move on to the next one. The big state fair of the political process. Or maybe her magic tricks can sustain her a long time. Either way, I want one thing to be perfectly clear: don't wink at me Sarah Palin!

Inventory

2010-11-16T22:48:00.002-05:00

Let's make a quick list of where I was at (skills-wise) before I started a graduate program in public policy:

Never taken a political science class
Never seen a policy memo
Never taken statistics
Never heard of STATA
Only taken 10 weeks of microeconomics

When I take a step back and try to think about why things that are difficult for me seem easier to other people in my program, I just need to look at this list. Write a memo? Sorry, I don't really know how to do that. You want me to go hand out toothpaste and socks to people living under bridges? That much I know.

My mind is also a little blown by people caring about grades at all. Seems like grades should be unimportant by this point in life. And, in fact, that was how I was approaching school until I found out Duke will put you on academic probation for a B-. I'm going to have to kill my finals if I want to stay in the game. Less than cool. When does the real world come back around to see me again?

crash landing

2010-11-07T14:32:00.002-05:00

Six months of radio silence ends now.

I feel like I need something to keep my thinking semi-linear these days. So it's back to my Internet diary. A lot's changed. But you know, the more things change the more things stay the same. I moved across the country (again) and started graduate school (hopefully that'll only happen once in my life). But I'd be kidding myself if I thought there were any changes in my life more significant than watching some different TV shows than I did before.

I miss the real world. And I can't wait to get back. Still, this is basically a two year adventure that ideally offers a substantially bigger paycheck than what I had a chance at before. Not hard to do, considering the extremely low value that AmeriCorps put on my time and efforts. We'll see if I end up in any better situation after two years of blood, sweat, tears and statistics labs.

Sadly, grad school means most of my stories have to do with homework, studying and complaining about how much work I have. But I still try to take back my weekends and do some cool stuff in and around Durham. For example, today I went to historic Bennett Place-- site of the largest troop surrender of the Civil War, which happened about two weeks after Appomattox and effectively ended combat. It was a gorgeous fall day and a great way to nurse a hangover. I'm definitely learning a lot about the Civil War and tobacco production around here.

clusterfuck

2010-04-24T16:01:00.000-04:00

There's been stuff happening in my life, I swear. Sometimes it feels like too much! I just don't make timely updates to the blog because it's a priority that has fallen down the totem pole. But it won't be long now till I have another shake up in my life and a new adventure to catalog (Duke). In the meantime, that leaves me wrestling with competing interests for my time in my last few months in Oregon. One of them is work, but the others are fun things. We'll see what comes out on top.

The Place I Live: Part 5

2010-03-25T18:40:00.000-04:00

I live in a place where I almost got beaten up over a game of shuffle board.

But not by Megan, pictured here.

The Place I Live: Part 4

2010-03-15T19:52:00.000-04:00

I live in a place where flowers bloom in January:
Now that it's the second week of March, everything's almost done blooming. Which is fine by me. The sooner I can ditch work and go sunbathe and barbecue by the river, the better!

The Place I Live: Part 3

2010-02-28T20:18:00.000-05:00

I live in a place with rainbows:
Seriously, we get lots around here. This one was actually part of that ever-rare phenomenon: a full arch rainbow. Like a marshmallow in some Lucky Charms. One thing facilitates all of these happy little rainbows-- the fact that it doesn't really rain here. Oregonians are very protective of their "raininess" but it simply isn't true. I hear it rains more in the Willamette Valley, which is where most of the people live in Oregon. But, around here, it doesn't rain. It will just kind of drizzle for about ten minutes and then the sun will come out. Light drizzle + shiny sun = rainbows aplenty. It always adds a colorful piece of joy to my day.

The Place I Live: Part 2

2010-02-24T20:02:00.000-05:00

I live in a place where this was on the cover of the newspaper:
The article's tag line was "local barista finds rhythmic therapy in learning the didgeridoo after a head injury made him put down the guitar."

Part 1 in a Series: The Place I Live

2010-02-22T21:52:00.003-05:00

I have entered the last six months of my contract on my job in Roseburg, Oregon. I thought this was a good time (not that there's ever a bad time) to share some thoughts, images and stories about the place I live.

Part 1: I live in a place with mule logging....
I really hope that guy loves his life; because that's awesome.

Super Bowler

2010-02-09T19:46:00.000-05:00

I watched the Super Bowl this weekend. And also parts of the annual Puppy Bowl on Animal Planet, but that has nothing to do with this. However, the game didn't start until 3 pm Pacific time and I did not have enough to do with my Sunday to fill up the hours before 3. Didn't want to watch a movie, no TV, house was clean, laundry done, errands run, not enough focus to read a book, didn't want to take a nap. It was shaping up just like every other weekend I have around here. My parents even made fun of me when they called up and asked what was going on, and it was probably the shortest conversation I've had with my parents since I was in high school.

But oddly enough, the lazy day gave me an opportunity to ruminate on my own Americanness. I've been watching a lot of Europe-y shows and movies lately-- mostly British. I think about the time I was in the UK and was probably so evidently an American tourist that the locals resented me like white on rice (the way I would resent tourists on Michigan Ave in Chicago clogging the sidewalks when I just wanted to buy some jeans or see a movie). This sticking-out-like-a-sore-thumb problem is certainly further exacerbated when someone like me visits a country where English is not the predominant language. And yet, I still think I would like to live/work abroad at some point. Just for the sake of scoring some international jet-setter cache.

And I think about all of my friends who live or have lived abroad: England, Ireland, France, Germany, Australia, China, Japan, Italy, Mozambique, Norway, Spain, Barbados, South Africa... Do they not stick out as much? Are they less American-esque than me? How do they view themselves after their longer-than-just-a-vacation experiences abroad? Now: what do I really mean by my own Americanness? Well, I have quite recently come to terms with the fact that I'd probably rather spend my time eating mac and cheese, drinking cheap beer and setting off fireworks while watching Family Guy than almost anything else in the world. Left to my own devices, I could probably live and die feeling like I'd had a perfectly complete life this way. Which, now that I think about, kind of makes me sound like a super-pussified Hunter S Thompson. Except he got famous doing it because he was better at it and more committed.

Anyway, the day after the Super Bowl I found out I had been admitted to graduate school. So now I know for sure I'll be moving back toward the tendencies of my brainy and oh-so-cosmopolitan old life. Not to say that there's not a great deal of overlap between my old life and my current life. Still, if I'm worried about fitting in with those jet-setters and international super-fantastic fellowship holders and whatnot that I envied so much before, how will I find time for all the Pabst? And Jersey Shore? And Journey karaoke singalongs?

Is this the choice every twenty-something drowning under the waves of their own, self-inflicted quarter life crisis faces? The choice between fun and progress?

i'm not sure this is fun anymore.

2010-01-31T10:01:00.001-05:00

I've adopted a very predictable schedule. Monday thru Friday, work 8-5. Come home, make dinner, watch DVDs or Hulu, shower, read, go to bed. On Fridays, go to the same happy hour at the same bar, then go to one of the same two or three bars and probably end up at the same place where we karaoke the same songs over and over. Saturday lounge around in bed for a while, read, run errands, watch movies. Sunday hang out, clean the apartment a little, watch football at Megan's. Monday morning get up and start the process over again. Since about October, a good portion of my time and energy every weekend was spent on grad school apps. Now those are all in, but financial aid bullshit sneaks up on me. I would try going somewhere or doing something outside, but I'm short on cash (which is also getting pretty old) and the weather is prohibitively stagnant: overcast, mid 40s to low 50s, and damp.

The same faces, the same places, the same old same old every day. On one hand, the predictability can be nice. But for every week to be the same starts wearing on morale, I think. What do I really have to look forward to? Life here is an endless mobias strip of infinite sameness. Not that anything is bad. In fact, most of the time it's pretty fun. The thing that gets me is that it's the same fun over and over again. I worry about being lulled into a world of apathetic softness. I've worried for a while that living on the west coast would make me 'soft'. It's the land of the lotus eaters.

Then again, as my friend Sarah says, Oregon tricks you. About six months out of the year, the weather is the same isolating cold dampness and people fall into wintertime habits. Then in May and June absolutely everything is absolutely beautiful. Wildflowers bloom. The weather is amazing. It's so beautiful, in fact, that you actually start thinking that maybe it's worth the rest of the year to experience the five weeks of gorgeousness. Then mid-June niceness gives way to arid hot summers that last to Halloween. Even with the heat, I think you feel a motivation: picnics and barbecues, days lounging on beaches by the river, hikes in the shady woods.

I suppose what I really need is a hobby. I mean a hobby besides reading, watching movies and applying to grad school. Like taking up an instrument or going back to learning Spanish. Or maybe getting back in the damn gym. But then again, that money issue rears its ugly head.

sleep & food

2010-01-04T19:19:00.000-05:00

Seems like all I care about recently is sleep and food.....

My life is in desperate need of some excitement....

And my bank account in desperate need of some funds.

I feel stalled.

Air Land

2009-12-28T21:43:00.000-05:00

I'm becoming more and more convinced that Oregon actually exists in some kind of parallel universe. For starters: it's seemingly more difficult to fly out of or in to Oregon than it is a foreign country. It's a real clusterfuck. Literally, I think I spent as much on my travels back to Tennessee for Xmas as I did a roundtrip ticket to Europe in 2007. The dry eyes, dehydration, ringing in the ears, headaches and ass pain from the flight make me feel like it's just as far away too. I got home last night and it involved 1) waking up at 5:30 a.m. eastern time, 2) driving to the shuttle place, 3) taking the two our shuttle to Atlanta, 4) checking in at the airport and going through security, 5) eventually taking off at 11:15 a.m. and flying 4 and a half hours to Phoenix, 6) an hour later getting on a 3 hour flight to Portland, 7) waiting 40 minutes for my bags, 8) paying $80 for a week of parking, 9) driving 3 hours back to Roseburg and finally getting home at 8 p.m. pacific time.

If you add in the costs additional to the ticket itself, I paid $200 for the honor of having a ticket. This is in addition to the other flights I've taken in to or out of Oregon in the last six moths. My trip to L.A. in May was fine, besides the fact that I had to drive three hours to Portland so that I could fly into Burbank so that my brother could avoid driving the 90 minutes to LAX. Both flights to Chicago later that spring were horrendous hell storms of discomfort and despair that I'd rather not think about. And in October I flew to Detroit (out of Eugene this time) and that was a failure as well. This time, even though my flights were all on time and in good order, I'm still confronted with how far away I really am from so many things I love. And how hard it is to cover those extreme distances efficiently. It can't be done quickly or cheaply, which, for someone short on money and time like myself, basically amounts to being stranded-- which is something I never enjoy feeling.

It's not meant to be a dis on the airline industry. They've got enough problems without having bossy, irate customers with entitlement complexes making selfish demands and seeking god-like artificial control over things like the weather and food. It's just a comment on how hard it is to get from Oregon to anywhere else; specifically from Roseburg, Oregon, to anywhere else. Lots of people are really attracted to the romantic notions of wide open spaces and feeling all alone and so tiny or whatever. But I miss the feelings of access, convenience and closeness that you get east of the Mississippi. Think about it: I spent 15 hours en route yesterday. That's almost an equivalent driving distance of Chattanooga to Omaha, or Chattanooga to Boston, or Chattanooga to Minneapolis. Or Chattanooga to Name Virtually Any Place East of the Rockies. Maybe this is just me, but I'd much rather spend 15 hours driving than flying; even only 7 of those hours are actually spent in the air.

Enhancing the notion that Oregon exists on a parallel plane is the fact that it seems like almost no one is from here, that they come from all over, but once they come they never go anywhere else, and yet, no matter how many decades they're here, never describe themselves as natives. In the front runners of places where Oregonians are actually from (as far as I can tell): California, Colorado, the Carolinas, Montana, Idaho and Chicago. I was talking with one of the nurses in my doctor's office today and asked her if she was a native Oregonian. "Oh heavens, no", she said, "but I've been here for years and years and years and years." This seems to happen a lot to me. People disavow being a native, then accentuate the fact that they've been living and working here for longer than I've been alive, sometimes longer than my parents have been alive. It strikes me as unusual. My parents weren't born in Tennessee, but they've lived there so long they consider it their true home. Similarly, I wasn't born in Chicago, but I have so many close ties and so much love for the place I consider it like a home.

I met a shopkeeper in Amsterdam and, upon his commenting on my nationality, asked him where he was from. He said Turkey. When I asked him how long he had been in the Netherlands, he said, "35 years". How much time do you have to spend in a place before that's where you're "from"? At what point is a place your "home"? Isn't there a certain amount of subjectivity in defining what constitutes being "from" a place? Or is it for other people to tell me where I'm "from"?

the DIA has amazing hummus

2009-11-30T20:21:00.001-05:00

At the beginning of this month, I had the dubious opportunity to go to the Detroit Institute of Art. It's a wonderful museum: grandiose architecture, superb collection, cheap, and it's executive director is well-known for his cute bowties. The DIA also happens to be in one of my favorite cities: Detroit, Michigan. Here the smirks start-- 'why would you like Detroit? It's a shit hole.' Well, that's only what people say when they haven't been there.

Or I suppose you could rightfully say that if you were from there. You gain shit-talk rights for being from a place. Example: I grew up in the South, and love to complain about the South's eccentricities; but if an outsider talks smack I talk back. Detroit does have a gang problem, and a drug problem, and a poverty problem and some significantly storied historical corruption. But that ethos is only representative of the city's reputation. It's doesn't cover the whole picture and, more to the point, that's not how it used to be.

Which brings me one step closer to what the actual point of this story is: my entire family is from Detroit. Something like three generations back, at least. I'm the only one born in the 20th Century in my family who wasn't born in Detroit. So I have a lot of pride. I always loved visiting Detroit, and Michigan is by far one of my favorite states. It's beautiful there, and I'm not sure I've ever been treated more nicely by people than I have by Michiganians. I have cozy childhood memories of visiting family and going on vacation there. The weather always seemed more pleasant than in Tennessee. The grass was literally greener. The trees bigger and leafier. The streets all had sidewalks and we were a short walk from the best playground I ever saw. And my grandparents had a basement with a pool table and a fridge full of sodas.

This is why I call my chance to go to the DIA this month "dubious". Because I'm really not sure how I feel about it. I was in Detroit to go to my grandfather's funeral. Off the top of my head, I don't honestly know how old he was. About 85. We weren't close. I grew up in Tennessee and rarely saw my extended family. Also, several years ago my grandfather became severely afflicted with Alzheimer's and the dull memories of me seemed to be some of the first to fade.

Nonetheless, one of the three photographs he kept in his room at the assisted living center where he finally passed was of me and my cousin as young girls. He picked out the photo himself, my mom and aunt said. He didn't know who we were. In any case I really doubt it. But we were the only faces besides his dead wife and a very old photo of his father, my mom's "grandpa Docky", diminutive of "Paledowski" which is what he changed his named to (from "Paledockus") when he immigrated from Lithuania.

I wasn't close to my grandpa, but I always had a great deal of respect for him. He grew up in the Great Depression to his immigrant parents, enlisted in the Navy during World War II, married his beautiful wife back in Detroit and raised three kids from a quaint brick house on the west side of the city while he worked as an accountant for the Ford Motor Company. As far as I knew, he was very dedicated to a handful of important things: the Catholic church, the nuclear family, the VFW, Ford cars and Detroit sports teams. I believe he was flawed, but was still a paragon of mid-century American ideals. Union man. Homeowner. Retired at 55. Good to his neighbors and to his church. Worked hard to ensure the welfare of his family.

Then things began to fall apart. Some minor forgetfulness and dementia after his wife died. The occasional fall. Not recognizing voices on the phone or mixing up names. He became easily confused and was once swindled out of money after a minor car accident. So he went to live with my aunt. But there was no going back from where he'd been.

I would see him sometimes in this span of time. It was admirable how he had adapted cope with not knowing what was going on. He never recognized my face, but would ask neutral questions: "How are you?", "Live around here?", or "What do you do?" I can only imagine how weird it would be to constantly see people who knew your name and said 'hi' but who you did not know. For that, I respect him further. He tried to keep it together when things were unraveling.

But of course, things got worse. His condition deteriorated to the point that only professionals could take proper care of him. Confusion disintegrated into irritability which, combined with the psychotropic drugs they had him on, could lead to outbursts of hateful violence. He barely ate and eventually couldn't walk anymore. I could see all parts of my family torn apart by desperation and fear over his condition. There was no one it didn't touch and they frequently took their anger out on each other.

For years, there was screaming at the same time that there was a heavy interdependence. People were afraid, angry, sad; and there was nothing they could do but helplessly watch it get worse. Towards the end, he didn't recognize anybody. There were occasional violent fits of rage. Sometimes he had to be restrained to his bed. He was barely even physically recognizable at the end. Literally like a husk-- in appearance, emotion, spirit, character. It was tragic to hear about his suffering and I'll admit I was relieved to hear about his passing.

I believe it represented turning a page in my family's history. Of course, everything that comes in the following pages is built on everything that preceded it. My whole family was touched by his long, proud life; and we were collectively terrorized by his disease. There is a lot of relief that it's over, fear about who could be next, residual resentment in wondering about how things might have been different.

I can draw two similar arcs that are my grandfather's life and the life cycle of the city he spent his life in. Raised through hard work and determination on the backs of immigrants who became proud Americans; a dutiful volunteer in the war effort; a paradigm of a million American dreams in small brick homes with garages and yards where the kids can walk to school; finally beset by a tragedy that no one knew how to avoid and couldn't anticipate the extent of; ultimately characterized by a slow descent and no viable salvation.

But, in the time I spent in Detroit that week, I was reminded of the importance of using the lessons and good examples from the past to move forward into a better future. My grandfather wasn't the man ravaged by Alzheimer's who died last month. He was a giant of twentieth century American culture. And part of that lives on in the actions of his family the same way that much of the original creativity, ingenuity and hard-work of Detroit continues a generation after the city's collapse. There's a lot of closure in realizing that things can never be like they once were. But it's also inspiring to think that what used to be can still influence the future for the better.

I contemplated all of this while I was in the DIA one day. For the record, their food court really is pretty good. Detroit is a husk of its former self, but it has the ability to grow back up into something new. The sense of personal dedication that people like my grandfather had is what makes a community, any community. Just like the character of all the past relatives is what makes a family. Like my family, for example. Which, like I said, is flawed; but I am nonetheless proud of.

More foliage

2009-11-19T17:28:00.000-05:00

I thought the fall leaves in Oregon where beautiful. Then I went to Michigan.
Beautiful....

Fall foliage

2009-11-14T17:08:00.001-05:00

The brisk fall weather is starting to fade away into the damp coldness characteristic of an Oregon winter. While that's happening, I can comfort myself with pictures I took of the beautiful fall foliage around Rosi:This was in downtown Roseburg.
This was in the parking lot of the Fred Meyer.
And this is the view from the front porch of my apartment. Gorgeous fall colors abounded everywhere this year. Which is quite a departure from last year when I could of sworn the entire town was playing a joke on me. They kept insisting that Oregon was rainy. Whereas I didn't see a drop of rain for at least the first six months I lived in Oregon. As a result, the leaves on the few deciduous trees didn't change color. They just died and fell off. This year seems to be back on track however, as it rains a little bit everyday and is perma-cloudy. That's more like it, I say. After all, it's what I signed up for.

End of October

2009-11-07T10:13:00.000-05:00

Halloween is one of my favorite holidays. In fact, any candy-based holiday is alright with me. But Halloween is at least a little bit more than delicious seasonal candy. I love carving pumpkins, I love the beautiful fall colors, I love the seasonal beers and I love costume parties.
I ended up buying a super-unripe pumpkin because I liked the green stripes on the outside. Then it was next to impossible to carve.

But it ended up okay since I don't really mind having a pumpkin that looks like a little kid with poor motor skills carved it. In fact, I think it adds some charm.
It was a happy pumpkin family. And the standard Oregon moldy rot didn't even set in until after the big day. Bring on the next holiday! Hooray for fall.

Goodbye, Kitty Kat

2009-10-13T21:14:00.001-04:00

My roommate Kat moved out yesterday. There were things I loved about living with her and things I hated (ahem, half-assed attempt at composting). Mostly it was love, though. But she moved on to go live at an eco-village (or "commune" if you will). Also, Sarah will soon be taking her cat to her new home. So I'm going to go from having horses, dogs, cats, roommates and house guests to having a big empty apartment to myself real fast. All alone with my to-do list.

I wonder how long till my loneliness and paranoia gets the best of me and I pull the first roommate I can off craigslist. Seriously, let's take bets. I bet I make it until at least January. Honestly, I think I'll be so busy that it won't really hit me fully until after the holidays. But we'll see.

The Age of Hitting 'Snooze'

2009-10-07T19:49:00.000-04:00

Even after a full eight or so hours sleep, it can be difficult to drag myself out of bed now that the mornings are getting colder ('though not yet cold enough to warrant turning on the furnace). It's much nicer just to cuddle up under all my blankets and stay warm and away from work for a while.

