He is like the Russian version of Robert. I don't even really know what to say or think about this. I did, however, surreptitiously take pictures of him during class with my iPhone so that I could provide evidence to back up my doppleclaim.
Friday, September 5, 2008
dopplemania
So...my new stats professor looks like my boyfriend.
He is like the Russian version of Robert. I don't even really know what to say or think about this. I did, however, surreptitiously take pictures of him during class with my iPhone so that I could provide evidence to back up my doppleclaim.
He is like the Russian version of Robert. I don't even really know what to say or think about this. I did, however, surreptitiously take pictures of him during class with my iPhone so that I could provide evidence to back up my doppleclaim.
Friday, August 8, 2008
recognition
I just read on the Owl Farm Blog (http://owlfarmblog.com/) that "The Friends of the Library of Montgomery County System, in Maryland, have reclassified Hunter's work from Journalism/Politics to Classics."
That puts a smile on my face.
That puts a smile on my face.
Friday, July 18, 2008
Gonzo
I've been thinking about the film I saw last Friday, "Gonzo: The Life and Work of Dr. Hunter S. Thompson." Although I enjoyed watching it, something was bothering me about it and I couldn't quite put my finger on it. But after talking a little about it with friends, and after reading this short piece last night in New York Magazine (http://nymag.com/arts/books/features/48517/) about it and him, I think I know what it is.
The thesis of that bio was that Thompson let his own myth supercede him and eventually destroy him. I think that's generally true. Most people I've met who say they are fans of his are really fans of Duke, not Thompson. He himself said that he felt he was "in the way" of his own writing. But despite the film's recognition of the destructive influence of Hunter's myth, it still chose to FOCUS on that myth, rather than him as a man or him as a writer. It showed us Hunter as a Public Figure. That's why, as someone pointed out to me, they left out the Air Force, the Rum Diary, Puerto Rico and South America, the "major, personality-forming parts of his life." These were the times that shaped him as a writer. Inventing gonzo writing was a major achievement...or a piece of dumb luck, as I'm sure he'd admit...but interesting and important either way. But I think what is missed is that BEFORE gonzo, he was an incredible writer. The gonzo stuff is hilarious and biting, but truthfully, I am far more often awed at the pieces of straight journalism he wrote.The insight, the detail, and the rhythm of his words are unequalled in anything I've ever read.
So I think what was most disappointing about that film was that it did sort of leave Hunter out of it. His political influence was great at that time...but it neglected to point out why he even got interested in politics in the first place. It sort of touches on it with the Freak Power campaign but it made it sound less serious than I think it was for him based on what I've read. I think when people are focusing on the Myth of Hunter, they are missing out on understanding some really essential characteristics, namely, that he was really and truly a believer in freedom and in people's ability to make change for the better. Something I've read that he said often was that "politics is the art of controlling your environment." But then so much went wrong to show him that they really didn't have that control...they came close in Aspen, but no cigar. And then Vietnam, and Nixon, and McGovern, and so many failures to achieve what he saw as the vast possibilities of what this country could offer. So I think a far more important aspect of his life that could have been focused on in the film, rather than the Myth, rather than how many drinks and drugs he could gobble and still stand straight, is the sincere disappointment in his writing, and his constant struggle to understand and articulate What Went Wrong. For a long time I didn't understand that speech at the turning point in Fear and Loathing about the wave. In the middle of this drug-addled spree, here was this rare introspective moment that always jarred me. Now having read so much that he's written, especially his letters from that time, I think I understand it as much as anyone can who didn't live through it. That, to me, is a much more edifying thing to focus on, something we can learn from him. He was disappointed and dissatisfied with what was going on, and he, more than almost anyone I can think of, constantly lived his life trying to change it and come to grips with it and ultimately, just live on his own terms. I admire that so much about him, and I wish the bios would talk more about that.
Today's his birthday. Let's all have a toast tonight during our Friday revelry to the Good Doctor.