On days that I'm out of my office, I typically work over ten hours a day. Days that I'm in my office are filled with annoying ambient noise, fluorescent glare, a computer screen a foot from my face, the constant temptation to screw around on the Internet, and a coworker who whistles all the time. Nonstop. No matter what. Always with his office door open. What is the point? Who whistles that much?

The incoming fall weather also makes me want to watch football, carve pumpkins, drink delicious seasonal beers and bust out my extensive jacket collection. Maybe it will actually get cold in Oregon this winter.

It's also hard to focus on work because grad school is competing for my attention. Competition is stiff in a recession, and I want to make sure I'm an attractive candidate. That means a lot of care needs to go into everything I submit.

However, I was watching Dazed and Confused the other night and kind of starting thinking that maybe I don't want to get all serious with my life. Where would I be more satisfied? Screwing around bouncing from one low-wage job to another in a different state half the time? Or in a pressure cooker grad school with little wiener kids who couldn't shotgun a beer or name a Talking Heads record to save their life? Where would I be happier?

But you know, I could always go to grad school and find all the fun in it I can. Or, I could go and drop out. Or, if it's no fun at all, it's only two years and it'll be over soon. If I can survive two years in Roseburg, Oregon, I can survive two years anywhere.

Is this the death of fun? Is this the assumption of the grave mantel of age and responsibility? Will my nightmare visions of all my friends getting married, moving to the suburbs and sacrificing their youthful ideals come to fruition? Of course. Most definitely.

Who can say....

2009-09-30T19:56:00.005-04:00

From the Dollar Tree: treasure trove of oddities:
The following were all taken inside the same building in Grants Pass, Oregon. I'll let you guess what's going on there:
Aminals.
Harley Bear.
Just one of the four walls in the creepy bathroom.
America!
Santa gorilla!

Roseburg bar scene

2009-09-30T16:45:00.000-04:00

Random pictures from nights in bars....
Mmmmm, Pabst and Hamm's. Plus karaoke at the Sawmill.
Shuffleboard at the B&M (or C&M, depending on who you ask) Tavern (or just "tavern" since that's the only part of their sign that lights up).

Fun, fun.

beast master

2009-09-27T09:03:00.000-04:00

This month I've been asked to be responsible for several people's pets. Plus one wayward AmeriCorps member who relocated and has yet to move into her apartment because of a slow-moving rental agency (which happens to be my rental agency, so I totally understand).

First was my boss's horses, dogs and cat out on her farm:
This is her property:
And one of her dogs and her cat:
I'm also currently taking care of Sarah's cat George. I have several pictures of her on my phone, but none currently available for upload here. But she's a cutie. So cute in fact, that it's hard not to keep loving her even after the fourth time she dumps on the rug (so we just moved the rug).

Meanwhile, Kat was taking care of Amy's two big dogs down in Canyonville:
Seen here is Oscar with Amy's reflection in the car window. Oscar's the size of a bear.

I will also be taking care of Megan's dog Bella next weekend while she goes to a wedding. I have lots of quality pics of Bella, since she has lots of quality photo-worthy moments, but please enjoy this one of her and her owner:

Busy Crazy

2009-09-05T10:43:00.000-04:00

I'd love to find things to write about, but I'm busy with a new job I love, no home internet, grad school stress business, etc. and so forth.

On the plus side: Gabe & Megan are giving me their Clearwire internet machine (literally an internet machine), my thesis adviser agreed to give me a rec for g-school, work is great, I'm making more money (still embroiled in complete poverty, but less so), trying to plan trips to New York and L.A. (plus home for Xmas??), I'm finally reading the James Bond and philosophy book Dave gave me a few Christmasses ago, and I'm headed down to the Indian casino tonight.

I also recently made curry for the first time. And got a washer & dryer for free! These were two of the most thrilling accomplishments of my life so far....

The Book Overlord Comes for His Vengeance

2009-08-22T12:18:00.001-04:00

I walked back in to my old bedroom in my parents' house a couple of weeks ago and can honestly say that, although I knew I had tons of books, I didn't really realize it was this many:
No duplicates. No tricks. Those are all totally mine. And the sad thing is that I've actually read at least 90% of them. And this doesn't include all the books I have at my apartment back in Oregon! No wonder my eyesight is failing....

Mad-town.

2009-08-06T15:13:00.005-04:00

Madison, Wisconsin, is called "Mad-town" for obvious reasons: party college + Wisconsin drinking pride = notoriety. It seemed like a fun place. I had my meeting at the University of Wisconsin, which has this view of Lake Minona (or Lake Mendota, whichever):
Then I walked down State Street to the Capitol Building:
The next day, I waited in line on the Chicago Skyway behind some idiot who was trying to figure out how a toll booth worked:
Is it weird that I miss Chicago so much, yet can't envision moving back there?

The Gatlinburg of the Great Lakes

2009-08-06T14:41:00.004-04:00

Ahead of schedule on my way from Minneapolis to Madison, I decided to stop in the Wisconsin Dells. I'd never been there, even though I lived in Chicago for five years and the Dells are quite the destination for long-weekenders. However, I knew from years of watching Mystery Science Theater exactly what the Dells would be like. And they're everything I imagined. Stores where you can buy cheese and fudge and local handicrafts, smarmy t-shirts for sale everywhere, deep-fried everything, water parks, dubious-looking "spas" in large warehouse-type buildings, a roller coaster that goes through a Trojan Horse.... Here is a photo of the main drag in downtown:
Jam-packed with traffic, faux-alpine style architecture, a Ripley's Believe It or Not Aquarium. Hunter S Thompson could have a freaking blast dropping acid in this place. And this is why it's there:
This is a fleeting glimpse of the Dells of the Wisconsin River, a rare and beautiful rock formation that (probably) less than 1% of people in the Wisconsin Dells know is there.

I would have been totally cool with finding a bar and even staying a night or two to feast on the weirdness if I had had some back-up and some extra spending money. Some other time, I guess.

Walker

2009-07-25T19:44:00.001-04:00

I also went here: http://www.walkerart.org/index.wac

This is the view from the roof of the Walker Art Center:
The adjacent sculpture garden is pretty cool as well, and one of Minneapolis's prized park/lakes is across the street. Walker ain't got nothin on MoMA, and it's laid out fairly weirdly, but still nice.

They had this one "performance" installation that consisted of a real-live woman curled up in a corner laying perfectly still in one of the galleries. I first saw it and thought, 'Wow, that looks really real." Then she blinked and scared the bejesus out of me.

MOA

2009-07-25T19:31:00.000-04:00

This is the atrium at the Mall of America in Bloomington, Minnesota:
And this is the amusement park that's inside:
The amusement park was originally named "Camp Snoopy" (Charles Schultz is a Minnesota native, remember), but was bought and renamed "Nickelodeon Universe". Gross.

I wandered around for a bit, buying birthday presents for my mom, cousin and best friend (who have their birthdays three days in a row in August), but after that I was free to roam around and take in the sights.

Like Lego dinosaurs!:
There's roller coasters, a water park, a casino, numerous spas and restaurants, a Caribou Coffee on every corner (but only one Starbucks that I saw), an Elvis impersonator, native American tribal dancing presentations, and screaming children everywhere.

The Mall of America was opened in the 1980s, at the height of America's mall rattiness. The boutique boom of the 21st century doesn't seem to be hurting them all that badly. The place was packed. I can't imagine it at Christmastime. It seems like a weird impulse: what's popular now? Well, we'll make the biggest and the best, most impressive one of those ever! Malls? We'll build the ultimate mall. And it'll be an icon: The Mall of America!

MIA

2009-07-25T09:28:00.001-04:00

After a chat with the University of Minnesota yesterday, I went here:
The Minneapolis Institute of Art. Admission was free. Parking was free. I ate tabbouleh in the museum cafeteria for only $4 and the staff was extremely nice and helpful. Plus, it was a beautiful day; so it was good times all around. You can see the skyline from the big picture windows near the exhibit on the Prairie School:
Minneapolis (and I think this is true of most Midwestern cities) is pretty happenin' in the summer months. Everything is completely frozen over for at least five months out of the year, so everyone makes the most of the sun when they get it. In the Land O' Lakes fishing, boating, swimming, biking, sailing, golfing, jogging, hiking, etc. all seem to be second nature. And in the winter, hell, it's cross-country skiing, snowshoeing, ice skating, snow mobiling, hockey. There seems to be a great music scene, great art scene, great food and cool bars in Minneapolis.

A quick look around Wikipedia will reinforce the high quality of life: one of the most "literate" cities, second most bike commuters in the country, most charitable giving, relatively low crime, second most stage shows after NYC... All with a Midwestern heart and a recreational sensibility.

The guy I talked to at UMN introduced me to the concept of "Minnesota nice"; wherein Minnesotans are proud to be outwardly, conspicuously nice and kind. I've been a proponent of this since I was a baby: the Midwest (and, for me, especially the Great Lakes) lacks the stuffiness and pretension of either Coast, the wild, wild west mentality of the West, the grave austerity of the High Plains, and makes the most of a Southern-style hospitality without the, you know, "southern-ness". Of course, I'm biased. But that's just how I feel.

Goodbye, North Dakota!

2009-07-23T21:34:00.000-04:00

The main pull of North Dakota for me is that it was a place I hadn't been. But that's not true anymore! I drove from Butte to Bismarck Wednesday and knocked another state off my list (I'm down to 7 more US states that I need to see, for those of you keeping track). I found the same things to seem to be true of North Dakota that I found in South Dakota last summer: the eastern part of the state is almost Midwestern at heart, and the far western part is beautiful-- rolling grasslands and plains, buffalo country, it's just that long, flat middle part that wears on you as a solo driver.

This is Painted Canyon, at the south edge of Theodore Roosevelt National Park in the National Grasslands:
And this is the view from a random rest stop:
It's hard to see, but there's a little blue spot in the middle of the picture that's the Yellowstone River. This rest stop also had this scary sign:
"Rattlesnakes have been observed. Please stay on sidewalks."! Yes sir.

Bismarck seemed cute. There were families playing in the Missouri River, and the Bismarck newspaper made historic early use of the telegraph to relay Custer's defeat at Little Big Horn back east. The same newspaper still operates in the city. However, the craptacular motel I stayed in was like stepping back in time. A motel where you can smoke? Is it 1980? Also, holy christ! Why the hell would you need an ashtray in the bathroom?!!?

Greetings from Butte

2009-07-23T21:13:00.000-04:00

I was in Montana yesterday and today. For the record, it's beautiful, rugged and big.

When I told my friends back in Oregon I was planning on stopping in Butte for a night, Lexi spazzed: "YOU'RE GOING TO BUTTE!!!" "Well, I'm stopping for a night in Butte. I'm not going to meet people or do anything or eat at any restaurants or anything." "It doesn't matter... You'll see." "See what?" "You'll just see... You'll see the big Mary...."

I don't what exactly she had against Butte. I got the impression that it was something anecdotal, and I just never found out the whole story. The only thing Butte's got going against it is that it's a small town in the middle of nowhere. Still, it's a bigger and more happenin' place than Roseburg (my basic yardstick for this is whether or not a town has a Target).

Nonetheless, I drove in to town with my eyes peeled for a "big Mary". Sure enough, in the 1980s a townie constructed a giant statue of the Virgin Mary right on the Continental Divide overlooking the town. It was supposed to honor his wife who had recovered from a terminal illness after prayer. According to the internet, it was originally envisioned to be as big as the Statue of Liberty. But, alas, it has to settle for second best.
It's called "Our Lady of the Rockies". I don't honestly think this was enough to keep Lexi from regarding Butte as livable. Plus, I could see it out my motel room window! [Note: I did not take this picture of OLotR. Thank you Google images.]

You Otter Know

2009-07-18T14:40:00.000-04:00

After loving otters immensely for years (basically since learning what they are), I finally got to see some relatively wild ones this past week in Monterey, California. They were just chillin', in the kelp, doing their otter thing.

We also saw wild seals and sea lions, and star fish, and other fun stuff. And we went to the old boardwalk in Santa Cruz and rode carnival rides for 75 cents a piece. The Monterey Bay is beautiful and fun. And it was a perfect way to celebrate finishing up a year of AmeriCorps service.

Now I'm about to be off on another adventure that's more "adventure" than it is "vacation", but it's basically both. I have a month before my next year of service starts, so I'm using the time to visit family, road trip around a bit, and look at some dreaded graduate schools. A photo spread similar to last summer to follow, I'm sure.

Where am I at on my Beat Year endeavors? Well, I re-read Howl the other day; and all I can really tell you is that I don't know or understand very much about it. Maybe if I read it again in another 9 months or so I'll have gained some insights....

America

2009-07-11T14:43:00.000-04:00

Fireworks in the park:
And my friends' smiling faces:

Birthday

2009-07-11T14:32:00.001-04:00

Low key and fun. Just the way I wanted it!
My beautiful cake, thanks to Lexi and Megan.
Photographic evidence that we had a "crazy liquor and cheeseburger party" a la Trailer Park Boys.
The view from Megan's hammock.

Old Person Joint Post #2: Don't Wanna Stay Alive

2009-07-02T11:13:00.001-04:00

Billy rapped all night about his suicide/
How he'd kick it in the head when he was 25/
Speed drive. Don't wanna stay alive/
When you're 25.

When I was watching Heart of Gold, Neil Young explained how he wrote the song below. Apparently, after success had found him, he bought a ranch in Canada and the old man selling it asked him how he was able to afford it... since he was obviously such a young guy. Neil Young replied that he was just lucky. Then he said that he wrote "Old Man" for that guy.

So... consider some of my heroes: Neil Young and Orson Welles. If Neil Young recorded Everybody Knows This Is Nowhere when he was 24, and Orson Welles made Citizen Kane when he was 25, what the hell am I doing with my time?? Not that I ever expect to be as awesomely creative, artistic and productive as those guys (but it would be nice!).

What have I achieved in my life that I'm happy about? Where's the output? Let me clarify things: I am pretty happy. But what exactly am I doing? I don't want to just compare myself to a couple of creative geniuses, but I think genius is a good yardstick. I wish passion would find me. Or that I could be more adept at seeking it out. Then I feel like purposefulness would follow. Ideally. Maybe it's not as important as I like to believe it is.

In any case, I will fall off the grid for the duration of the long weekend. My neighbors moved out and I've been jacking their wireless internet all this time. And the library will be closed until Tuesday; so no internet for Mo. Rest assured that I will spend my momentous birthday (as well as America's birthday) drinking beer and setting off fireworks. I'll try to take some pictures....

Old Person Joint Post #1: I'm a Lot Like You

2009-07-02T10:53:00.001-04:00

Old man, look at my life. I'm a lot like you were/
Old man, look at my life. I'm a lot like you were/
Old man look at my life. 24 and there's so much more/
Live alone in a paradise that makes me think of 2.

How did this happen? I know I'm not "old" per se, but I feel like things have changed around me, or changed toward me.

Love lost. Such a cost. Give me things that won't get lost/
Like a coin that won't get tossed/
Rolling home to you.

I feel like I haven't changed much in years. But slowly, people's changing expectations seem to have kind of snuck up on me. Or maybe it's all in my head.

Old man take a look at my life. I'm a lot like you/
I need someone to love me the whole day through/
By one look in my eyes and you can tell that's true.
Lullabies, look in your eyes, run around the same old town/
Doesn't mean that much to me/
To mean that much to you.
I've been first and last/
Look at how the time goes past/
But I'm all alone at last. Rolling home to you.

Not that I should even really care about what other people think so much. If I tried to pretend like I cared about acting like an "adult", I'd probably still continue doing my own thing. I think everyone likes it that way.

Because of this song (which I first heard when I was about 15 and 24 seemed like the oldest I would ever be), I often wonder if some old person I've encountered somewhere sees me and thinks I remind them of themselves a long time ago. How much of myself do I see in other people? This song also makes me think: I should really take up the banjo.

Quarter century mark

2009-07-01T11:54:00.001-04:00

Being, as I am, mere hours away from turning 25, I propose a radical project for myself. Well, it's not so radical. Projects are fun. It'll be fun to have some unified goal to a few hours a week of my efforts. I feel it'll be satisfying to work on something, and motivating to have a consistent project. So please consider this idea I came up with a while ago: a Beat year.

Kitschy? Sure, but potentially fun and illuminating. I thought of this a few months ago when I was seriously attempting to move to San Francisco or New York. But, to avoid the expense and the headaches and anxiety, I am staying put for another year. Still, I can create for myself basically a classroom; homework assignments included.

The Beat Generation holds a lot of appeal for people my age. Why? I find the literature, philosophy and films of 1950's-or-so Americana interesting and alluring but ultimately don't really know that much about it. What better way to gain some perspective than to read and watch the books and movies that left an indelible legacy on American pop culture? Basically, it's a birthday present to myself: a unifying theme to the upcoming year. I also plan on buying myself some t-shirts and DVDs.

It's also good timing as I'll be on the road myself for most of the next two months. What exactly do I plan on doing? Well, I don't plan on exclusively devoting my pop culture consumption to the Beats. What seems appropriate? Maybe one book every month and at least two movies? At least two blog posts a month on the topic? Seems pretty low-impact and doable; especially considering how little else I have going on in my life in general these days. Seems like a good way to get back in the swing of doing cultural historical research and analysis so I can see if that's what I want to do for the rest of my life (PhD school?).

I welcome friendly input on my stupid little idea. But I kind of like the concept of having a "theme year". Some sense of unified effort. This way, even on days when work and my social life may seem to be falling down around me, I can still feel like I can achieve something.

More on this as my 25th year unfolds....

Standby

2009-06-25T20:17:00.001-04:00

I was stuck in the Portland airport for 16 hours last weekend.
PDX is ranked one of the "best" airports in the country by... whoever ranks airports.... But I did not have a very good time there.

Thunderstorms had grounded flights in Chicago which led to cancellations. I was trying to fly standby on the red-eye to O'Hare Friday night, but the gates were full of angry people who had been there all day. So I got bumped. And bumped again. And bumped again.

Also, because I got the standby tickets for super-cheap through a friend whose mom used to work for the airline, I had to dress up. Meaning no jeans or flip-flops or "athletic" gear (since you're kind of, you know, indirectly representing the airline). Being short on outfits not comprised of jeans, flip-flops and cotton t-shirts and hoodies, this meant wearing a miniskirt with leggings and some Old Navy moccasins. It is NOT comfortable to wear the same pair of leggings for 24 hours! Trust me. And all I had to keep me company was The Last of the Mohicans:
So far, I am not enjoying reading The Last of the Mohicans. And, henceforth on, I'll probably always associate it with 16 hours of airport grumpiness. But, although only about 50 pages of bleak 19th century blandness got plowed through, I eventually made it to Chicago... just in time for Jenna's 'bachelorette party'. I got off the plane at O'Hare, changed into pants, immediately got on the Blue Line and went directly to the bar where they were doing shots. That's just the way it worked out. Oh, standby.

The libraries

2009-06-25T20:02:00.000-04:00

While I was eating lunch at my kitchen table today, I glanced at the titles in my roommate's stack of selected literature. Then I took the liberty of taking a photo of it:
My favorites are the ones on the bottom: Wicca In the Kitchen and Encyclopedia of Magical Herbs.

For comparison, I also took a photo of the stack of books I happen to have sitting on my bedroom floor (bookshelf space being in short supply (time to raid the back allies for more milk crates)):
Please note the lack of shirtless witches on my book covers.

Reading from top to bottom: Raise High the Roof Beam Carpenters by JD Salinger, Cannery Row by John Steinbeck, O Pioneers! by Willa Cather, 41 Stories by O Henry, The Grapes of Wrath by John Steinbeck, Number 9 Dream by David Mitchell, and Amphigorey by Edward Gorey.

I am not currently trying to read all of these books at once. I'm not crazy. FYI-- I do non-fiction over lunch and fiction before bed.

Plans for my birthday (after a few beers)

2009-06-18T21:50:00.000-04:00

"Whatever! Let's just burn shit and set shit off and get drunk as fuck and fuck up all that shit we burned!"

Andrew gets schooled by incomprehensible Japanese video games

2009-06-13T08:28:00.000-04:00

This game was called "The Typing of the Dead" and (as far as we could tell) you were supposed to type in certain codes to keep zombies from attacking you. The zombies came up and punched you. They didn't bite you. This game only lasted about a minute.

Wings lose.

2009-06-13T08:25:00.000-04:00

The cherry on top of a bad year.

They need to create a word for the perfect equilibrium of anger and sadness I've been feeling for the last twelve hours....

Don't go chasing waterfalls

2009-05-31T21:30:00.000-04:00

Living, as I do, in the Umpqua River Watershed, it may seem logical that a post like this was coming. I already put one up about Fall Creek Falls. And I went to Steamboat Falls too. But that was less cool because you just pull off the road and it's there. No hiking involved. Nonetheless, I've been sitting on some quality waterfall pictures for some time now.
Grotto Falls-- where you can walk behind the waterfall itself.
See? Cool, right?
It was me, Grace, Grace's dog, Lara and Adrienne. We also went to Yakso Falls that day; which, while still pretty and a fun hike, was kind of underwhelming after a waterfall that you can freaking walk behind!
The whole time at Grotto Falls, I kept thinking of Daniel Day Lewis in Last of the Mohicans: "Stay alive. Whatever may occur, I will find you!" Fun times.

sushi the size of your face

2009-05-26T21:26:00.000-04:00

Ami Sushi restaurant here in Roseburg is notorious for serving "sushi the size of your face". It's also notorious for having awfully bad sushi. Nonetheless, I rolled the dice and finally tried this infamous place a few weeks ago. I discovered it's also remarkably expensive sushi. But when you've got a corner on the sushi market in the entire county, I guess you can charge whatever you want, now can't you?

The vegetable sushi (the only kind I eat, sometimes people get confused when I say I don't eat seafood but love sushi) was pretty tasty. And it's the only place in town to get Japanese beers. The sushi roll that Megan got, however, was a monster. A dozen ingredients, wrapped into a massive rice & seaweed burrito, then deep fried:

Maybe it's not quite the size of your face, depending on how big your face is. But it's certainly bigger around than mine or Megan's arm. Definitely approaching leg-circumference in size. When you're gesturing to suggest the size of a sushi roll, you shouldn't need two hands.

They have shit tons of conditioner and no fucking shampoo!

2009-05-21T12:40:00.000-04:00

Living out of a backpack is hard. All your clean clothes get dirty because they're all crammed into the same tight space as your dirty laundry. It takes forever to wash your face or brush your teeth because all your toiletries are the little sample sizes and they're all wedged into quart-sized ziploc bags. Your feet hurt because you wear the same pair of shoes everywhere. Etcetera and so forth.

Nonetheless, traveling by backpack alone is far superior to checking luggage these days at an airport. Still, it leads to some awkward moments. Like how at first your stuff is all nicely and neatly folded, but after about twelve hours it's all one jumbled mass of clothes, shoes, hairbrush, that book you brought, your parking ticket from the airport, some loose change, a stray gum wrapper.

So you roll into town with your backpack mess and proceed to take advantage of your friends (and, in this case, family). Sleeping on the floor, or if you're lucky a futon mattress; eating their food, drinking their beer if you're lucky; playing with their pets; watching their DVDs; and showering in their homes, if you're lucky they'll have guest towels. It's a pretty sweet deal. But there's a big difference between being in somebody's home and being in your own home sweet home. There are lots of questions that start out like, "Wait, so where's your..." or "Is it okay if I..." or "So what should I do with..."

Every new apartment or house takes some adjustment. So if you're only stopping by for a day or two or three, there's a lot of bumbling. Example: I took a shower at my brother's place today and it took about 45 minutes. The water pressure was so low it took about 8 minutes just to get wet. And back up in Portland at Lupita's, she kindly offered up the use of any and every hygiene item in their shower. Great. That's super nice. So I'll just wash my hair. No, that's conditioner. What about this bottle? No, that's conditioner too. And this? Conditioner. Do they not have any fucking shampoo? Or am I just not seeing it?

It really seemed cool at the time.... Trust me.

2009-05-13T16:35:00.000-04:00

I have some photos for you. I took bunches of photos on recent outings that I thought would be cool. But it's always cooler to be there, you know? Anyway, a while back Lara and I tried to go hiking. But we kind of failed at it so we just kept driving. We ended up all the way out highway 138 and at Diamond Lake. There's still tons of snow up there. Er, there was about a month ago.

In fact, Diamond Lake itself was frozen over and you could walk out on top of it. I had been unaware that Diamnond Lake would freeze over in the winter. But there was actually a cadre of snowmobilers up there getting drunk and driving over the ice:

Last month I also had to go to Hood River, Oregon, for a work conference. At this conference, I got made fun over for being a "walking stereotype" of an AmeriCorps Vista. Fuck you, bitch! But whatever. I spent half the time ditching seminars and seeing more of the beautiful Columbia River Gorge:

Over the river, that's Washington. Which looks a little less pretty because it's mostly brown right there. That green thing is the Hood River bridge. It costs something like 50 cents to drive across it, and it's exactly two lanes. No room for error. If you go further east down the gorge, it gets very arid and dry:

This photo was taken east of Maryville, WA, looking back west toward Mt Hood. If you know what you're looking at, you can see it there. But it kind of faded into the gray-ish sky. The weather was great and the gorge is really beautiful. If I have to go to a work conference, I'm glad it's in a place like this. Too bad I also had to go to presentations on child abuse and whatnot.

GRE pwned

2009-05-10T18:56:00.001-04:00

The test is in the bag. Now if I just knew whether or not I wanted to go to grad school.

I did fine. Things are fine. At least, I felt that way psychologically. But apparently not physiologically. I went out to dinner with friends once I got back to Rosi (had to take the test up in Eugene), and after a few minutes of eating my tummy was filled with shooting pains. More like a stabbing feeling than any sort of indigestion. "Anxiety belly" my roommate called it. Good phraseology. I booked it out of the restaurant without tipping and went home and laid down. But about an hour later I was feeling better and drank beers with my friends while we watched Trailer Park Boys on bootleg DVD.

Then the next day I had to get up at 6:30 a.m. to go volunteer at "Family Safety Day"-- handing out bike helmets and child ID kits, also playing with the search & rescue dogs. Then in the afternoon (most) all my buddies drank wine down by the river. There were guitars, and wheelbarrow races, and chocolate cake. The festivties got mildly belligerent after a while (as sometimes happens when people get wine drunk), but it was still a great weekend after a week of hard-core GRE study and 4 hours of intensive testing. Summer's right around the corner....

Things That Should Never Be Discussed At The Gym

2009-04-26T15:26:00.000-04:00

1.) Fancy chocolates.

2.) Daddy issues.

Seriously people.....

South Coast

2009-04-24T00:07:00.009-04:00

Here are some photos of what the south coast of Oregon looked like about a month ago:
This is from the cliffs at Shore Acre Gardens a little south of Coos Bay.

And these pictures are from Cape Arago and Sunset Bay, ever so slightly further down the coast, earlier today:
What a difference about a month makes....
So, it's hard to see; but in the middle of this picture is a little island with two types of sea lions and two types of seals on it. You could hear them barking (or whatever sound sea mammals can be said to make) for hundreds of yards off.
The problem is getting to be, now, that I have so many pictures from the coast that it's difficult to remember which are from where.
Ah, well. They're all beautiful. Mostly.

Incidentally, the top two photos were taken in a massive Dramamine fog after going whale watching. We saw a couple of whales. But they were easy to miss. You could really just see the spouts and sometimes the hump. At least, that's all I saw. Almost everyone was seasick but me. I would have been seasick, but the Dramamine knocked me out so bad I couldn't stand up. So in the midst of whale watching I laid down and took a nap. Surreal experience: taking a nap on a boat. Then, when I woke up, I walked out on to the back of the boat and was greeted by a gauntlet of asses leaning over the sides, puking. That was also surreal.

Mission Dolores

2009-04-12T13:48:00.001-04:00

This is the Mission Dolores:
As seen from the graveyard. It's the oldest non-indigenous-built structure in the Bay Area. It hasn't always looked like this. But you can see some of the original adobe bricks in the walls. The Mission was a site for Spanish explorers and later Mexicans who claimed this part of California as part of their country before it was handed over to the U.S. after the Mexican-American War.

It's really beautiful there, and partly still used as a church. Like, for example, on the Sunday morning that I was there. The system of missions in the Southwest really fascinates me. Maybe it started with an interest in pioneer things back in elementary school and was fueled by a love of Westerns, Vertigo and capped off by reading Death Comes for the Archbishop back in college.

The graveyard is the most interesting part:
All of the graves are like a snapshot of 19th Century San Franciscan history. Most of them were twenty-something males who probably died in the Gold Rush. Or young men and women, sometimes children, who died of disease when this was still a booming frontier town. Lots of the gravestones have the birthplace of the dead inscribed on them. Faraway places like Ireland, Poland, Maryland and Pennsylvania. It makes you think about what things must have been like in the middle of the 1800s: tons of young people from scattered places seeking different things in a raging frontier blitz of development and adventure.

People like that built this city and most of the people I met in San Francisco don't even know it's there. I guess it's the history nerdiness, but I was ready to tear up walking through that graveyard; but you can hear people on the street going about their normal business like there's nothing special about the spot. Where's the reverence?

Hitchcock really did use this church for the Mission Dolores scenes in Vertigo, the first time Jimmy Stewart follows Kim Novak's character. But there's not a grave for Carlotta Valdez. I checked. Insider's knowledge: if you want to tour the Mission Dolores but for some reason don't want to pay the modest entry price, it seemed like it would have been easy enough to sit through the church service and casually exit through the Basilica's side door and get to the museum and graveyard that way. Nonetheless, I'd recommend doing things the honest way for this landmark. Also good to know: some of the best views of the city are seen from Dolores Park, a short walk for those of us who don't get easily lost (but not for me!).

Twilight

2009-04-07T18:13:00.000-04:00

Perhaps people who live in New York and L.A. are jaded in this regard, but I learned quickly after moving to Chicago that-- for most non-New York & L.A. towns-- locals with flock in droves to see your movie if you film it in their town. Chicagoans love Uncle Buck, Adventures In Babysitting, Blues Brothers, Ferris Beuhler's Day Off, Sixteen Candles, Mean Girls, High Fidelity, and many others. And the entire city went crazy when I lived there (2002-2007) and studios were filming The Dark Knight, The Break-Up, Proof and Fred Claus. People just get a big kick out of seeing things they see every day featured heavily in a movie. Locals would go see The Break-Up multiple times just to watch Jennifer Aniston running on the lakefront path. Seems stupid. And it is. Kind of.

But it's not just Chicago's weird middle child syndrome and suffering under the mantle of "Second City" that breeds this. Example: when the movie Twilight came out last fall, people in Oregon flocked, flocked to see it. Not because it was a particularly cool movie, but because (although the story takes place in Washington) they filmed it in good old Oregon. True to form, Oregonians love movies that take place in their state. Like The Goonies and basically anything made by Gus Van Sant.

And so, adopting some state-pride for my current home, I sat down to watch Twilight the other night after a particularly gruesome GRE practice test experience. I found it entertaining. Especially since I didn't pay to watch it. I just borrowed my friend's DVD (she's an Oregon native and bought it the day it came out). It's easy to get pretty stupidly giddy when you're watching it and thinking "I've been there!" Like, "Oooh, it's the Columbia River gorge!" And, "Oh my god! It's Multnomah Falls!" It also features some hot people and at least one Radiohead song.

Here's my issue with fantasy/romance stories that I've heard echoed in some criticisms of the movie: when you write a fantasy story, you don't necessarily have to focus on character development; you can just explain things away with magic. Why is Edward attracted to Bella? Uh, because she smells good. Why is Bella attracted to Edward? Uhm, because he's beautiful. Is there any interpersonal connection? Is there one in the book and it just didn't make it on the screen? As cute and watchable as I found the film, the gaping plot holes actually made me want to read the series. That, and I like to be down with the young people.

It's easy to scoff at popularism. Especially if you're a bit of an indie snob like me and most of your friends spend their weekends trying to out-obscure-reference each other. Nonetheless, it's difficult to take issue with the Twilight series or anything that gets kids reading. Twilight was written by a Mormon woman and, at this point, everyone knows that it's really about abstinence. As redonkulous as I think abstinence-only education is, it's also hard to take issue with a story line promoting abstinence that's marketed to middle schoolers. Because-- and I happen to be able to remember feeling this way-- when you're about 11 you really just wish you were 17 (ironically, now that I'm 24, I also wish I was 17). And you want to beat the clock there. This can take the form of some accelerated behaviors and believing that it's completely appropriate; like wearing make-up, getting a hip haircut and clothes like in the magazines, watching R-rated movies, cursing and some of the more negative older habits like drinking and fucking.

So a series that promotes tamping down the lust in the younger folk is okay with me. But from what I hear, the other books in the series get really regressive and promote some less-than-okay behavior. Someone told me that in one of the books, Edward leaves Bella and she considers her life wrecked. She stops going out, cuts ties with her other friends, and hits the major depressive skids. It's okay to somewhat realistically portray what it's like to have a guy break your heart. But to make it seem like your life is over after your first love skips town?? C'mon Mormon author! Even in writing some heavily Victorian drama featuring vampires, you should know that's it's inappropriate to give such a message to young girls.

Still... Multnomah Falls!

More of the Same

2009-04-03T17:42:00.000-04:00

A cavalcade of cliched shots from San Francisco:

Cable car--
Alcatraz--
Yeah, it was really kind of foggy... and we didn't pay to go out there. So sue me.

Ghirardelli Square--
Sea lions at Pier 39--
Grace Cathedral--
The Ferry Building seen from the Embarcadero--
I also managed to get an illegible shot of Haight-Ashbury and a pretty lame pic of Union Square (but it doesn't look like it did in the movie The Conversation anyway, so it's less of a loss). A free-standing post on my visit to the Mission Dolores to follow. Enjoy!

Yerba Buena

2009-03-30T21:31:00.000-04:00

Last week I was in San Francisco. It's a city I've always wanted to visit. And also happens to be home to two college friends who plan on moving out of the country this summer. Since I currently live all of an eight hour drive away, it seemed like now was the time to go. Also, my friend's sister lives there, so she drove down with me. Plus, three other friends from Roseburg also happened to be visiting the city at the same time. So it was like a big party.

There's a ton to do in San Francisco. And I did a fair percentage of it: rode the cable cars (which was really ridiculously fun), walked around Pier 39 and down the Embarcadero to the Ferry Building, strolled through Chinatown, visited the Mission Dolores, got free chocolate at Ghirardelli Square, went to the Asian Art Museum, shopped at City Lights bookstore, ate some great food and drank a lot of Anchor Steam. I have pictures of a lot of it. But looking back over it, I really just took a crazy quantity of pics of the Golden Gate bridge. Which makes sense: it's completely iconic, beautiful, and I could see it from the window of the apartment I was staying at (friends in high places). And, upon reviewing my camera's memory card, lots of my other photos really came out as cheesy, touristy, or down-right ugly.

So what's the point? I'm asking myself why I, or anyone, would willfully take up valuable hard drive space with crappy picures. I'm not going to forget that I was there. And my lame snapshots don't really do the city justice. When is a picture cool enough to share? That's so subjective. And also ultimately pointless. So I'll just post a solid collection of bridge pictures and some other choice ones-- whatever I personally deem worthy of the wonderful city and my wonderful time there.

From the window:
(I love how you can clearly see a storm rolling in in this one.)
From the Marin Headlands:
From the Cable Car turnaround in Victoria Park (also pictured is the line to ride the Cable Car):
Aaaaaand, from Pier 39:
I guess this one's not really as pretty as some of the others. Maybe I shouldn't have ended on it. Anyway, more adventurous pictures to follow....

Wonderland Hike

2009-03-26T20:57:00.000-04:00

Quite a while back, Lexi, Grace and I went hiking one overcast Sunday. Or maybe it was Saturday. In any case, it was the weekend and we wanted to do something outside, free and fun. This winter in Oregon has been pretty mild. Still, it had been kind of drizzly all weekend, had potential to rain while we hiked and would certainly be pretty damn muddy. But we went anyway!

Destination: Fall Creek Falls every state has one):
Then, of all things, it started snowing:
Really a lot:
If you continue to follow the trail, it takes you up on an old road-- which a map of the area later informed us was the Old North Umpqua Highway. If you continue to follow the road, as we did, it takes you up around some old, closed off dirt roads that are presumably logging roads (a relatively familiar sight here in lumber country). But it was eerie to be up there. There's no one else around. You can't hear anything but snow falling-- whatever that can be said to sound like, but I swear you can hear it somehow.

As we descended back down the trail through the snow and mud, the tiny blizzard proved highly localized. It was literally only snowing where we hiked. It was a beautiful sight, and we were the only ones who saw it.

Then Lexi found a dead animal in the toilet at the head of the trail and that kind of ruined the magical vibe. Still, it made for a cool afternoon.

Ken Burns Folly

2009-03-04T20:43:00.000-05:00

I Netflixed that movie about competitive crossword puzzle playing a while ago. Wordplay. And my roommate and I were watching it this weekend. It's good stuff. Fits right in with those other docs about word-related recreation that have come out recently: Spellbound, Word Wars, etc. It's entertaining and the filmmakers got some great interviews from famous people who love doing the New York Times crossword. Like Bill Clinton and Jon Stewart and, uh, the former Ombudsman of the Times. But the one who blew me away for unexpected reasons was Ken Burns.

The jacket of the DVD had said that the film would include Ken Burns. As a documentary and history nut, I was excited to see him in a crossword context. So the movie's going along and then they show this weird guy with a bad haircut and a soft voice. And the caption comes up saying that it's "Ken Burns". "Whoa! That is not what I imagined Ken Burns looked like!" I wouldn't shut up about it for a few minutes. And I periodically brought it up for the rest of the weekend. "Man! Ken Burns! I can't believe it." I'm sure it annoyed the hell out of my roommate since I'm not sure she knows who Ken Burns is.

But yeah, in my mind's eye, Ken Burns looks very different. I suppose the folly was mine; since I guess I kind of associated the filmmaker with his films and so I imagine his voice sounds like the narrator's voice, and so he looks like the voice sounds. So I guess I thought Ken Burns would look like David McCullough. Except, after researching it, I think I thought David McCullough looked like Stephen Ambrose. In any case, I did not expect Ken Burns to look like he actually does.

That's not supposed to be a slam on Burns' physical appearance. I don't want to suggest that he should look like a dead, heavy-smoking, controversial history professor celebrity. But in a way I did feel let down by the way Burns looks. Like he owes me the gratification of being some eccentric, dumpy, crazy-haired, intense, awkward professor who lives in a modified library surrounded by dusty mountains of books and keeps shifting his weight in interviews in his corduroy blazer and un-ironed shirt; instead of the pretentious, meticulous, neat, soft-spoken (I would go so far as to say 'fey') man in his minimalist apartment with a hundred million dollar Manhattan skyline view... which he is.

It makes sense. Burns is a filmmaker. Not chiefly a historian. So he should look more like my subconscious conception of a documentarian versus a tenure-track university fellow. I just didn't imagine it that way. He looks like the way I imagine Woody Allen might imagine him-- awkward, esoteric, self-involved, jazz- and baseball-loving, trivia- and New York-obsessed and inexplicably famous. Even considering that Burns is probably rolling in money from all his successful ventures that he (by now) hires other people to do most of the dirty work on, I just couldn't get over the shattering of my affectionate image of him for the rest of the weekend. But I'm better now. Maybe I should just Netflix The Civil War and learn to be affectionate toward his actual appearance instead of my own brain's fictionalizing.

Ewok Country

2009-02-28T12:06:00.000-05:00

Anyone who's my Facebook friend already knows that I went with Lexi, Megan and Kat to the Redwoods over the Presidents' Day three day weekend. Megan (not Oregon Megan, but Chicago Megan) and her hubby Ben currently live in Eureka, California. So us four Roseburgers crammed into a Best Western and Meg and Ben gave us a tour of Eureka before we hit Highway 101 to see the "Avenue of Giants".
These trees are big:
Really big:
I'll put it in perspective: Megan (pictured above) is about eight feet tall.

In Eureka, which is about the same size as Rosi but has way more young people because of nearby Humbolt College, has a bit of an art scene. This window display is a showcase of one guy's yard art that he made himself and accumulated for years:
Pretty bad ass. On the drive from Roseburg to Eureka, we did some obligatory gazing out at the Oregon Coast. It's really awesome there. Jagged rocks, crashing waves, frigid water you could never swim in, windswept trees growing scraggily on sheer cliffs, brisk breezes, and this happy couple walking hand-in-hand barefoot down the beach:
See them down there? All tiny? I don't know how they got down there, since it really is a sheer cliff down from the shoulder of the road to the water. They must have been committed. They waved up at us and we waved back. I don't know where they were coming from or going to, but I can only hope sincerely that at some point in my life I'm as contented as this couple seemed, walking down the beach, on a Sunday afternoon, in love, seemingly without worry.

Long Gone Lonesome Blues

2009-02-25T17:32:00.000-05:00

The Olympic Peninsula is a place of mythic natural beauty. Mountains, ocean, volcanoes, rain forests, whales. It's so crazy beautiful, in fact, that I was a little upset to learn that people actually live there. Indeed, there are some pretty ugly, impoverished-looking towns out there-- boarded up businesses, garbage all over the front lawns, etc. A little like any rural place really. Prosperity is hard to come by. And, also like any other rural place, there are some quaint tourist towns reveling in their Victorian-era heritage as shipping towns and trading points. Given the natural beauty of the surroundings and the Victorian nature of the architecture, some of these towns turn into groovy artist colonies. Or at least they went through a phase where it was like that. One such place is Port Townsend, Washington:
I had a pretty okay time in Port Townsend. I ate a six dollar grilled cheese sandwich and looked at the Sound and the mountains. I wandered around and window shopped. It was pretty nice because you could tell it was a summer town, but since it was February the crowds were slim. The single greatest thing I saw in Port Townsend was this busker. He sounded straight-up like a dead ringer for Hank Williams Sr. He was so good, in fact, I snuck a photo of him from my car:
So he's kind of hard to see. But trust me, it was really remarkable how well he could do Hank. I gave him every cent I had in my pants pocket; which wasn't much and wasn't near what he deserved for the quality of his talents, but it was the best I could do at the time.