The thesis of that bio was that Thompson let his own myth supercede him and eventually destroy him. I think that's generally true. Most people I've met who say they are fans of his are really fans of Duke, not Thompson. He himself said that he felt he was "in the way" of his own writing. But despite the film's recognition of the destructive influence of Hunter's myth, it still chose to FOCUS on that myth, rather than him as a man or him as a writer. It showed us Hunter as a Public Figure. That's why, as someone pointed out to me, they left out the Air Force, the Rum Diary, Puerto Rico and South America, the "major, personality-forming parts of his life." These were the times that shaped him as a writer. Inventing gonzo writing was a major achievement...or a piece of dumb luck, as I'm sure he'd admit...but interesting and important either way. But I think what is missed is that BEFORE gonzo, he was an incredible writer. The gonzo stuff is hilarious and biting, but truthfully, I am far more often awed at the pieces of straight journalism he wrote.The insight, the detail, and the rhythm of his words are unequalled in anything I've ever read.
So I think what was most disappointing about that film was that it did sort of leave Hunter out of it. His political influence was great at that time...but it neglected to point out why he even got interested in politics in the first place. It sort of touches on it with the Freak Power campaign but it made it sound less serious than I think it was for him based on what I've read. I think when people are focusing on the Myth of Hunter, they are missing out on understanding some really essential characteristics, namely, that he was really and truly a believer in freedom and in people's ability to make change for the better. Something I've read that he said often was that "politics is the art of controlling your environment." But then so much went wrong to show him that they really didn't have that control...they came close in Aspen, but no cigar. And then Vietnam, and Nixon, and McGovern, and so many failures to achieve what he saw as the vast possibilities of what this country could offer. So I think a far more important aspect of his life that could have been focused on in the film, rather than the Myth, rather than how many drinks and drugs he could gobble and still stand straight, is the sincere disappointment in his writing, and his constant struggle to understand and articulate What Went Wrong. For a long time I didn't understand that speech at the turning point in Fear and Loathing about the wave. In the middle of this drug-addled spree, here was this rare introspective moment that always jarred me. Now having read so much that he's written, especially his letters from that time, I think I understand it as much as anyone can who didn't live through it. That, to me, is a much more edifying thing to focus on, something we can learn from him. He was disappointed and dissatisfied with what was going on, and he, more than almost anyone I can think of, constantly lived his life trying to change it and come to grips with it and ultimately, just live on his own terms. I admire that so much about him, and I wish the bios would talk more about that.
Today's his birthday. Let's all have a toast tonight during our Friday revelry to the Good Doctor.
Friday, July 11, 2008
criteria
New criteria for being close friends with me:
The ability to, with unfettered passion, listen to the same song on repeat for the better part of the day.
The ability to, with unfettered passion, listen to the same song on repeat for the better part of the day.
Thursday, June 19, 2008
know thyself
I am always on the road to further self-discovery. I truly believe that knowing yourself well is a good path to happiness, or at the very least, strength.
In that regard, I learned something about myself today. I learned that I love Fleetwood Mac even more than I thought I did.
In that regard, I learned something about myself today. I learned that I love Fleetwood Mac even more than I thought I did.
Monday, May 12, 2008
In Rain
This weekend I went down to D.C. to visit some friends and see Radiohead play at the Nissan Pavillion. The visiting was very fun and relaxing; the show was a horror.
Any of you who were feeling bitter or jealous about missing the show this weekend will be happy to hear that you were better off at home. This was without a doubt the worst concert experience of my entire life.
We knew going into it that the forecast was calling for rain. However, the radar seemed to predict that the worst of it would be early in the evening and that it would potentially slacken later on. No. Our generous and extremely helpful friends, Jason and Heather, who we were staying with, outfitted us with rain gear in preparation for the worst. They had given us hats, ponchos, wind-breakers, fleeces, and dry socks to change into. Before going to the show, we had spent much of the afternoon phoning local retailers to find a pair of cheap rainboots for me to wear since I only had my Chucks, which will get soaked in a drizzle in about 5 minutes. With a quick stop to Macy's on the way out to where our friends would pick us up, we got a pair that had been put on hold. We then met up with Dan and his friend Steve and got on the road. This was around 5:30 pm.