Interesting thing-- around the corner from the above busker is what claims to be the "oldest continuously operating independent record store in Washington state". In Port Townsend? I'm not sure I believe it. But it was still a cool record store. They had boxes of free stuff out on the sidewalk, which was where I picked up this (which I later gave to Megan (since my hi-fi hasn't worked since the Reagan administration)):
That's right. The Best of Glen Campbell. A double album in way decent condition. For free! On the sidewalk! It has "Rhinestone Cowboy" and "Wichita Lineman"! I wanted to inform the management at the record store: you are severely undervaluing your records. I would have paid 75 cents for this.

So the photo of the record was obviously taken in my home, which gives you a glimpse of my Simpsons DVDs, right shoe and deep, brown, semi-shag carpeting in my super-70s apartment. Is it a conflict of interest to give your change to a Hank Williams-esque busker while you're carrying a Glen Campbell record?

Emerald City, or: KEXP-land

2009-02-21T16:43:00.002-05:00

Earlier this month, I skedaddled out of town and back into my preferred habitat-- a city of over a million people. I've wanted to explore Seattle since my pubescent consciousness expanded to include Say Anything, "Heart-Shaped Box" and the Sub-Pop singles club (yes, I am too young to remember the Sub-Pop singles club; but I'm still aware of it). On Craigslist I found a guy who rents out rooms in his sweet house in the Ballard neighborhood. After a cursory phone conversation to make sure he wasn't a crazy murderer, I reserved my room and made the trek.

The guy was pretty cool. Forty-ish, formerly involved in engineering and business, but got laid off around the same time his investments tanked in value a few months ago. So he joined the Peace Corps and will be shipped to Eastern Europe to do micro-finance work soon, but in the interim he needed some cash so he rents out rooms at extremely reasonable rates. We had lots of great conversations about books, travel, service work.... And he was a native so he could give me great advice about visiting the city. After our conversations, he told me I was "amazing" and that I belonged in Seattle. I may try to take him up on that recommendation.

One of the greatest things about Seattle is its park system. There are parks everywhere, many with lake-access and views of the Olympic Mountains, and Seattlites use them. People were always out running or playing with their kids or walking their dogs. This is the skyline:
As seen from Gas Works Park:
And this is Green Lake Park, the "Central Park of Seattle" as it was billed to me. "Except it's much smaller....":
And here is a blurry, out-of-focus shot of Puget Sound and the Olympics as seen from Golden Gardens Park:
I did other stuff besides walk around in parks all the time. I took a ferry across Puget Sound and drove around and about on the Olympic Peninsula. I'll post those photos soon. Oh, and by the way, fuck that chronically overcast shit. It barely drizzled one day I was there, but other than that was partly to mostly sunny the whole week. No wonder they have so many parks.

Negiligence Owns

2009-02-21T16:43:00.001-05:00

Posted below is a picture I took about a month ago. That's how far behind I've been running with things. 'Though I've taken two awesome trips in that month, I've done nothing about it. This is a picture of the Oregon State Capitol Building in Salem. This is where I was on Inauguration Day, January 20, 2009. I kept getting text messages all day: "OMG! OBAMA!!!" Stuff like that. But I missed the ceremonies entirely because of work stuff. Tried to catch Obama's speech later on YouTube, but it wasn't the same. It was pretty day though:

S.A.M.

2009-02-06T13:29:00.001-05:00

Yesterday I went to the Seattle Art Museum. I've been so spoiled on world-class museums in the last couple of years that it seemed small in there. It's good, but it just can't hold a candle to so many other great museums. And maybe it isn't trying to. Nonetheless, part of the reason I was excited to go (in addition to it being free the first Thursday of every month) was that I had read they recently finished an expansion that added something like 70% more gallery space. Wandering around I was thinking, "You gotta be kidding me. It used to be 70% smaller?"

Here's something I noticed right away: almost everything in there is new. Like, seriously... three quarters of their collection is from post 1950 or so. And a good portion of that is even post 1980 or so. What they had was good-- lots of African art and some regional Native American art. They had little sections that had older stuff in them, but those weren't very well-organized or in-depth; like the trappings of antiquity had been slammed on as an afterthought. And they were weirdly jumbled: all the gold things together, all the vases together, all the hats together....

Even the "artifacts" from native tribes were relatively new. Everything I saw was post-contact-- mid-nineteenth century and onwards. Which makes sense. It's wet here. Things rot. Everything's made out of wood, not much out of stone. But all the newness of the SAM struck me as being a good metaphor for the city in general. Like, just walking down the street in Seattle you don't get a sense of oldness like you do in other American cities back east. I'm not saying "old" equals "better", but it's something I consider very palpable having traveled on both coasts and quite a bit in the middle. SAM doesn't have much, but it's growing and everything it adds on is new.

There's something about the slickness, the transience, the global integration, the sheen, that makes me identify the city with its art museum. Consider other art museums. New York's Met is massive, diverse, entrenched, iconic and a yardstick for other museums world-wide. Chicago's Art Institute is focused a lot on mid-nineteenth century Impressionism, architectural furniture design, and Americana-flavored art. The art museum as reflection of the city? Maybe I just hit on a new form of travel journalism.

Behind the Scenes at the Fish Hatchery

2009-02-05T14:35:00.001-05:00

Last Friday was the day of an epic project that we've been working on in Douglas County, Oregon. The "Homeless Count"-- which is basically exactly what it sounds like. For the sake of securing government block grant monies, and for the sake of accurate stats, we're supposed to try and get as complete a picture as possible of how many people across the county are without fixed, permanent shelter in the snapshot of one day. For some reason, the state says this has to be done the last week of January (I guess because they probably figure that's when the most people will be in shelters and thus "easier" to count). But not everyone's in a shelter. Some people are doubled-up with friends or family, or cramming in to shitty motel rooms, or camping out, or simply sleeping on the street despite the cold. So our intrepid team also did a "street count", which involved going out to far-flung parts of the county in attempts to count the rural homeless.

Me and four other people were in a small town called Glide. We didn't know how many people to expect, but when virtually no one showed up we decided to drive around and see if we could identify spots where people who were homeless might hang out. A list of likely spots includes all the usual suspects: parks, convenience stores, down by the river, under bridges. I had heard of people hanging out by the fish ladder by the dam in Roseburg when the weather was warmer. Knowing that, I suggested we try the nearby fish hatchery. It might sounds funny, but honestly-- what would you do all day if you had nowhere to go? It's actually kind of reasonable that you might go watch fish...

So anyway, Lexi, Meg and I drove around and about and accidentally ended up on some unpaved logging roads but eventually found the hatchery. I was worried it would just be some smelly fish farm, but I was wrong. We asked a guy who worked there if homeless people ever hung out. He said in the summer sometimes, yes. But since it was January it was really too cold for people to just be hanging around. That sentiment was echoed with everyone we talked to in Glide.

Then Meg asked him something or other about the fish, and the guy stopped what he was doing and offered to show us around the hatchery. Turns out none of the fish are raised for food purposes. They're all there to bred and eventually repopulate the natural habitat. He told us all about the different species they had and when they migrated and when they bred and when they could be reintroduced to the wild. He showed us steelheads. I had never heard of a steelhead before moving to Oregon. Much less seen one.

I was happy to get the tour. One, you could tell this guy was excited to share his knowledge and love of fish with anyone willing to ask. He was so eager, and you could tell he appreciated having company at work. Two, he was actually kinda cute. He took us behind roped off areas and answered all our questions and asked if we had any more. When we first saw him, I thought he seemed kind of angry-- violently flinging food pellets into troughs of baby fish... but he was soft-spoken and really intelligent in his chosen field. Work is probably really monotonous for those guys, so I'm sure they like getting asked things by the rare wintertime visitor.

Interesting thing to know: the guys who work at the hatchery have to live there, on site. There's an alarm system rigged up in case there's a fish emergency (like the water level starts dropping) and someone has to be on site 24/7. What if that was your life? Living on site at the fish hatchery where you live with lots of other guys who work at the same fish hatchery. Up in the woods in some remote place away from everything else. It's like being on a different planet.

Interjection

2009-02-01T20:10:00.000-05:00

Anatomy of a shotgun..........

Ready:
Steady:
Drunk!:
Repeat as needed.

Goonies beach!

2009-01-31T19:14:00.000-05:00

It's been a while since I've seen The Goonies. Sad but true. I think I put it in my Netflix queue a while back, but it has yet to show up and flood me with nostalgia. Nonetheless, Oregonians are proud to say that this little piece of all of our childhoods was filmed in Oregon. Specifically, it was partly filmed at Cannon Beach, which is this place:
The interesting thing about this beach was that there were actually people on it. So much of the Oregon coast is empty. You can go there and be the only person... or one of a dozen for several miles. Sometimes that's nice, but sometimes it's also nice to be social. Canon Beach is the name of the beach and also the posh little vacation town that's next to it. "Posh" is putting it mildly. It was damn classy. Canon Beach also has this hilarious sign:
"Ocean" to the right? How about straight ahead??

The coast continues to be beautiful for a few more miles. Then Highway 101 curves inland a little bit and you don't see much of the ocean again (much to Lexi's chagrin) until you hit Newport or so. Driving on this stretch of 101 takes you through Tillamook, Oregon. Tillamook is regionally famous for it's dairy products. Their cheese is unimpressive (and tastes kind of watery) to this Midwesterner used to Wisconsin-style saturated fats. But it's always nice to go local.

People were packing in to tour the cheese factory. Even though the whole area around the town smells like cow piss. We got stuck in a minor traffic jam and a local drunk man-- remember it's about 2 p.m. on Sunday at this point-- threw a deflated beach ball at us. Then, when we accelerated away and ran over the beach ball corpse, he shouted after us and gestured obscenely. Why'd you throw it in the road if you didn't want people to run over it?! He was wearing a t-shirt that said "Big Daddy" on the front and "Sugar Daddy" on the back. Lexi and I speculated that he was the mayor of Tillamook.

Visiting Tillamook actually discourages me from buying Tillamook products. It probably won't last. But wow, what a shit hole of a town! So far the only place I've been in Oregon that I'd prefer Roseburg over. Coincidentally, the day after our roadtrip I was at the Capitol building in Salem to talk about lobbying the legislature for more money for RHY programs. And we got to meet the state Senator from Tillamook! She was a stand-up lady. Really nice to meet. But I wanted to put my hand on her shoulder and console her: I'm sorry you have to be from there....

Cape Disappointment

2009-01-31T18:55:00.000-05:00

Go ahead and giggle. Lexi and I headed to Cape Disappointment, Washington with enthusiasm. It's called Cape Disappointment for goodness' sake! How could you resist going to a place with such an odd name? As anyone who's been there can tell you, the place is anything but disappointing. It was phenomenally beautiful in fact:
Pictures couldn't do it justice. I'm lucky to live in a place where I can say that about so many destinations a mere day's drive or less away from my (albeit pretty shitty) homebase. There are lighthouses and trees and beaches and the weather was beautiful (70 degrees in January?! Did we hit a vortex?!), plus there are no other people around! Cape Disappointment is near the entrance of the Columbia River into the Pacific. The oldest continually operating lighthouse on the west coast is there:
Incidentally, it's called "Cape Disappointment" because when Lewis & Clark reached the broad estuary of the Columbia, they thought it was the Pacific and their long expedition was over. But no. They had to hunker down for days while ocean storms slammed them back into a cove on the river and they didn't finish the epic until much later. Hence: Disappointment. Being the history nut that I am, I forced Lexi to go to the Lewis & Clark "interpretive center" at the Cape and constantly barraged her with smart-ass comments from when I had to read Merriweather Lewis's biography for high school.
It's a pretty stellar museum, FYI. Also magnificently appointed right on a cliff over the ocean. They also have a sweet exhibit on Pacific Coast lighthouses. As euphorically beautiful as this place was, we continued on our way south-- back to Roseburg-- over the bridge into Astoria and down along the Oregon coast....

Mt. St. Helens

2009-01-24T10:21:00.000-05:00

Last weekend was a three day weekend for us AmeriCorps Vistas. One of the few bonuses to technically being a government employee is getting every single national holiday off. Lexi and I hit the road, in a northerly direction, to see some sites in Washington state. We started with Mt. St. Helens: famous for blowing its top in 1980...
There it is. That snow-capped thing in the background, with Lexi in the foreground. We were worried that we wouldn't see the mountain because the lower part of the area was packed in with fog:
But we climbed above the clouds and it was sunny and gorgeous and the entire area is covered in pine trees so green they looked fake. I tried to take a picture, but the camera really didn't do it justice. A huge area around the volcano is a memorial or research site or some such thing; which basically means that there's nothing but camping and hiking and biking for several square miles.
This was where tons of volcanic mud flowed off the mountain in a massive avalanche of geothermal energy. It carved this big valley and reshaped the landscape. Apparently all the debris from the eruption erased massive lakes, made new lakes, carved valleys, created mountains and in general rewrote the map of the area. They had video footage at the visitors' center of helicopter pilots flying over the area in the days after the eruption and exclaiming that they had no point of reference and couldn't tell where they were except for by latitude and longitude. They'd lived there their whole lives and in an instant the landscape was made unrecognizable. Crazy!

We did more stuff on the trip too. And I've got some good pictures of that. I love long weekends.

Underpants dance

2009-01-19T19:46:00.000-05:00

As promised, here are some photos from Lupita's housewarming party two weekends ago in Portland:
Action shot! Here, Lupita dances with a man who will later be dancing in his underpants-- as well as share a bed with me when we all crashed. There was loads of dancing...
I don't remember who any of these people are. Turns out it was a theme party. And you were supposed to wear a costume. We didn't have any, but Lupita let us raid her closet.
Lexi was Alice in Wonderland. These are her feet.
Eventually, Wonder Woman came out. Here she is dancing with that guy in his underpants. It was a fun night for everyone.

Crescat scientia, vita excolatur

2009-01-19T09:50:00.001-05:00

I was out of town for a good part of the long weekend. When I returned home, I was greeted with this as the number one most-emailed article on the New York Times. Yes, I'm one of those people who first glances at the "most emailed" list before perusing the rest of the headlines. Whenever I read Rolling Stone (which hasn't happened in years I think) I also flip to the back and see what the Billboard top 100 are. I'm just a list person.

Now, I love the Times; but it's a love/hate relationship. I am liberal. The Times is liberal. There's no use in them arguing that they're not. And part of the reason I read it is because I know it won't offend my ideals (for the most part). Nonetheless, I hate being pandered to... or being grouped together with masses of people who do like being pandered to. So, I frequently find myself yelling "fuck the Times" while I skim editorials over my lunch break. And also, I link at least three articles from there to my Facebook page a week. As much as it lets me down, nothing is perfect and it's still my favorite newspaper.

Now that I've made my disclaimer (from being one of those rabid liberals who ecstatically quotes the Times like olly-olly-oxen-free), I can go ahead and make my point. I appreciate Stanley Fish and his blog. This post-- about disappearing humanists on college campuses-- is a good point that some people have been making for a long time. "The Life of the Mind", my alma mater's catchphrase, was rapidly eclipsed by a life of practicality in higher education around the country in the last century. If you think I'm wrong, I'd love to hear your reasoning.

This isn't exactly good or bad. It just is what it is and, being who I am, I have an opinion about it. For years, I was very bitter about my college experience. I felt like my mind had not been as enriched as advertised in the U of C's promotional materials; and, on top of that, I had learned nothing practical and was left unable to find a "good" job.

But down the line I find the silver lining starting to show. The U of C's professed motto, and Andrew Abbot's beautiful "Aims of Education" speech that I sat through my first day of orientation back in 2002, are right. At least a little bit. The value of a liberal arts, humanist based, life of the mind higher education is that it enriches the quality of so many everyday experiences. The point of teaching to the 'life of the mind' is that it allows you, in Abbot's famous words around the U of C, to "see more".

Finding a balance between practical skills and artsy-fartsy theoretical skills is important. No one wants a generation of philosophers tapping in to welfare. And no one wants a generation of data entrists who don't understand metaphors. At least I can't imagine anyone wanting either of those scenarios. Concrete skills are important, but acquiring them needn't involve forsaking an enriched, analytical, observational acute mind. In fact, I'd like to think that being adept at both types of learning would enhance you're ability to do all variety of tasks. I don't know how to argue this, but I think it's true.

And a humanist education isn't solely for the realm of the privileged class. And it isn't solely for the born-geniuses. And it isn't purely for fun. Broadened and diversified horizons enrich personal experience as well as one's ability to learn new things and help others. Those are skills everyone should be able to learn.

Now that I've gone off on a Monday morning diatribe, I'll go back to posting photo-documentation of me and my friends getting drunk, and of my travel exploits. Note: the two don't coincide.

Hoopin'

2009-01-14T21:36:00.000-05:00

We have game night at my place every Wednesday. Well, every Wednesday that it's convenient. But a week ago "game night" turned in to "craft night" when the oh-so-crafty Abi wanted to try making our own hula hoops. I was skeptical. You just take pvc pipe and a connector and something with electrical tape and you have hula hoop? Can't you just buy them at the store for 25 cents or so? Alas, those are only children's hoops. Apparently full-sized grown ups are willing to pay upwards of $40 or $50 for a hoop at a hippie jam band concert for the sake of smoking and hooping by the stage.

But we had way much more fun making our own, decorating them, and practicing some indoor hooping in the living room. You know when you laugh so hard your belly hurts? And you smile so much your cheeks hurt? That was us last Wednesday. And it turns out I'm still able to recollect some of my blue-ribbon-winning hula hooping skills from when I was five. Everyone was impressed; not least of all me. Now the hoop leans against the wall by the couch. And every so often I'm sitting there thinking-- now might be a good time for hooping.

No! You da ho!

2009-01-13T22:41:00.000-05:00

Alright, so on second thought I'll just go ahead and post my other road trip pictures tonight. After all, I've got an inventory of other fun photos piling up waiting to be shared. If only I would get off my lazy butt. This is scenic downtown Nampa:
Thanks for the fun times Lynsey! After b-fast and espresso at this freaking cute coffeeshop, I headed back west. It feels weird heading west to go home. Up to now, home has always been pretty far east and everything I visited was westerly. It's weird when you run out of west.
I think this is the so-called "high desert" part of eastern Oregon. Or maybe that's what the area around Bend is considered. Which sucks for you because I didn't have a camera when I went to Bend. But it's cold and arid and everything is covered with this powdery snow that had probably been on the ground for weeks. Sometimes it would blow across the road in little dust storms that obscured your vision like thick fog. Needless to say, I didn't manage to get pictures of that.
And these would be the Blue Mountains. "The Blues" locals apparently call them. By the way, I was unaware that I would see mountains on my drive. So it came as quite a shock when the road started climbing and there were pine trees. Then there was a snow storm and the cops made all the trucks pull over and chain up their tires. Scary stuff for this Southerner cum Midwesterner.

The majority of the drive from Portland to Idaho is within the Columbia river gorge. It's an odd drive because once you get west of Hood River or so, the environment becomes completely dry and desert-like; even though there's a massive river right there. On the drive to Idaho it was sunny and the sky reflected in the water so that it was as blue as paint. But of course, I missed that and got pictures like this instead:
And then there's this place, which cracks me up every time I stop in Hood River:
China Gorge! And, to round things out nicely, here's a picture of scenic Multnomah Falls, just east or Portland:
I read a story one time that a massive boulder broke off of the cliff while people were having a wedding on that bridge up there. Everyone was fine, but it created a splash that soaked the entire party. What are the odds?

Like a Fucked Up Face...

2009-01-13T22:10:00.001-05:00

So the day after New Years I decided to hit the road. I reached a breaking point of staying in one place. Especially a place like Roseburg. I just need to drift around a bit sometimes and run away from home every now and then. I had recently been north, there's not much to see in a westerly direction, and south just wasn't striking me that day. Armed with the knowledge that I-84 had recently re-opened through the Columbia river gorge here in Oregon, I headed east for Idaho. Lucky for me, my friend Lynsey lives in Nampa (about twenty minutes west of Boise). I sent her a text out of the blue: "Hey, i took a spontaneous roadtrip. R u in nampa?" I got a call back a bit later: yeah! And I happen to have a spare room.... Score.
Okay, so I was just learning how to use the camera I had bought the day before. So sue me. This is the blurry Boise skyline. And the throbbing Boise streets on Friday night:
Boise is interesting. It's the only big-ish city for hundreds of miles around. And there's actual industry there and colleges and whatnot. So any young, educated person in the northern Rockies is probably going to stream through Boise looking for opportunity and fun. And they're working on yuppifying it-- tree-lined streets with strings of Christmas lights, coffeeshops open till 3 a.m., anarchist pizza places blaring indie rock, art house movie theaters, an alt weekly newspaper, legit concert venues. I was impressed. But Lynsey and I agree: it's an interesting place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there (sorry Boise). I tried to catch a photo of Lynsey chair-dancing while driving:
Didn't work out. Anyway, while staying at Lynsey's place I noticed that one of her many gentleman callers had taken the time to spell out "spermicidal lube" in her letter magnets:
Quality. I also tried to catch a photo of the VW's odomoter saying exactly 50,000 miles:
I'll get the hang of it eventually. I drove most of the way there in the dark. But on the way back I got some good pix of the scenic drive: through the gorge, the Blue Mountains, the high desert of eastern Oregon, arid western Idaho. To be shared in another post, alas...

Too much of everything.

2009-01-09T20:23:00.004-05:00

I got a new camera New Years Day. It's all cute and sexy and slim. And the first picture I took was of my front porch:
A plastic chair, a barbecue grill, a light-up Santa. What more do you need? Steve pointed out that you can't see the well-used ash tray in this photo. So maybe you need one of those.... Soon to follow will be pix from the impromptu trip to Idaho I took the next day. Good times.

While we're talking about mashed up jumbles of things, I wanted to share an interesting thing I noticed at my gym. I go to the local YMCA-- which under normal circumstances wouldn't cut it with this agnostic Darwinist gym snob, but you gotta roll with what life gives you. Anyway, because it's not just a gym, it's a lifestyle center, they have inspirational posters and the YMCA creed prominently displayed on all available wall space. So it's standard things like photos of grandparents and rock climbing and slogans fit for a groovy 70s wall calendar ("You have to expect things of yourself before you can achieve"). But in the stairwell to the cardio room there's a series of cutesy paintings corresponding to character traits: loyalty, honesty, faith. And one of them, "honesty" I think, had an image of kids in baseball uniforms handling what appeared to be pills while one of their kind in the background was dutifully telling the nearest adult. The subtitle said, "It's the right thing to do."

I found it a little bit disturbing; and a little bit risque for the Y. But I was able to shrug it off as one of life's little idiosyncrasies and smile about it. Apparently, someone else wasn't. A few weeks after I joined the gym, the kids-handling-pills picture was removed... leaving only a bare nail sticking out of the wall. I find that a little absurd. How long did that picture sit there before someone complained? What offense could be taken? It's a little weird, granted. And I guess I could understand not wanting to be confronted with youth drug-use images while you work out. But still-- actually taking steps to have it removed? For goodness sake. It seems like a reasonable person should be able to get over it.

Gone too long

2008-12-30T15:06:00.002-05:00

Maybe it's all the booze and snow-induced euphoria of my long weekend. Or maybe it's the fact that the long weekend was so long. Or maybe it's my lack of focus since I'm already looking ahead to my upcoming long weekend for New Years. But whatever's responsible, I came back to work Monday, and again this morning, and I keep trying to use my apartment key to open my office door. Then, back at the apartment, I try to use my office key to get in.

What happened to me? Is it a subconscious thing? Like, I don't want to be at work so bad that my subconscious actually won't let me get in the door? It weirds me out. I'm not normally so absent-minded. I'm not normally absent-minded at all. So, in addition to being simply funny, it's also a little disturbing and frustrating. In the evenings, in the dark, I'm up on my porch trying so hard to cram my office key into the lock on the house. It takes me a minute, but then I'm like, "Oh, shit." And rejuggle all the things I'm carrying to finger out the right key on my keychain.

And sure enough, tomorrow morning I'll probably roll in to work at 9:05 and sit there stupidly for a minute trying to cram my house key into the lock on the office door.

Snow Thrills

2008-12-29T16:09:00.004-05:00

I started this blog to document my roadtripping and, to a minor extent, the life decisions of someone who can't stand to stay in the same place and do the same thing for more than about one year at a time. I haven't been roadtripping much recently, even though that was a main motivating factor in moving to the West Coast-- to be able to travel around the supposedly beautiful Pacific Northwest. But I had the chance to spend Xmas in Mt. Baker, Washington, this year and thought I'd take the opportunity to talk about it.

Epic, record-breaking winter storms be damned, my friend Abi and I decided to take a road trip instead of be stuck in Roseburg over the holidays. A couple of weeks ago our friend Mike said he was thinking about taking an Xmas road trip too. Then Abi's boyfriend Andrew was invited to come. Then Mike's friend Craig. Then Kat and Steve's flight got canceled because of the ice storm and they ended up piggy-backing too. With seven people dead set on seeing snow and mountains, Mike found a last minute reservation at a cabin in the woods by Mt. Baker.

Mike, Craig, Steve and Kat trekked up from Portland, and Abi, Andrew and I piled in to my Volkswagen for what-- in good weather-- would be an 8 hour drive. Granted: Portland had had a big snow storm. And granted: they never see that type of weather and had no infrastructure to deal with it. And granted: people in this part of the country don't necessarily know how to drive in conditions like that. But still: I lived in the Midwest for years, and I've driven all over Colorado ski resorts in the winter, and I have never seen a major city let its roads get as bad as Portland did. They simply did nothing, absolutely nothing. It took us two hours to get through town. We broke a set of tire chains. 'Though the biggest danger was probably from the other drivers. I couldn't do more than about 25 with the chains on, and some people were flying down the highway; creating a perfect set-up for a disastrous rear-end collision. And after all that, once we crossed the bridge in to Washington, the roads were pristine, plowed and salted. Way to go, Portland.

But the wretched drive was worth it since we had so much damn fun in the snow I never wanted to leave. We got up there Wednesday evening and overnight it snowed about two feet. We had snowball fights, built a snow fort, made a snowman, made snow angels, went for hikes in the snow, built snow chairs, and in general had tons of snow-based fun. I was also a sitting duck when the metric ton of snow on the roof of the house became loose and thunderously collapsed right on to my head. Even though, as our neighbor said, "Wow, that could have killed you," my friends (after a cursory glance to make sure I was okay) stood around and laughed. The force of the fall actually filled my pockets with snow, made me drop to my knees, and knocked my beer out of my hand. I later found the beer (and kept drinking it) and the bottle had actually been filled with snow and had turned in to beer ice. Climbing out of there was like climbing out of partially hardened cement.

That didn't stop me from continuing to enjoy the snow over the next few days though. One of the funnest things was shaking the trees until the huge clumps of snow fell off in little controlled blizzards. I still don't have a camera, but Abi got some good pictures....

Action shot:
Reaction shot:

Where Drama Lives

2008-12-17T19:06:00.000-05:00

When I first joined AmeriCorps, I was paranoid that I'd be moving across the country to work with a bunch of socially inept wiener kids who wanted to save the world. I worried that maybe I'd find myself surrounded by moon-faced do-gooders who tiptoed around being PC and had no love for the "hard" things in life, like cigarettes, alcohol, sex, rock n' roll, or spicy food.

Little did I know. My first couple of weeks here I was propositioned, offered coke, hassled by the cops, got frat party drunk, smoked like a chimney and learned the ins and outs (so to speak) of the sordid intertwined sexual history of my compatriots. And at first I was so miserable to be here that I went along with all of it. Just getting drunk is so much easier than really dealing with your issues. But before I knew it, I was a chubby, broke insomniac who felt gross all the time. Enough is enough. Starting in October, I took it upon myself to steer my free time more in the direction of pumpkin carving and cookie decorating parties, game nights, thrift store expeditions, Netflix, books, The Economist, the YMCA, and some sweet Pac NW roadtrips.

Not to say we don't still hit up the bars every week. But it's not three days a week anymore. And we try to class it up: from pitchers of Bud to a pint of Blue Moon. I'm sleeping better, working out (hey, twice a week is better than nothing, right?), and studying for the GRE. It just took me some adjustment time.

But last weekend we had the newest "crop" of Vistas come in to town (yes, we actually call them that). One woman's story was just too cinematic to pass up retelling. Roxy* moved to Roseburg from Vegas after separating from her husband of many years. They had two college-ish-aged children living on the west coast. The husband had left her with a house full of furniture, two big dogs, and not a lot of options open in life. True to form for so many people who don't know what to do with their lot in life, Roxy joined AmeriCorps. She took a job here in Roseburg and moved with a massive 30' U-Haul, her dogs, her house-full of furniture and nowhere to move it to. When she got here with no apartment, no friends, no roommates, no income, the stress was apparent. "What was I thinking?" she kept repeating as we helped her empty her U-Haul into a storage unit.

Then she left for L.A. for Pre-Service Orientation. Word came back a couple of days later: Roxy decided not to go through with her Vista service. What?! She quit at PSO?! That's kooky. Yeah, my friend told me, apparently her estranged husband went down there to get her and now they're getting back together.

Whoa. So they separated, she takes a job out of state, moves her life, gets within minutes of committing a year of her life to this low-wage service we all do, then her hubby comes back in to the picture and sweeps her off her feet? I can just picture it: they're in a fancy hotel in L.A. Roxy laments her lot in life. Thinking about how things used to be and how her kids need a stable family life. Then, across the hotel lobby, surrounded by rushing businessmen and touristy families, she meets her husband's eyes and they have a profound, unspoken understanding that their old flame is still burning and they still love one another. He drove to L.A. from Vegas to get back what he was so sorry he lost. They have one of those passionate movie kisses and then drive back home across the scenic desert in a convertible. Roll credits.

So yeah. Who knew? Instead of being boring, AmeriCorps actually apparently attracts extra drama to the lives of those involved, even tangentially. Do we bring it on ourselves?

*Not her real name.

Dropping the ball.

2008-12-09T14:18:00.002-05:00

Normally, I'm a nut for all things Christmas. But so far this year I've been dropping the ball. I blame the weather. When I think of the holiday season, I think of crisp air and frost on the lawns, fires in the fire place, decorations around the house, frenzied shopping... whether in Chicago or Chattanooga. But now I'm in Oregon; where it's 55 every day, I can't afford a tree and there's nowhere to shop even if I had the money. There's no hats and scarves and woolen mittens. A poor selection of seasonal beers. The carols piped in through the P.A. systems are hard to hear in the cavernous Wal-Mart. I have no presents to wrap. What's a girl to do?

I tried busying my mind (up to now devoid of interesting stimuli since moving to Roseburg) with things like a Spanish language-learning CD-ROM and a gym membership. But I've been to the gym once since I joined last week. And last night Rosetta Stone informed me that I'd reached the end of my Spanish software program. I thought I could study for the GRE, but that's a slow, uphill process. I thought I could travel around the Northwest more, but that hasn't happened yet (and my car's been telling me it's time for service for the last 7,000 miles). I kinda figured maybe I'd move out here and also take up an instrument. Nope. Not yet. Dropping the ball.

I keep telling myself that once the New Year rolls around things will start falling in to place. Starting January 1, I'll have to cram a job search, another move across the country, a class at the community college, going to the gym, more travel, the GRE and grad school research in to a six month span. No sweat, right? Hopefully I'll actually start getting my ass in gear, versus just using the holidays as an excuse for putting off my productivity (an especially sorry excuse considering I've admitted being less Christmasey than normal). But hey: I haven't yet dropped the ball on the blog. I don't post as often as I'd like (it is hard to come up with topics when you sit on your ass in a basement office all day), but this blog hasn't bit the dust like so many that came before it. Sure, I'm being kind of lazy; but my goals aren't doomed to the oblivion of neglect.

Lost In Thanks

2008-11-27T13:19:00.000-05:00

The other night I re-watched Lost In Translation. A trite story of poor-little-rich kids suffocating on their super-hippness? Sure. But I love it anyway. Nonetheless, I found myself being pretty depressed after watching it. Having seen the movie when it came out (when I was in college) it was like a vindication of my lostness. It was a luxuriant expose of twenty-something over-educated confusion and fear. All of my wallowing suddenly seemed so justified. I didn't know what I wanted from life. I didn't know what I was doing where I was at; if I wanted to be somewhere else; how I would get there; what would come next; etc. But Lost In Translation came along and shrugged its shoulders as if to say, "so what?" It'll all work out. Have a little faith. Just relax and let it happen. Chin up. Keep your eyes open. The movie was a little bit of a pat on the back. Maybe I don't have to know what I want to do by age 20.

But watching it now, at age 24, I see it through a different lens. I guess Scarlett Johansson's character in that movie is supposed to be about 23 or so. And she's married and rich and popular and beautiful. Now that I've passed her character in age, is it really okay to be so lost? This feeling is reinforced by non-fiction also. I feel like a lot of my peers are leaving me in the dust; with their marriages, grad schools, law schools, med schools, hedge fund jobs, home ownership, world travel. That stability and self-confidence seems almost glamorous to me. It seems so appealing to just be able to identify what you want. Nonetheless-- although the path I've followed has led me to somewhere where I'm not currently terribly happy and I don't know what comes next-- I found myself at a bar last night telling Lexi that, looking back on it, I don't really know what (if anything) I would have done differently. I realized that I don't actually regret a lot of things. Which surprises me. I was bitter about a lot of things, but the bitterness has faded. I honestly didn't think that would happen. I thought I'd stay bitter. But with the passage of time I guess I realize that what I thought were some of my problems actually aren't problems.

But back to the movie. At what age does it stop being okay to be lost? 20? 25? 30? 70? Never? Even if you want to say that most people are always lost and never really very sure, what am I supposed to do about things like money and housing? Sooner or later I have to pick. Or else I'm just shooting myself in the foot. If you don't make a commitment, buy a ticket, get on the train, then you'll never really go anywhere. Is the feeling of lostness solely an effect amongst the well-educated, well-to-do class? I've had nothing but elbow room all my life to figure things out, and so far nothing. Were my horizons too broad? My head in the clouds? Is that really something to complain about? Shouldn't I have been able to do more with all that I was given?

Then I stop and really consider. Consider today: Thanksgiving Day. And consider my job: working with homeless kids, some of whom couch surf, but others who simply crash in cars or on the street. And consider that my friend Sanju has friends and family being held hostage and attacked by terrorists in the ongoing siege on Bombay. At the end of the day, I go to bed safe and warm, clean and well-fed in my apartment. If I get sick, I can go to a doctor. If I get cold, I can buy a coat. If I'm hungry, I can make a sandwich. Even if I'm a bit of an underachiever (relatively), and I never really pick a place to go with my life, I'll still always have everything I need. I can be pretty sure of that (knock on wood). So what if I can't figure it out, figure life out, figure myself out? All of my immediate needs are met. Isn't that enough? Yes, it certainly is.

A Pint of Jack and Coke

2008-11-17T15:45:00.002-05:00

Three drinks on a Friday night out with friends might sound like something that should be perfectly doable for a twenty-something who made it all the way through college. But not necessarily at Willie D's in Roseburg, Oregon. Willie D's is one of two bars downtown where you can buy hard liquor. Everywhere else is beer-only (and by "beer" they mean Bud or Pabst). I gave up beer for the month of November (except for a couple of pints on Election Night) in hopes of losing some weight and saving some money. The other bar where you can get hard cocktails-- The Mark V-- is non-smoking; which won't cut it with my friends. So we headed to Willie D's as the only possible drinking option.

Willie D's is well-known (notorious?) for having quite strong drinks. But Friday night took things to absurd levels. After two gin & tonics, I wanted to switch it up. So I ordered a Jack and Coke. The bartender returned to our table with a cocktail napkin and a pint class full of whiskey and ice, with a little Coke for color. "We ran out of small glasses, so I had to give you a big one." My eyes got big and my jaw dropped. Am I expected to drink a pint of whiskey? Why did you fill the pint glass to the top? You could have just filled it half-way, you know. But alas, even a half-pint of whiskey at that point in the night would have been too much.

My compatriots tried to help me out. Someone poured about a third of it into his own glass of J & C, and another guy tried to dilute it with another Coke he bought. But nothin' doin'. The eviscerating effects of several shots' worth of cheap alcohol could be felt long into the next day. I stayed in bed till noon Saturday with a tummy ache and a worried look on my face. A pint of Jack and Coke? Why?

Con't.

2008-11-08T17:11:00.002-05:00

While we're at it, here's perhaps the weirdest thing about Oregon: it's so totally white. The populous around here certainly has their own little something about them. All the men have mustaches and walk around without their shirts on. People wink a lot. All the kids dress like affected SoCal skater punks. Everybody drinks from a myopic spectrum of low cost, shitty beer: ranging from Busch to Bud, with a lot of Pabst thrown in. And they're all completely white. A coworker told me last week that "it's a lot better than it used to be"; meaning that it's less white now than it was a few decades ago. But still, going from being 100% white to being 99% white is hardly progressive.

My family is from Detroit. I grew up in the South, and then moved to the South Side of Chicago. It's disorienting to be surrounded by nothing but white people. Granted: I grew up in a lily white suburb and went to a lily white prep school. I admit it! But even if there wasn't exactly social equality (to put it mildly), there was still visible diversity. Detroit is majority African-American, with a huge Muslim-American population in some of the suburbs (like Dearborne). The South has a large black and Latino population. The U of C was something like 30% Asian (albeit only about 4% black). And the neighborhood had a mishmash of African-American, Asian, Greek, Latino, gay, Jewish, Muslim, Catholic, trans, aryan and Socialist and so forth.

In addition to being deprived of awesome ethnic food and varying perspectives on life and human experience, being in an all-white place is boring and sad. My roommate's coworker told me a story that one of her students got "run down" by a gang of rednecks in a pick-up truck, right in downtown Roseburg, who threatened to kill him and chased him off calling him a "n-----".... Even though he was Latino.

Washington and California have bigger cities and more thriving economies. Seattle and San Francisco have huge Asian populations, as well as other minorities. And of course L.A. is pulsating with diversity of all sorts. Oregon is just this huge gap on the West Coast. And there's kind of an unusual origin to it. Oregon became a state in the 1850s, when the rights status of African-Americans was still a hot topic. The drafters of the state constitution decided to circumvent controversy by simply not allowing people of African descent into the state. Problem was, this law was not officially repealed until the 1920s. And, according to the internet, further language considered racist still had to be removed from the constitution even in the 21st century! So, beginning in the 1800s, non-whites weren't exactly incentivized to move here.

I couldn't say to what extent these old laws are still affecting the issue of cultural diversity (or lack of it) in the state. Truth be told, there are plenty of "white" states, and plenty of areas where racism is rampant or even still institutional. But racial dynamics here in Oregon are certainly different than anywhere else I've experienced them. Weird.

Weird Things About Oregon

2008-11-05T12:18:00.002-05:00

"Did we just elect a negro to the White House?" my brother joked when I stepped outside of the bar to take his phone call last night. Shivering the the 40 degree drizzle, I remarked that things now had a much better chance of being okay in the near future than they could have otherwise. Obama is no magic bullet for the nation's ills, and no man ever could be; but I'll try to understand, he's a magic man. That's all I'll say on the matter. Although Oregon has the ability to turn out in force for Obama, there are plenty of weird things about the state that I've been meaning to post about. Here they are, starting with the most relevant:

1) All voting is done by mail-in ballot. All registered voters are mailed their ballots weeks before the election and they can either mail them back or drop them off at a polling place the day of. No one waits in line to vote on Election Day. It leads to less waiting among the electorate, but I think you lose some of that boozy civic brotherhood feeling.

2) There is no sales tax. For decades, Oregon's economy was sailing on lumber money. The state economy truly had no need of sales taxes. But now, thanks to the "damned environmentalists", lumber is on the decline; and Oregon's economy has hit the doldrums. I remember my first week here, and my roommate and I went to a restaurant for lunch. We got our bill and puzzled over how much it actually was... since the tax had apparently been left off. I cornered our waitress, "About our bill.... So with tax, how much is it?" "There's no sales tax in Oregon," she responded. I turned back to look at Kat and our jaws had simultaneously dropped. What a freeing feeling! But now I'm wishing there was some sales tax revenue around here. They're closing libraries and cutting back on social programs everywhere.

3) You can still smoke in bars. Granted, this will change state-wide in January, 2009. But still, I was shocked, SHOCKED to walk in to a smoky bar here in Oregon. I would have figured that hippie-centric Oregon would be one of the first states to go clean air. The state is known for bike riding and organic food consumption, right? Turns out that's only in the Portland, Salem, Eugene metropolitan areas. The rest of the state is as interminably redneck as the backest backwaters of Appalachia. Smoking in bars? How archaic!

4) While we're on the topic of how things used to be and are no longer, you can't pump your own gas in Oregon. There are even big signs at the gas stations: "NO SELF-SERVICE IN OREGON!" My boss told me that stations get huge fines if any customer is caught pumping his own gas. This is actually way more inconvenient than it sounds. When you have to wait for a gas station attendant to come up and serve you, you end up spending twice as much time filling up your tank as you would have if you were doing it yourself. You have to just sit there and wait for someone to come serve you. Also, there are virtually no 24-hour gas stations. Since they don't have the staffing I guess. How freaking lame and inconvenient is that?

5) Everyone diligently drives the speed limit. It's one of the weirdest things I've ever seen.

6) You cannot buy cinnamon gum. I've tried the grocery store, the drug store, the convenience store... No one carries the only kind of gum I chew. I can't think of why this should be. But you just can't find it anywhere. Weird, huh?

Traffic Law Breakfast

2008-11-04T18:00:00.003-05:00

Last Friday, I went in to work late and on the way stopped to get breakfast at Karen's Coffee Cup--a local podunk diner here in this local podunk town. It's always filled with rednecks with fat beer bellies and little old blue-haired ladies. It's quite a shift from the old diner I always went to in Chicago: Salonica's. At Salonica's you could get a spinach and feta cheese omelet with toast, hashbrowns and coffee for $7.10. The place was owned by Greeks but staffed by Mexicans, but they were trying to be an American diner. So you could get things like tacos, but also spanikopita, avgolemono and milkshakes. They knew me there and never had to bring me the menu. Also, because of its proximity to the U of C, you could always see people in there reading Thomas Mann, or declining Latin verbs, or mapping the verticies of a quasar.

Karen's can make a good "Spanish surprise" breakfast (yes, that really is what it's called)-- eggs, hashbrowns, cheese and salsa all piled together and served with toast and coffee. They also offer an english muffin as a toast choice; a rare treat indeed. So anyway, Friday morning I'm kicking it in there, alone, reading my book, eating my Spanish surprise. Then I start casually eavesdropping. The booth in front of me has an old man talking to two older people on the other side of the booth. And he's just going on and on, incessantly, about traffic laws. This guy had categorical knowledge: how long before a turn you should put on your blinker, what the braking distance is for a loaded versus unloaded bulldozer in the rain, the legal basis for foggy visibility in one's peripheral vision. And he just kept going and going. It seemed like he barely stopped to take a breath. And so I'm wondering while I'm listening to this: what reason could this guy possibly have to relate this information to this old couple? Was the guy studying to become a traffic cop? At his advanced age? Was he going to argue his way out of a traffic ticket in court? Did they stumble on an autistic savant who can't shut up about traffic laws? Why?

After an hour, I got up to pay and leave. And this guy was still going. I feel like he probably went on for hours. Maybe if I had actually been paying attention I could have learned something. But it begs a real question: when you overhear people talking about weird topics in a diner or on the subway or wherever, why are they talking about those things? If it's money problems or men or dieting or books or music or life philosophy it makes a lot of sense that people would be having casual conversations about that. But traffic laws? Really? And why would you have that conversation over breakfast at a diner?

The Last Great Irish-Catholic Entertainer

2008-10-21T12:19:00.002-04:00

I don't own a TV right now. But you'd better believe that doesn't stop me from trying to catch an episode of Conan whenever I can. I've been a big fan of the Late Night with Conan O'Brien show for almost as long as I've been a Mystery Science Theater 3000 fan (see previous post). By now it should be evident that I was a pretty weird kid growing up, and a 14 year old's insomnia coupled with a middle American's love of TV naturally led me to discover Mr. O'Brien's show. He was charming, funny, intelligent; and also so immensely gangly and awkward that he immediately gave off an air of being an oft-bullied underdog who maintained a fresh optimism through a few pillars of strength in his life. Frequently (and heart-warmingly), one of these that he would mention was his background and heritage. Having grown up in the Boston area, one of several children in a two parent household, Conan immediately gave himself away as an almost stereotypical Irish-Catholic American. His red hair and freckles innately Irish. His overflowing self-effacement innately Catholic.

In addition to Conan's other attributes, this was always part of the appeal for me. And last night I was watching some of last week's episodes online, and thinking about how he's moving to L.A. to take over for Leno, and how that'll probably make him stop being funny, and how that'll make me really sad, and then it hit me.... Conan is really probably among the last of the archetypal Irish-Catholic American entertainers. Think about it: Irish immigrants and Irish-Americans have filled the entertainment media (either themselves or mockeries of them) since the turn of the twentieth century. The Irish cop, the Catholic priest, the altar boys, the garment workers, the big families, the freckled ragamuffin Irish boy photographed in the tenement slums of industrial New York. The whiskey-drinking, potato-eating, Rosary-wearing Irishman became a part of the popular imagination with the likes of the Italian-American gangster, the Native American warrior and the Mexican-American cowboy. The Irish immigrant stereotype evolved from being the victim of classic American racism to being a beloved subset of American whiteness.

Irish-Americans-- along with other nationalities-- filled the working-class neighborhoods of industrializing cities like Boston, New York, Chicago, Detroit and others; fueling development and the American dream with their top o' the mornings and Guinness and church-going until the families eventually gentrified, moved to the sprawling suburbs and intermarried with other ever-diluting ethnicities. By now, mine is probably the last generation that will remember entertainment filled with the "hyphenated Americans" that immigrated a century ago. The Irish-American has gone the way of the Polish-American, the Italian-American and the Scandinavian-American; simply because people don't frequently immigrate from Europe to America very much anymore. The late century wave of newcomers is populated by Asian-Americans and Latino-Americans, and that is great in its own way. But as the great- (and great-great-great-) granddaughter of European-American immigrants, it's a little heart-wrenching to close the book on what was a decidedly twentieth century movement of peoples and turn to the new age of technology, crime, drugs, human trafficking and a disturbingly palpable racism that still seethes. European-American stereotypes about big, nuclear, working-class families are being eclipsed in the popular mind by Asian-American math geniuses and Latino-American migrant workers.

Yes, this is an over-simplification. Get off my back. My point being-- beyond the glowy nostalgia of a time I never lived in and only read books about (the early twentieth century)-- the whole concept of minority-American entertainers shifts with the immigration patterns. Stories about the Boston Irish give way to stories about the Los Angeles Latinos. Time marches on, and the American imagination goes with it. It's not right or wrong, it just is. But one can still look back through a fond, rose-tinted lense at the old stories of the American experience. The only minority-American subsets that seem to preserve their entertainment strength are Jewish-American and African-American, both of which have also thankfully evolved from bitterly racist to more accurately representational.

So, is Conan O'Brien a last hurrah of Irish-Catholic American entertainers? When he leaves the European immigrant enclave of New England for hot and sunny Southern California, is he leaving behind those family and heritage pillars of his life that made him so lovable? Does the comedy translate?

The Soothing Powers of MST

2008-10-13T16:26:00.002-04:00

If you're as big an MST3K fan as I am (which is hard to do, but I know you're out there) and you head over here on Saturday and/or Sunday you can read the weekend discussion threads of the most die-hard fans of one of the greatest shows in the history of entertainment. Not only is Mystery Science Theater 3000 one of the greatest, best-lauded shows ever; it also has one of the biggest and most devout cult followings even amongst other really cultish TV shows.* And I've been a certifiable addict since I was 13. In a world plagued by divorce, cyclical financial markets, lay-offs, month-to-month apartment leases, flash-in-the-pan filmmakers and bands, forest fires and globalization, everything can seem ephemeral all at once. What else in my life has lasted as long as my fandom for MST3K? My friendship with Emily, much longer. My vegetarianism, almost as long. My distaste for chardonnay. My love of Hitchcock? The Clash? F. Scott Fitzgerald? Close, but not quite.

Whereas plenty of classic TV shows can grow faded and old-fashioned with time, Mystery Science Theater only seems to get sweeter. Does that speak to the universality of its jokes and observations? Or am I getting older and nostalgic? MST3K was in production from 1989 to 1999. The only show I've followed longer is The Simpsons; but honestly I kind of cycle in and out with my favorite TV family (don't get me wrong, I'm addicted to The Simpsons too). But The Simpsons are both topical and in their own universe. MST exists kind of out-of-time. Chronologically, it encapsulates the 90's; a good decade for me. But the cast of characters (to the extent that they had a tenuous plot arc from one season to the next) were isolated on a space ship; and their cultural knowledge was an irreverent mix of 60's, 70's and 80's pop, Great Books-style academia, contemporaneous 1990's, timeless observational skills and pure fantasy. It was so all over the place that it could never really be classified. Except, of course, for being classifiably awesome.

A simple concept, an underdog backstory, a sweet Midwestern heart, a sharp wit, a wicked smart staff, a low budget, a sense of camaraderie-- it all came together fueled by luck and hard work for the people behind Mystery Science Theater. And that spirit really comes through in the final product, in my opinion. The characters all seem affable and kind. The show is smart and sweet. Goofy and poignant. Silly and heart-warming. Most of all, it's really clever and damn funny.

I think that all of these things come together in the experience of the show, for me and for other die-hards. Its place in time reminds me of being 16 and watching my bootlegged tapes late at night in my parents' house while I ate Tang right out of the container like it was Pixie Sticks (yeah, I went through a phase where I did this). Massive bootlegging and future torrenting made MST marathons a guarantee when my brother and I got together for the holidays, drinking beer and eating gingerbread cookies. Cult fandom insured that I could find friends with a quote and a wink and a nudge. Intelligent references in the show opened my adolescent mind to a world full of books, music and cinema. Plus the show is just so homey. The characters are just so friendly and funny and smart. So not only is it objectively a great show, it also stimulates torrential feel-good memories for me when I watch it.

All of that said-- and believe me, I could continue fawning praise forever for this show-- the crew manning the weekend discussion threads over at MST3Kinfo came up with a unifying topic a few weeks ago: best episodes to fall asleep to. It may sound like a slap in the face: these are the eps. too boring to stay awake through. And for some people that's what it was a list of. But plenty of people posting said that the show could almost always put them to sleep. That they might put an episode on just to listen to as they faded off to sleep. They really nailed it. For fans, the show is just so comforting and nice. It's like anger management, insomnia cure, and stress relief all in one. Mystery Science Theater isn't a panacea; if only because most people don't "get it" and can't get in to the show in the same way. But for those who choose to really let themselves go and indulge in their cult TV habit, it was so nice to read those comments and to know that everyone else feels the same way you do. Like a knowing smile exchanged among friends....

*Citation needed.

The Nice Guy

2008-10-05T22:54:00.002-04:00

Something happened to me a couple of weeks ago that has stuck in my mind since then. A big group of friends and acquaintances was out crawling around a couple of bars. Pitchers were bought, pool was played, jukebox wars commenced. And this is the thing that got me: one of our guy friends wouldn't let me pour my own beer. Albeit, everyone was pretty tipsy. Still, back in my "old life"-- as AmeriCorps volunteers in Roseburg call their times before service-- I feel like most of my friends would have found it unusual if someone didn't pour a beer for me. I'm tempted to call it a matter of gentlemanliness. But I think it's a bit more than that.

Maybe the overlap of social civility and the act of buying alcohol makes no sense at all to someone from another country. But I feel like, at least as far as I always thought growing up and reading books and whatnot, there are a lot of "should's" and "supposed to's" attached to men and women and friends buying drinks at a bar. And even if you don't want to be exclusive with words like "should" and "supposed to", you could at least agree to phrases like "it'd be nice if..." or "the friendly thing to do is...." Friends buy each other drinks. Men buy women drinks. People buy coworkers drinks. Revelers buy the birthday boy a drink. It's its own special economy. Or mating ritual or cultural capital or something. And the difference between how people did it in my old life and how people do it out here is one of the most striking things for me.

I will grant two things: 1) I am from the South, and maybe I have a backward, archaic sense of what the value of politeness is and how friendly people behave towards one another, and 2) all of my friends out here are just as dirt poor as I am, and that changes things. But in my old life, people bought me drinks all the time; and I bought drinks for other people. There was just kind of an understanding amongst friends that we could do each other favors and it would all balance out in the end. It fit in to that special economy-- I give you a ride all over town doing errands, you buy me a drink; it's your birthday, I buy you a drink; you're hosting a movie night at your place, I bring a bottle of wine; you've got a six pack in the fridge and I come over to visit, you offer me a beer. But out West you have to ask for everything! Where's the common courtesy?

Am I a spoiled, demanding bitch? Maybe a little, but that's not quite it. I don't really expect people to do things for me. I don't really want something for nothing. I'm perfectly capable of taking care of myself; buying all my own booze and food and driving my own ass around town and opening doors for myself. And I don't want to be disrespected by anyone thinking I can't. That's not what I'm driving at. Is it anti-feminist to desire a little gentlemanly behavior? I hope not. I don't want to be taken care of. I just want to live in a place where it's very self-evident that the people want to take care of each other.

It's the little gestures. The civility. The politeness. The mutual respect. This is one of the things I noticed when I moved from the South to the Midwest six years ago: in the South, men hold doors open for you; in the North, a man will walk through a door first, but hold it open after himself for you. When I first began driving westward this summer, I stopped at a rest stop and as I was walking inside a man was rushing to get to the door. Apparently clouded by my sense of entitlement, I had a moment where I thought, "Oh, he's rushing so he can open the door for me. How sweet." But no. He was simply rushing to get inside before me! Then he let the door slam in my face!

Hey jackass! There's another person here!!!

When I first got to Roseburg, I would offer people who stopped by my office cups of coffee. I would hold doors for friends. I would buy people drinks. I would offer to drive when we all went out. I'll lend you five bucks. I'll lend you a DVD. I'll dog-sit. I'll help you carry your grocery bags. Some of my friends commented on it: "I love how you're so polite!" This is normal! Everyone should be treating each other like this!

But you can't expect everyone everywhere to act like you, or to act like you want them to. Out West I get the sense that no one will offer; you have to explicitly ask. Whereas I wouldn't think twice about simply throwing down my credit card when the bill comes (hey, they'll get it next time, right?), my friends out here (and they are friends, I want to make sure the fact that I like them a lot comes through) will get a bill and painstakingly itemize it and figure out to a margin of 50 cents what everyone rightfully owes. It's just a different culture.

But there it was two weeks ago, like a porchlight of civility in the dark of get-it-your-own-damn-self-ism, this guy took the pitcher out of my hand and said, "Where I come from, girls don't pour their own drinks," and promptly filled my pint glass. He was referring to Japan, where he lived for the last three years. Finally! Even if it takes years of cultural isolation to learn some basic manners by osmosis, it's so much better than nothing! I'm gonna have to try to hang out with this guy more often.

In the News

2008-10-01T22:06:00.002-04:00

Lots of important news stories have been crowding the headlines recently here in America. A presidential election, devastating hurricanes, an economic crisis... but, as I was sitting down planning on catching up on The Daily Show online before heading over to Megan's for Project Runway, I instead decided to blog about one particular news story that has captured my (and I believe the world's) imagination. These Somali pirates who hijacked a Ukrainian cargo ship. Some background (as far as I understand it): the Indian Ocean off the coast of Somalia is considered extremely dangerous and is patrolled by pirates who ransom ships sailing the trade routes near the country with no central government and a harsh quality of life. That's exactly what this band of pirates did to this Ukrainian ship... except this ship just so happened to be chock full of weapons.

The story is truly cinematic. After the hijacking, world powers apparently decided enough is enough and a hot pursuit was begun by both American and Russian naval ships. Thing is, the pirates had no idea the ship has weapons on it. The pirates traditionally capture ships, moor them somewhere and demand ransoms for the return of the boat and crew. And people around the world apparently pay up, which of course only perpetuates the problem. In Somalia, according to what I read, the pirates are actually considered a loosely recognized political faction.

In fact, the pirates couldn't even use the weaponry aboard the boat if they wanted to. It was stuff like tanks that requires special cranes to offload it, and was supposedly bound for Kenya in a totally legit arms deal. These unsuspecting pirates just so happened upon a bonanza of weapons. Even after discovering what was on the boat, they still only wanted cash money as a ransom.

Above-mentioned world powers cried fowl and raised questions about what the pirates' real motives were in capturing the ship; as well as what the real destination of those Ukrainian arms was. Did the pirates unwittingly reveal an illegal arms deal between Ukraine and some politically chaotic African country serving as a stronghold for Islamic extremist terrorists? Complicating matters--because of the toxic chemicals in the some of the weaponry on board the boat, the navies involved can't simply sink it and fuck the pirates over. And tugging at the heart-strings of newspaper readers everywhere is (one interpretation of) the history of piracy in Somalia. Apparently after the government collapsed, all regulation of the seafood-rich waters off the coast stopped and they became plundered by illegal fishermen. Originally, as in ten or fifteen years ago, pirate bands formed to scare off profiteering seafood business. They were like patriots! Bound by a code of decency in protecting their waters! And now they're just in it for the money.

I can just see it: men of honor voluntarily policing the seas, and only taking from the evil fisheries and luxury yachts what they need to feed their families and countrymen! Albeit, that's probably bullshit. But what a romantic notion! The Somali pirates are just like Robin Hood. I also really appreciate the happenstance of it all. The pirates just so happen to see that ship. It just so happens to be full of weapons. There just so happen to be U.S. and Russian battleships in the area. The weapons just so happen to be of nondescript destinations. I can just picture their faces when they realized what was on board their booty-ship: oh shit, what did we get ourselves in to?!

Perfectly unsuspecting merry men pirate their way on to a Ukrainian tanker on the high seas and accidentally blow open an illegal international arms deal? Such gripping human drama! Such suspenseful action-adventure! When they make the movie, I'll buy a ticket.

Why Do I All of a Sudden Like Godard?

2008-09-28T17:26:00.003-04:00

I could have sworn I hated Godard. But over Xmas I saw Breathless at my bro's urging and loved it. And last week I saw Band of Outsiders and loved, loved it. Now I'm stuck here thinking: where did this idea that I didn't like Godard come from in the first place? I feel like it originates, like so many misconceptions, in high school. Knowing me, I probably started hating Godard after a cute boy or the TV told me I should. Blindly accepting suggestions from either of those sources is never a good idea.

But it's not like it was ever something against the French New Wave (or Nouvelle Vague, if you want to get uppity about it). I always insisted--also since high school-- that I hated Godard but liked Francois Truffaut. Although this was mostly based on the sole Truffaut film I had seen (and still the sole one I have seen): The 400 Blows. But, you know, I saw that movie when I was, like, 15. And I confess I don't remember much about it; except the part where the boy accidentally starts a fire in his Balzac shrine, and the end on the beach, and the fact that I loved it. (No. I have not seen Jules and Jim. But it's in my Netflix queue). Guess it's time for a re-viewing.

I guess my attitude had everything to do with pretentiousness and nothing to do with reality. I guess I probably got a kick out of haughtily insisting that, yes, I was familiar with Godard, but I was unimpressed; that I preferred Truffaut. I can just see my eyebrows arching as I told people this. Thinking back on it, I don't think I had seen a Godard film until college-- when I saw one of his new ones in the second run campus theater. A cursory look at IMDB suggests it was In Praise of Love; which I remember getting really tripped out by in a really angry way. And that was my freshman year, before I could head out of the theater and go to the pub in the basement.

My brother, fellow movie hound, kept insisting to me for years that I would like Godard. And I kept not wanting to give him another chance. I remember being reawakened to the French New Wave when I still lived in Chicago and went to see a remastered print of Elevator to the Gallows at the Music Box (the best theater ever). I was totally captivated by that jazzy soundtrack and gripping plot. And eventually I was convinced to sit down with the copy of Breathless that Andrew had brought to our parents' house from the Boston Public Library.... This truly is a transcontinental love story.
What else have I been missing out on? Just because I had one bad experience and wrote off whole chunks of cultural awesomeness? Maybe I actually like pickles and I just never knew it. Maybe I actually like Stephen King novels. Maybe I actually like that guy who tried to kiss me at that party last month. Maybe I actually like tequila. But then again, how many chances does something really deserve? Honestly, pickles just taste gross.

But maybe, just maybe, if you think you hate something that a bunch of people you respect seem to agree on liking, then you should give it another shot. If I were feeling more articulate, I'd go on to say that I think anyone who likes classic Westerns or samurai movies should logically enjoy French New Wave as well. But that's a post for another time. And anyway, who wants to behave logically all the time?

damn you emma!!!

2008-09-28T16:40:00.002-04:00

I don't understand much about how internet politics and propriety work. The obtuse and idiosyncratic etiquette that evolves out of different internet communities is kind of like doing basic everyday things in a foreign country for me. Like when I went in to a Norwegian grocery store wanting to buy orange juice; and they had a container with a picture of an orange on it, but that said "Apple". What the hell? Is it orange juice or apple juice? Or when I tried to buy tampons at a Krakovian pharmacy. That story is much too long to tell here, but take my word that it ended up being very confusing. That said, I don't understand much about this business, but this one tagged me to write six non-descript things about myself here and link it to six other bloggers. Too bad I don't know six other people who blog. But I do know a wealth of uninteresting information about myself!

1) I live in Oregon and, at a recent conference for work, when I introduced myself as "Maureen", lots of people from Eugene thought my name was "Morning". They just assumed that my parents were your standard breed of Oregon hippies and had named me after a time of day. They all thought it would have been more awesome if my name actually was "Morning". No argument here.

2) Last night I went to the Indian casino south of town with some friends to see a "superstars of country music" variety show. The show sucked, but it was interupted in the middle by the guy at the table next to us-- who was taking the time to propose to his girlfriend with the sweetest speech possibly that any lover has ever given to another. We all teared up. Then Megan lost $15 on the Monopoly slot machines.

3) After that very same show, the venue turned in to an impromptu dance club. People were shaking their groove thangs and at least one young couple was grinding pretty hard. Then an old woman with a cane made her way to the dance floor to boogie to Flo Rida's "Low". She could barely walk, but she could work that cane on the dance floor.

4) I'm currently reading Sarah Vowel's Assasination Vacation.

5) I absolutely love mozzarella sticks. In fact, I had some for lunch.

6) Emily, who tagged me for this, has been my best friend since I was 4. Man, did I get lucky!

Just so you know, the rules stipulate as such:

Terms & conditions…

link the person who tagged you: above
mention the rules on your blog: (these are them)
list 6 unspectacular things about you: (see above)
tag 6 other bloggers by linking them

Let's see. Emma is the only person I really follow on the internet (in a non-facebook-stalking way anyway). I guess Dave keeps a live journal. And my brother had one, but I don't think he's updated it in over a year. My friend Gabe has a photo blog, but he doesn't know I write here... So I guess a seventh thing you're learning about me is that I don't care much for rules.

Shouting at the Sky

2008-09-24T21:52:00.002-04:00

I'd just like to take a moment to mention that, as I drove to the grocery store this afternoon, I saw a kid standing in the middle of a field. Armed with messy hair, a black t-shirt and an acoustic guitar, this kid had apparently wandered into the middle of this field with a purpose-- which was to play his little heart out and sing at the sky as the cars whizzed by on that bend in Stewart Parkway. He apparently decided that it was more romantic to sing facing the road versus the outdoor tennis courts behind the YMCA that he would have been facing if he turned around. I went in to the Fred Meyer and, sure enough, on the drive back that same kid was in the same place. Just gettin' down, playin' and singin' and shoutin' at the sky and the clouds.

I'd also like to take the time to mention that, on the same drive, I saw a chubby kid in an over-sized football jersey riding a bike while drinking a Pepsi. I also saw a baby-faced little girl rocking a side ponytail, one-shoulder black leotard and pink legwarmers as she stretched on the benches in front of the above-mentioned YMCA. She was decked out all Sparkle Motion style.

Has it really been so long since I posted? I really do need to get my camera fixed. I could start a whole sub-blog on the weird-ass things that get put up on the beer store's sign across the street from my apartment. One of my recent favs: "School is in session. Beware of children and childers." What? Sometimes I doubt your committment to Sparkle Motion.

seen & heard

2008-09-07T12:08:00.000-04:00

Although I am trying to steer my blog posts away from mundane updates on how I spend my time, and more towards the sunny shores of observational, uninformed, narcissistic pontificating, I would just like to quickly list what I watched yesterday: Jesus Christ Superstar on my Netflix, Rejected (then Rejected again with the "commentary"), and the last half of the Mystery Science Theater 3000 version of Night of the Blood Beast. I also bought jeans and ate Thai food, but I consider that less interesting/important.

I'd like to mention that I never had a clue how awesome the commentary track on my Rejected DVD is. Simultaneous hilarity and genius. Watch it! Then hear it....

Now, for those of you keeping track, I'm headed to the beach by the river; as I figure I'm probably running out of warm and sunny Oregon Sundays.

I Wanna Facebook Marry Dr. Strangelove

2008-09-06T18:05:00.002-04:00

The other day, I ran across this jazz on the New York Times. It's all about Facebook and social networking and these sociological ideas of 'ambient intimacy' and how close can you possibly be to "friends" on the internet and how do you balance persona and privacy, etc.... What constitutes a "friendship"? What does it take to maintain it? Are you "friends" with someone you've never met? Does it actually benefit your personal relationships to have constant access to the minutia of other people's lives? Are you really communicating through tools like Twitter? How much psychological and emotional energy do these phantom relationships take up? Are you wasting your time on the internet?

I really liked the article. Personally, I think it did a good job of unbiasedly presenting what people use Facebook for, how they feel about it, how it fits in with the rest of their "real" life. And (I confess) I like Facebook. I feel, especially reading articles like this one, that maybe I'm not using it the way others are. Maybe I'm an outlier of my generation. Maybe I'm just relatively unpopular or uninteresting. Maybe I'm just not doing it right. But I find it fun and (shocker) pretty useful, actually. So I appreciate a magazine article that doesn't simply cluck its tongue at everyone age 13-35 in the developed world who keeps a Facebook tab open on their browsers. Facebook isn't crack. And it doesn't signify the decline of Western Civilization.

'Though I do agree that plenty of idiotic and scary shit goes down on Facebook. I don't profess to know what people are thinking when they do those things that make you scratch your head or gasp in disgust.

I use Facebook because everybody else does. I think it's handy to have all of my friends' email addresses and birthdays listed in one place (and not one physical place, because if I wrote them all down in a book I would lose the book; having it in digital form is better). I think it's fun to be able to see their vacation pictures and to know what new music they're getting in to. I like that I have a modicum of control over who can find me and what they can see. Plus, narcissticly, I loved opening an account and watching that "friends" number grow. It felt good to feel loved and to know that people wanted it aired publicly that I was their friend.

As far as this article goes, as a history person, I feel it leaves out at least one factor in analyzing Facebook. Not that any one article can cover everything. Still, Facebook (which is the only one I'll mention since it's kind of the understood pinnacle of social networking sites) doesn't just constantly cycle in newness. It also has a history-- however "young" it may be. My college was one of the first schools on Facebook. One of the original six or so, I think. And it was the hot new thing for a couple of months. It was all anyone talked about and everyone was possessed by it. "Why is it so cool?" I would ask. And people would say, "You can see how many people you know!" Well, I'm not the most popular social butterfly, nor am I very trendy; so I wasn't interested at first. But I soon relented and realized that people were on to something. It went from being a hip phase to being kind of important. "Important" isn't the right word. It simply became ubiquitous.

Originally, Facebook was described to me as a way for people in the same classes to get in touch with each other. You could have study groups, share books and notes, or cheat on your homework. It was supposed to facilitate meeting people in class without that difficult first conversation in the hallways. Facebook also originally debuted at only a handful of "prestigious" universities. I think it was something like Harvard, Stanford, Yale, Princeton, Georgetown and the U of C. Schools got added in one by one. I don't know what the selection process was. All of these Ivory Tower bastards (of which I was one) could run around and feel privileged about this cool new thing that their smarts and money entitled them to. But Facebook was quickly democratized and that special buzz wore off. Someone started a Facebook group called (I'm paraphrasing here) "Does anyone remember when Facebook was 'elite'?" There was an outcry when Facebook extended to high schools. Why would I want to be friends with high schoolers? Won't this just ruin high schoolers' lives? Facebook should be a special thing that you get when you start college. But that wore off too. Everyone knew that it would soon expand to whoever, wherever. Which is good: access to cool things need not be restricted. The internet isn't a meritocracy.

That's just my personal history with Facebook. An introduction to it anyway. I think my introversion and stand-offishness have shielded me from most of the horror stories some people have about the site. There have been some unflattering pictures, some instances of people "stalking" me. But no vengeful exes or cyber bitch slaps. Though I do also want to mention my depression that they started cutting back on the "fake" Facebook profiles. First of all, my total friend count went down when I lost "Mr. Darcy", "that guy", "your mom", and "Audry Hepburn". I understand that you don't want people crafting fake profiles maliciously for people they're feuding with. But the fictional ones were just wonderful. And, for some reason, they left some of the fakes and just got rid of the ones they didn't like apparently. How did they choose? Who chose? Why were some profiles worthy and others not? I don't get it. But I'm so happy I can still be friends with the namesake of my school's library: Joseph Regenstein.

One of the ones that got left, and one of my favorite and most-prized "friends", is none other than Dr. Strangelove. I really would like to be Facebook married to him, as per the title of this post. My friends Sara and Mariangela were "married" for years (until they got Facebook divorced when Sara wanted to make a mention of her real-life significant other). I love that. A cyber way of saying this is how much I love this friend. It's like we're married. I would marry this person. We'll be together forever. It's similar to drunkenly shouting out to everyone at a party, "I love this guy! I want you all to know!"

I don't know who originally created Dr. Strangelove's Facebook profile. But whoever he is, wherever he is, he doesn't matter. No offense; but some flippant little part of my brain likes to think that what he's made is now a stand-alone creation. Like that actually is Dr. Strangelove and he's acting indepedently of the guy who made his profile page. Their personalities are separate. And if I Facebook married Dr. Strangelove it would be quite a coup. Of all the people, all the friends, all the fanboys-- he picked me. Dr. Strangelove and me, we're special. We're tight. And he likes me, he really likes me.

God will punish you for having too much fun.

2008-09-03T20:18:00.002-04:00

Since Monday night, I've been pretty sick. It was bound to happen. Steve was sick last week. And between the fact that I share an office with him and that he's fucking my roommate I guess there was probably no way to avoid the germs. Kat got sick too (go figure), so now I'm worried that we might be constantly reinfecting our house and are unintentionally breeding some super-virus. Also, there have been all of these pictures I've been wanting to take. But I discovered when I bought batteries for my camera that it didn't just need new batteries. It is, in fact, broken. Well, crap. I guess all I can do is take it to the camera store and see if it can be repaired for any cheaper than it would cost to buy a new one. 'Though cameras can be bought for so cheap nowadays that I might just take it as a sign to go buy another, smaller, cuter, better one.

What did I do to deserve being blighted with sickness and broken electronics? Well, I simply had too much fun last weekend. That's what. It started out auspiciously enough since I took Friday off; plus had Monday off since it was Labor Day. Megan had Friday off too. So we decided to make a visit to Lexi down at the Douglas County museum and get a behind the scenes tour of the collection and her office. We got to run around the store-rooms of collections with all the old clothes and furniture and toys and arrowheads, among other things. The museum has an expansive collection, but it's very poorly laid out. All three of us thought so. Since we left the museum with historic local train stations on the mind we went to McMenamin's for lunch. McMenamin's is your standard kitschy brew pub, but it's set up in the local old train station.

After lunch (including beers at 11:30 am!), Megan and I went traipsing around antique and resale stores. Then we took advantage of the hot sunny weather and went to the river to sunbathe. By this point, we had antiques on the brain. So we went up to Megan's parents' house, had a few beers, enjoyed the beautiful view, and listened to Megan bemoan the fact that her folks had sold several of their classy antiques at garage sales. Steve called and it was agreed we would let our buzz die off and then 1) shower, 2) meet up with our other friends at Murphy's (a cute, little bar/restaurant with live music Friday nights). Later that night we adjourned to Megan's house for drinks and dress-up in all of her fun dresses. Saturday saw more antiques. I bought these rad glasses that are blue with a silhouette of a seagull that I wish I could take a picture and show you. But that'll have to be later. Megan, Lexi and I were kicking it in increasingly seedy resale shops when we got a call from Kat-- who was taking a break from a hungover Steve and wanted to get lunch. We did as such and then met up again later to listen to the records Lexi and Megan bought, drink mimosas and play Life. Remember Life?

Sunday I was-- in theory-- going to hang out with Lynsey, who was coming back in to town for a day or two. But that fell though because of 'family stuff'. So instead I went to Michael's and bought picture frames. With our standard phone tree, the plan eventually developed to get Chinese food and then Gabe and his girlfriend Megan (often written as 'Megan at law' to distinguish her from other Megan, since she works at the public defender's office) would meet up with us later for drinks. We went to the Idle Hour and played some pool and chatted a bit and let a homeless guy buy us beers. That might be another part of why karma is punishing me. Then it was off to Willie D's, because they have cocktails which is what Megan at law wanted.

Sunday night Steve and Kat broke up (which lasted about 36 hours), but nonetheless Monday morning we all rejoined without them for yet another brunch at Megan's house. This one was French-themed. We tried to make crepes with no other instruction than what we had seen on TV. And they turned out impressively good. Everyone parted ways to nap a bit, but then Steve decided he needed some commiserating after his "break-up". So I took the opportunity to take some laundry back over to Megan's, and people bought lots of beer and cigarettes and a pizza and we had a bonfire and put up with Steve wanting to listen to the same Cat Steven's song over and over again. Sure enough, by bedtime on Monday night I was coughing, sneezing and suffering through a scratchy throat and runny nose. Tuesday was my first day back after a four-day weekend. I was sick. It was my first day of fasting. Steve was fucking moping all day. His computer speakers were broken and we couldn't listen to Pandora. And I had to stay at work until 7:30 for a meeting with my supervisor. Today was not much better. Still sick, still fasting, and Steve and I got into another of our infamous bickering matches. So I used my flex time and left early. I came home, got in bed, and thought about what I did to deserve such an aggressively runny nose.

Best Western

2008-08-28T20:37:00.002-04:00

Monday and Tuesday of this week I was in the Salem-Portland area for work-related stuff. A brief rundown: I work with homeless teenagers and we're trying to start up a new "drop-in center" where kids can go to get referrals to services and access to basic needs (laundry, snacks, showers, phones, etc.). Our program is tied to a grant that hopes to unite statewide homeless youth programs. So we got invited to tour successful homeless youth programs-- everything from drop-in centers to transitional housing to legal aide organizations-- in and around Salem and Portland. It was really informative and helpful, plus I felt like I got to network with some really cool people who are involved in my field and seem really excited about my little project downstate. After a day and a half, my brain was fried with meeting people, learning stuff, walking places, trying to remember things, taking notes, deciphering directions, scribbling on my calender and so many other things. Still, it was good stuff.

I've gotta say-- I feel so professional when I travel for work. Like, I do something that's important enough to warrant going places and doing things. I'm so important I can't be contained to one desk in one little office! I think big. I'm out in the field. I'm down with the state office. Yeah, I met them. Oh, I'm familiar with that organization. Yeah, I gave them my card. I have business cards! What the hell? Why is this the most outwardly professional-looking job I'll probably ever have? I'm technically a "stipended volunteer". I make $4 an hour. I'm on food stamps. I spend all day at the office reading the newspaper for god sake! I am not professional. And yet: I have business cards, I go to conferences, I'm on committees and coalition boards, I get meeting minutes in my email. Yesterday I turned in an official employee reimbursement form for my gas, mileage and hotel in Salem. Because I travel for work, you know. And I even took the opportunity to be that business jerk who hangs out on the treadmill in the Best Western work-out room. Sweet.

Oh, and I swear I'll start taking more pictures around here once I eventually buy some batteries for the camera. But for now it's just sitting there useless.

Uncle Gunn

2008-08-20T21:02:00.002-04:00

Lexi, Megan and I get together to watch Project Runway on Wednesday nights. And, when they don't feel like canoodling the night away, Steve and Kat are there. Also sometimes Megan's brother Matt. Also once I think Megan's dad. Sometimes Lily, who lives there. Anyway, it's pretty awesome. Project Runway sucks you in and beckons you off to another world like fiction. There's something so alluring about it; even though it's really no different than your average glossy, over-produced, melodramatic reality TV competition. I don't even care about fashion (as is evident by the fact that I wear jeans, t-shirts, hoodies and flip-flops all the time, no matter what (when it gets cold, I might switch over to Converses and put on a coat)). Don't get me wrong: it's nice to see the pretty clothes--even though I won't ever buy or wear anything like them, and it's fun to pick sides and become over-involved in who gets kicked off for what challenge--even though their real personalities are probably subsumed in the reality TV narrative of bitches and bad guys and eccentric gay men and mousy girls who can never be daring enough. Everyone gets assigned their own little box of character traits and their own little plot arc as the crew gets parsed out and streamlined in a weekly flurry of cocktail dresses, product placements, costume designs and the whir of industrial sewing machines.

But there's one character who makes it: the keystone, the cornerstone, the linchpin, the be-all-end-all, the messiah. Mr. Tim Gunn. He's the focal point, the focus, the all-powerful magnet sitting stationary while everyone else swirls around him in a haze of confusion, indecision, competition, anxiety, fret, despair, short comings, inadequacies, and poorly-chosen fabrics. Albeit the show is really probably supposed to be about Heidi Klum, but that's bullshit. In my opinion, every show is top-heavy. All the Gunn is up front and then the back half is dragging with all the weight from Klum's self-importance, smoldering hotness and Euro-strange accent, and all the contestants' fears and doubts, then tears. But there's one man who never loses his cool, never breaks his pose, never wavers, never fails. Always impeccable, always encouraging, never defeatist, smart, kind, thoughtful, articulate, informed. In my opinion, we could all benefit from some added Gunn-ness in our lives.

I, for one, could certainly use more Gunn in my life. I said one night that I wish Tim Gunn could be my uncle. Everyone agrees. Including you. Trust me. Think about it. How would it be to have such a man in your life? Providing respectful and encouraging paternal advice with a degree of familial separation. Just a little bit removed from the stress and judgments of the immediate family, but still close enough to feel responsible and loving. I can envision it now: myself as a young child, and now as an awkward twenty-something, wide-eyed and ingratiating, seeking counsel on my look and my life plan. "Gather 'round!" he'd say and I'd dutifully sit at his knee and learn all the cosmopolitan secrets to self-awareness, self-expression, self-confidence. "Make it work!" he'd say, and I'd smile and remember when he taught me how to fasten cuff-links, how to shine shoes, how to starch a collar, how to pick out the perfect blazer. Ours could be a life full of dapper suits, fine silver on holidays, blue Tiffany's boxes, weekends on the coast and picnics in Central Park. We would have season tickets to the lyric opera, a well-loved library and an extra-fancy coffee grinder. But it goes beyond the material things. I'm projecting on to this TV character my own deepest life desires for a kind and non-judgmental hand on my shoulder. Someone who has faith in me. Unconditional love packaged in pinstripe. Someone who knows I can do it, believes I can make it. That I can do what I want to, and just wants me to learn from my mistakes and make something of myself that we can both be proud of. Yes, we could all use a little Tim Gunn in our lives.

Craziness

2008-08-16T14:02:00.002-04:00

Last night was crazy. Let me step back in time a bit and mention that my office-mate has been working on a summer project since June with two summer associate AmeriCorps VISTAs. Projects like this go on in all different service fields all over the country every summer. It's mostly a program for people like college students (as Steve's two summer associates were) who need summer jobs/distractions. So Steve, Sarah and Lynsey's summer project had to do with starting up creative programs for the residents at the homeless transitional housing shelter where our office is. The facility is specifically focused on housing for homeless teenagers and families with teenagers. There are about thirty-something residents there at any given time. So anyway, all summer long my three office-mates have been organizing writing workshops, drawing and photography workshops, library trips, and all around in general encouraging the arts and creative expression at the facility. The workshops were started with the only rule that what happened in the workshops stayed in the workshops, there would be no censorship, and that it was a totally safe place to express yourself freely. Great project, right? And their final goal of all this workshopping was to put out a 'zine of resident work. So last night was the launch party.

First of all, it was about three weeks ago that summer associates Sarah and Lynsey realized they actually had a budget of $0. So with noses to the grindstone and feet to the pavement at the eleventh hour they went about soliciting donations for 'zine materials, space and resources for the launch party, resident submissions, printing and P.R. help. They got a truck-load of paper, enough submissions and did the lay-out in one day. They sent the 'zine to the printers, found a venue for the launch party, and got food donations from local grocery stores. They sent out invites and thank you's, covered the town in posters for the event and got a story about it published in the local paper. Then, Thursday, the 'zine gets back from the printers and we had a marathon collating, folding and stapling session in our close-quartered, sweltering office. And we also all realize that the 'zine looks great and all the summer-long of hard work has been completely worth it. I say "we" instead of "they" at this point because, though it was not my project, I shared space with these guys for a month and you can't help but be affected by their infectious enthusiasm.

So Friday morning I hold off on going in to the office because I have to get together Sarah and Lynsey's flowers and cards that we got them for being great summer associates and doing a good job. Then I had to help with set-up for a work-lunch-picnic-thing that we all had to go to. That was about 10:30 to about 1:30. Then I went to the office having given my office-mates the directive "call me if you need anything". About 15 minutes later, I get recruiting to drive around with Lynsey and pick up prints of the residents' photography and buy some supplies; then meet up at the venue for the launch. We drive around and get stuff-- plus coffee-- and meet up at an annex of the Courthouse. We realized quickly that the building was unbearably hot and had no A/C... yeah, something we should have thought of before.... And it was 110 degrees yesterday.

We figure we'll deal with it, get every fan all of us have in our offices, houses, and friends' offices and houses, crack some windows and try to keep the launch party short and have plenty of water. The original plan was to have a slideshow of photography from the summer-long project. We tried to do it on Lynsey's computer (as she had all the photos saved on it), and then her computer dies. So now we have no slideshow and no air conditioning. At this point it's about 3:45 and we agree to scrap the slideshow, keep it short, get some fans, break for a bit and reconvene at about 5-ish to do set-up for the launch that starts at 7:30. So I go back to my apartment, drenched in sweat, change, eat something, try to watch some TV, send some emails, what have you. At 5:15 I get a call from Steve saying he needs to get in touch with Sarah about whether or not she can give him a ride to the venue. I offer to give him a ride, but by the time I drove there and got him and drove him to the courthouse he could have biked there. It's just that it's 110 degrees. But that's what he does and I say I was planning on being there around 6-ish to help with set-up. He says 'great' but when I realize that everyone's running late I decide to change and head over. So I pull in to the parking lot at about 5:40 and there's Steve and some other guy smoking by the door. I get out with my home fan and some supplies and go to open the door and Steve says, "It's locked". What?!

Yeah, so, even though the venue had been reserved for about three weeks they locked us out. Apparently phone calls were made because, as I'm walking around to the front of the building (in my heels and fancy silk dress at this point), a guy pulls up in his car with a few little kids with him and says something along the lines of "Do you guys have a class or something here tonight?" Uh, yeah, but it's locked. He unlocks it and also mentions to us that he had been on the river with his kids when he got the call that someone needed the building unlocked. At this point I notice that yes, he is wet up to about the chest-line on his clothes, and the kids in his car are in swimsuits. Oops. He says, what time will you be done? After clean-up and everything we say we'll be out by 10 or 10:30. He says to just call 911 and let them know to get in touch with him. What? 911? Are you sure? Are you serious? But we weren't asking questions at this point so long as we got inside and started setting up stuff. What we do ask is his name. He says his name is "Sin, as in Sinbad".

I'd like to point out again now that it was 110 degrees with no A/C. So a computer died, we got locked out and it's sweltering. Then I get the good word that Sarah is driving around to pick up our food donations (bread and cheese, you know) and the stores that promised aren't delivering. So now also our food situation is in jeopardy. I was going to offer to use my food stamps to buy some stuff, but then I realize my food stamps card is in my work purse and I now have my fancy party purse. Lynsey shows up in a flurry of energy and business and goes downstairs to change. I go down to talk to her and, sure enough, her dress breaks. But she is a prepared woman and had safety pins, et al in her oh-so-chic Louis Vuitton duffle. Steve was pacing frantically at all the problems arising in what is ostensibly solely his responsibility. So we decide to go back to the office and get fans and take the time to calm down. We get to the office and, first of all-- it had been left unlocked (bad news) and, secondly-- the fan was gone. We picked up scissors, tape, tacks and a handful of other things that Lynsey had said she needed. Ok, good, Sarah probably came by and got the fan. Ok, we're good. We call Lynsey: do you need anything else. Duct tape? Ok. Paper plates? Alright, there's a Big Lots down the block. Steve also stops and buys an energy drink.

We go in and buy two kinds of tape, plus something else that we needed I can't even remember, and also take the time to pick up several cases of water. Lynsey calls again. What else do we need? Ice? Ok. Do they have ice here? Where can we get ice? Ok, there's a Safeway up the block. I know we can get it there. So we go in, buy twenty pounds of ice and, while we're waiting to pay, there's Sarah in the next line over. What? It's about 7 at this point. T-minus 30 minutes to go time and Sarah has all the food, all the 'zines and most of the fans in her truck here at Safeway and not at the courthouse? Shit we've got to hurry. Sarah says, "Grab three more loaves of french bread. Never mind, I'll get them myself." Wait, I already bought them. Oops, now we have six loaves of bread. Whatever. Just drive. Phones are ringing. Ice is melting. Panic is ensuing.

We book it back to the courthouse, and I almost killed both of us by straight up not paying attention to the road. Inside Sarah and Lynsey's mothers, as well as some residents and a couple of Steve's friends are arrived and helping out madly. We tape things up, tack things, slice bread, turn on fans, lay out 'zines, move chairs... People are yelling. There's confusion, sweat, we're still missing so many things. It's about 7:20. Then we get word the microphone doesn't work. Great. It's decided that people can just speak up and try to project their voices over the fans for the readings that they'd planned on doing. Ok, people start showing up. My feet are bleeding, I'm covered in sweat, so is everyone else, there's still a little bit of set-up going on. But people start socializing. People start buying 'zines. They're looking at the photographs. They're eating. Oh my god, things are actually going well.

At 8 the readings and thank you's and the general explanation of what has happened all summer get under way. And some people have issues hearing the readings, but that's solved by announcing the page number that they're reading from. The actual presentation goes great. Around 8:45 or so it's all over and people break to give each other hugs, pats on the back, and they move outside since it's actually somewhat cooler out there by now. Sarah, Lynsey, their mothers, Steve and I all break to do the clean-up. We're untaping, trashing, neatly stacking, hauling, disassembling, rearranging; and this whole time our friends are trying to interject and find out what the plans are to party and celebrate for a job well done. We say, "Go to the Mark V (the swanky bar in town) and we'll meet you there when we're done".

Our cars get loaded and stuff is ready to head back to the office. Steve needs to take his roommate's bike that he borrowed back home. So he bikes, I meet him with my carload of stuff, we all meet up at the office, begin unloading and then get a call that the Mark V was too crowded and people went to McMenamin's instead... Steve's least-favorite bar. Fuck that. Steve, Sarah, Lynsey and I all head to the Mark V to get a fancy cocktail on our own, just the four of us, job well done. I buy Steve a $6 shot and a beer and we laugh and decompress and take some photos. Steve decides he wants more people around, and more, cheaper booze; so he and I go to McMenamin's. After another pint there, some of our friends are straggling and head home to bed. But some stay out and we head back downtown and to another bar across the street from the one we were just at. I spent the rest of the night walking in my heels between bars to see Sarah and Lynsey in the Mark V, and the rest of the crew inside Willie D's. Around 12:30, after a round of shots, we pretty much cleared out Willie D's by singing along loudly and badly to Weezer's "Sweater Song" and I decide then and there to call it a night. Craziness.

Oh, I also forgot to mention that Steve really did try calling 911 to get in touch with that guy who unlocked the building for us. The 911 people were not amused with this. He said up front, this is not an emergency. And continued to tell the story and how he was trying to get in touch with "Sin". 911 suggested that maybe he meant he should call 411. He tried that and still didn't get anywhere. So ultimately, as we left the building, we simply discreetly closed the doors and left it to fate. Yeah, craziness.

Random Weight Cheeses

2008-08-08T01:25:00.004-04:00

I was devastated when I drove back to River Forks park and saw that the sign about the lost prosthetic leg had been taken down. You could even see the little white corner paper scraps where it had been stapled up. I endeavored to get another solidly rad picture to show my friends what life can be like in the day-to-day in Roseburg. That is to say: kooky, cliquish, and heavily saddled with all of the most extreme small town good and bad. Let's start with some stories....

On Harvard Avenue, one of four main roads in Roseburg (excluding the highway cutting a north-south swath through town), there are two mini-mart style convenience stores. One is called 'R' Mart and the other is called 'T' Mart. When I first moved to town, I wondered if this was the local trend. Was there also an 'S' Mart? A 'Q' Mart? An 'L' Mart? My boss's wife informed me that, no, it was pretty much just the two. This news was crushing. So I decided to make up my own narrative about the elaborately intertwined histories of the 'R' Mart and the 'T' Mart. This mainly consisted of the fact that I liked to think they were mortal enemies-- like in an old west sense; in constant struggle with each other, employees would have prank wars, they would try to sabotage each other's business and even existence. This town isn't big enough for the two of us, you know.

My mind was blown when I learned there was an 'S' Mart out Diamond Lake Boulevard. Suddenly the dichotomy between 'R' and 'T' was triangulated by a cruel little sign at the Chevron station. What do 'R', 'S' and 'T' stand for? Why would you name your convenience store after letters of the alphabet? Anyway, the real question boiled down to whose side we would take: R Mart or T Mart? Where would we shop, and therefor who would we be supporting in the Roseburg mini-mart turf wars? The question was kind of answered for us since Megan's house (where was always hang out) is within tipsy stumbling distance of R Mart. The R Mart's a trip. You can buy every different kind of shitty beer you can think of, jerky, cigarettes, Andre champaign with the twist-off cap (or, for forty cents more, Cooks with a legit cork), a variety of pro-cannabis hats, and lots of other odds and ends that you never knew you needed. It's also where I snapped this picture:
"Lost: Dragon Painting". Apparently, the woman working on it had put it on the roof of her car and then accidentally drove off without securing it.

I also wanted to get a good picture of Sherm's. Sherm's is the 24-hour discount grocery store in town and has this crazy, quasi-national socialist-looking eagle-bird-thing mascot something writ huge on all of its signage. You go inside and it's like some warehouse full of discount food items where they mock my inability to go through my monthly allotment of food stamps. The lines are also crazy long, you bag your own groceries, and they sell bulk spices... as well as bulk candy necklaces. But it's hard to get a good picture of Sherm's because they planted a big tree right in front of the store that obscures the sign. So I have a couple of photos that look like just a tree and a parking lot and some industrial-looking cinder block building. But we went inside and shopped on Tuesday night and I got this picture:

A Hundred and Four Goddamn Degrees

2008-08-05T19:33:00.002-04:00

I drove past the bank this afternoon and their sign said it was 104 goddamn degrees outside.

That is all.

Oh, and you should have seen me play the paranoid roommate last night. I got home late from work, and Kat is normally home before me anyway. But last night she had clearly been home and then gone out again. I know this because she had neatly stacked my mail on top of my laptop and taken her pack of cigarettes from the table by the door where she'd left them. I was contented to assume that she had gone to some bar with some friend of ours or other, but as the hours ticked on-- on a Monday night-- and I watched an episode or two of Twin Peaks I became convinced that she was abducted by a supernatural killer. I called her phone. No answer. Waited thirty minutes. Called again. No answer. Maybe she's with Abby. I texted Abby. She didn't know. Texted Steve. No answer. Texted Meghan. Then, just before midnight, Meghan texted back: 'shes probibly still with steve. ill call him.' What?! So she was at a bar with our friend this whole time! Is it too much to ask for a quick phone call/text if it gets around bedtime and I haven't seen you? A post-it note on the fridge? A note written in mustard on the kitchen counter? Anything?

Yeah, Kat's a grown person; and responsible, mature, intelligent and smartly discretionary. But nonetheless I reserve the right to be an easily panicked scared-y cat when it comes to my roommate/friend's well being. How dare she be alive and well after I panicked so much! I had horrible visions of waking up in the morning and her still not being home; of filing a missing persons report. But my paranoia was misplaced; and today god is apparently punishing me... since it's 104 goddamn degrees.

The Sun & the Stars (abbreviated)

2008-08-04T21:40:00.002-04:00

I really didn't want to post anything before I managed to snap just this one photo that I'm severely hoping I'm still able to tomorrow or the next day. Kat and I went to the beach at River Forks park here on the Umpqua river and, as we were leaving, saw a sign posted on a tree that said, in effect, "Lost at River Forks park, July 27, prosthetic leg". What the fuck? That's the most awful thing I've ever heard; and somehow also darkly hilarious.

By Sunday afternoon, I needed a day in the sun by the river. It followed two back-to-back nights where I was out/up until 3 a.m. Doing what? Sittin' and drinkin'. Meghan (who is a home owner and a dog owner, so her house is the default hang-out around here) hosted a sushi night at her place Friday-- which involved copious amounts of Pabst and wasabi. I realize that sounds like a horrid combination. And I think it gave me nightmares. But it was all very tasty at the time.

Saturday my roommate was gone at a "fairy festival" in the woods outside of Eugene. Read: fantasy rave accompanied with jam bands. Read: probably a typical weekend in the woods outside of Eugene. I sat on the porch and read Spalding Gray until I got the call that my friends were (guess what) going out to the bars. The single biggest consolation to living a lost weekend life like this is that alcohol is dirt cheap-o here compared to Chicago, or even Chattanooga. $3 well drinks at Willie D's? $4.75 for a six pack of Rolling Rock at Sherm's? You gotta be kidding me. I met Joey, the notorious owner of the Idle Hour (one of the diviest of dive bars in town). I think it says a lot about the Idle Hour that the owner does his Saturday night boozing at another bar up the block. I think Joey thinks I'm a lesbian.

Post-sunbathing on Sunday we got Mexican food (where I completely forgot to tip them, which I feel terrible about) and then headed over to Meghan's for beer and pie and clove cigarettes. We played Trivial Pursuit again. I lost by a hair and won't be satisfied until we have however many rematches it takes for me to win! One of these days I should post about my dangerous level of competitiveness when it comes to Trivial Pursuit. The only thing more dangerous is probably my level of competitiveness with drinking games. Anywho, I swear to god I'll try to be more vigilant about taking pictures around here....

Dates Up

2008-07-29T19:36:00.002-04:00

Some friends have asked for updates in life, and I honestly don't have much to tell them. I'm settling in to work now, which anyone can tell you is never exactly headline-grabbingly fascinating, and not too much goes on in Roseburg save for endless lost weekends of regrettable amounts of binge drinking. That does seriously seem to be the #1 pastime around here. That said, what did I do this past weekend? Only the most fun collection of stuff I've done so far in Oregon. And what did I forget? My camera.

Friday represented the end of my first week in my office. And I decided to celebrate by drinking too much, gossiping the hell out of my drinking-mates and learning the powerful sway that drunk text messaging can have over Roseburgers. Saturday morning was eaten up by hangover time, but by noon I had to get up and meet some high school kids who are working with the homeless teen drop-in center (which is my job, for those of you out of the loop). They were really intelligent, impressive kids. And they've been through some shit. But they're mellow and nice and I look forward to working with them. But, when all was said and done with that little bit of Saturday work, all I really wanted to do was sleep the rest of the day away. But I didn't want to go home.

So I got in my car and started driving; kinda figuring I might find a decently scenic spot for a siesta and could mull over my borderline alcoholism and shame in the privacy of naptime in my car. I drove in the direction of the coast, as per the usual magnetism that the Pacific Ocean seems to have over Americans. Along the road I saw signs for an "elk viewing area" ahead and, to my surprise, I then saw elk on the side of the road. I pulled off at the viewing area and I and several other cars full of Saturday joy riders watched about a half dozen big buck elk just kind of chilling right in front of us. Amazing.

But elk viewing has its limitations, so I continued on to the coast. From Roseburg, access to the coast along one popular route involves passing through a town called Reedsport. Reedsport is cute, and quaint as shit, but you can't actually see the ocean from anywhere in town. So I headed south on scenic Highway 101 and ended up turning in to a town called Winchester Bay. I found the ocean and I parked and stared at it for a while. The ocean can have that effect on people. Eventually, I decided to see what else was down the road. This part of the coast is deep in Oregon Dunes country, so I drove on tiny access roads through rolling sand dunes and through pretty intense ATV enthusiasts who rev their little dune buggy engines all up and down the sand. I found a beach-proper and wandered down to drink a Coke and sit and stare, and do more thinking and hangover curing. My head was cleared after a while, in so many ways, and I decided to head back home. I had a craving for Thai food-- which you can only get at one place in Roseburg-- so my dinner plans kind of made themselves.

Sitting down to a plate of curry (and open ridicule for eating alone in a restaurant in Roseburg), Kat called and said she, Lexi and Meghan were all meeting up for mimosas and Trivial Pursuit. Quite a fun combination if I've ever heard one. I'd like to brag that I owned down at Trivial Pursuit (with a little luck), and we talked and gossiped and sipped Andre and also played the children's version of Apples to Apples. As I headed home, Meghan mentioned that people planned on meeting up at her place for "breakfast barbecue" Sunday morning. Now, I'm a big fan of breakfast foods. And a big fan of barbecues. Plus I got assigned to bring eggs, so how could I refuse?

We had breakfast food cooked on a charcoal grill, more mimosas, and basically a chill Sunday brunch. Then someone raised the specter of what we were going to do the rest of the day. People settled on swimming in the river (another stand-by leisure activity in Roseburg). I wasn't down for swimming, but I'm always down for sitting on the beach drinking beer. And that's exactly what we did. But as the sun started to set and breakfast wore off, someone else raised the specter of dinner. And I kind of set myself up earlier by mentioning that I was unable to go through all my food stamps (they seriously are a lot for someone like me who eats nothing but peanut butter sandwiches and soy milk). So it was settled that I would buy more barbecue food and we would return to Meghan's house to use her grill again. The night ended mellow and was a nice way to wind up after a raucous Friday night that led to a nauseated Saturday full of alone-time. And a good way to get ready for Monday morning at work.

So there. There's you an update. Probably more information than anyone could ever want to know about Mo's weekend; but a good sampling of what life is like out here right now. Spend too much time and energy partying and too much focus on gossip and drama, and then find a way to make it all okay. Nice even. Soon my life will stabilize. I like to think of now as still being a "settling in", orientation-style time. Maybe sometime in the future I'll learn some self-control or some moderation and I won't get frustrated and go crazy on Friday nights-- only to have dismal and sad Saturdays where I can't fight the compulsion to run away from home for a day. Maybe the near future holds bountiful sums of Sunday brunches and beach trips, Trivial Pursuit victories and playing fetch with puppy dogs. In any case, one can only hope for some kind of balance... at least.

Down to It

2008-07-23T21:12:00.002-04:00

Although work technically officially started about nine days ago, I just yesterday moved in to my for real office. I have a computer (which is huge in a 1990 sense) and today I got a key, so I can come and go without the influence of the whims of my office-mate. I also today cooked my first meal in my apartment. It tasted disgusting. But the big story there is our stove-- although it's brand new, the dials on it are inaccurate and, well, fucked up. "High" is low and "low" is high, and to get the eyes to turn on you have to pull out the dial and then push it back in and turn it with exactly the correct amount of pressure and torque. Back to subsisting on peanut butter sandwiches.

I never did buy a bed; and my back is paying for it. I've inherited Kat's air mattress, but that doesn't quite get the job done. That shit combined with now sitting at an office desk chair for eight hours a day, then on the floor when I get home, is making for pain on a daily basis. Last night we all went to the concert in the park (a summertime Tuesday tradition (read: requirement) here in Roseburg) and this thing is ridiculous because you're allowed to drink in the park IF it's an occasion where they're also serving food. So I'm there, sitting on the grass, and every time I shift my weight I'm like 'ow, ow, ow, ow'. And I'm chugging wine from a pink thermos thinking maybe it will alleviate the pain a bit. Yes, this is self-medication. No, I don't feel bad about it at all. After the show, everyone went to Meghan's house to do whatever tipsy-fun stuff and I copped out to go lay horizontally on our shag-carpeted floor and zone-out to Patsy Cline. Which is fun in its own way. Then at work today Steve was like, "Were you okay last night?" Yeah, except for the scathing pain.

Think I'm going to buy a bed on the internet and then do that thing where they ship it to your local chain of Wal-Mart. I haven't bought anything from Wal-Mart in years and now I'm about to give them several hundred dollars. I feel kind of bad; but then again, they've been cleaning up their act recently. See what my back pain has brought me to? So be it.

No Title

2008-07-16T20:08:00.000-04:00

So I'm in my apartment. And I officially started work. This job comes complete with a scary amount of paperwork and bureaucracy, plus red tape and strings of hierarchies and interconnected institutions that make getting a straight answer on some things pretty difficult. Where's my computer? Well, I'll call this guy. Oh no, I called that guy last week. No, that's the wrong guy; you should ask this woman to call this other guy. Wait, I'll call and get his email address for you from his old boss's cousin's ex-wife's dogsitter. On that note, I am the proud owner of a work-related email address as of this evening. It's "vista.(my project site)@gmail". Within twelve hours I should be on at least twenty non-profit list hosts. My supervisor confessed to me at our on-site training Monday that he "hadn't really thought about" what I would do my first couple of weeks on the job. Which makes filling out the uber-complicated timesheets our sponsoring institution tried to teach us just that much more complicated.

But I finally opened a local bank account. We got our hot water turned on. We got our first paychecks today. My roommate and I bought some chairs and we both have our food stamps and, now that we own some silverware, we can finally cook and eat real food. The heat wave broke (albeit temporarily) and I plan on buying a bed with my economic stimulus check that I got in the mail a few days back. So things are looking good for right now. On the same token, now all the really hard stuff starts. Actually go out and do my job? You've got to be kidding me. My boss had me going through some old documents pertaining to the project that he'd copied onto a CD for me, and I confess I spent most of my critical reasoning skills trying to remember how to do basic things in Excel, or how exactly you make a table in Word. Like, oh wait-- how do you get the title column to repeat on every page when it prints out? Shit, I used to know how to do that.

And there are more complex things too. People will mention random projects and when I nod my head and say it sounds like a good idea, they respond "well, yeah, you could just write a grant." Write a grant? Me? I'd get rejected like white on rice. Or, "yeah, just go out and talk to homeless kids". What? How do I even start knowing how to do that? Wait. Why was I hired for this job? The precedent is a dodgey one: AmeriCorps VISTA programs come in three year cycles; with a focus on "capacity building" and "sustainability" of the project. Basically, you're supposed to develop a project, in one year, that can be free-standing without you when you leave. I'm in the first year of my project. If it doesn't last after twelve months, what does that say about me and my baby project? My supervisor has had one VISTA in the past. Her project didn't make it.

But right now I'm energized. I refuse to accept failure. And if the project doesn't make it, it's sure as hell not going to be on my watch. Let that happen to the poor sap in the second or third year of the cycle. I expect numerous handshakes, congratulations and pats on the back in twelve months' time.