We arrived at the concert close to 9 p.m., after driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic down the one-lane road that takes you to the Pavillion and ends in a disorganized mess of gravel parking lots. We could hear Radiohead already playing when we got out of the car. It provided a nice soundtrack for trudging through the gravel, mud, lake-sized puddles, and then what seemed like hundreds of stairs to get to the actual venue. All around us were the other late-arrivals, in varying degrees of preparation for the weather. Some were more prepared than us with heavy-duty tarps; some were only wearing shorts and flip flops. Luckily the temperature was not too too cold in the low 50s, but the rain was bad enough. It did not slacken as we squelched our way through the slippery, demolished hillside to get to a place to stand for the show where our feet would only sink in ankle-high. Those rainboots turned out to be the best $20 I've ever spent in my life because despite standing in a mud puddle for an hour, my feet remained (mostly) mercifully dry. The rain continued throughout the entire concert in a steady, demoralizing downpour. We had our huge golf umbrella up and so did most of the rest of the crowd, which accounts for me not having seen the stage even once the entire time I was there and only getting a few glimpses of the screen. It kept us from getting further drenched while we stood still but all areas not covered by the ponchos (like our legs) were completely soaked through. We stood out there for close to an hour. We heard a couple of really good versions of some songs (I barely remember the set list, but I do remember singing along with the "rain down" portion of "Paranoid Android"), but overall it was frankly a lackluster performance. At one point Tom Yorke took a stab at being a human and said something of a diffident apology for all of us having a terrible day. Usually I go to a concert with a hope that I'll get to hear a few favorite songs, but all I really wanted to hear from him were two words: "Thank you." Just a "thank you" to all of these psychotic people who came out in the pouring rain just because they love their music.
Immediately after the last song we left. We could hear them playing "Karma Police" as we found our way back to the now almost completely-flooded parking lot, incredibly grateful to be in the car again. That was a sensation that was to wear off as we spent the next THREE HOURS (no joke) sitting in the car, waiting to leave the parking lot. It was a complete and total clusterfuck. No movement whatsoever for 2 hours, followed by an hour of jockeying and 4 cars trying to merge into one ill-defined lane, with no traffic control except for one cop in a poncho perfunctorily waving a club in the direction of the exit. Still pissing rain outside, now trapped in the car in various states of undress, wet clothes sealed to our clammy skin, cramped joints and muscles, we slowly began to become deranged. The collective brain damage suffered by the 4 of us in that car is beyond description.
FINALLY we got out of the parking lot, onto a highway where some more cops were forcing traffic in the opposite direction of the one we needed to go. Luckily the car we were in had GPS and we were able to navigate into free-moving traffic. We ended the night with a crazed search for a 24-hour-McDonalds and a frenzied pigout. It was the best moment of the entire night.
We got back to our friend's apartment at 3:30 a.m. We had left at 4:30 p.m. The entire commute time for the concert (that is time in the car, not counting the one hour of actually watching the show) was almost 8 hours to get to and from a venue that was approximately thirty (30) miles from the city. We realized that our friend could have driven us home to New York and back home again in that amount of time. All in all, it was a truly impressive experience on many levels. Impressive amounts of rain. Impressive amounts of dementia. Impressive lack of foresight, planning, caring, or intelligence on the behalf of the builders and proprietors of the Nissan Pavillion. Impressive that Radiohead was suggesting that people take public transportation to the show in order to reduce the carbon footprint of their tour, while at the same time booking the performance at a place in bumfuck Bristow, VA, which is impossible to reach via any other mode of transportation than car. Impressive amounts of (at least seeming) indifference on the part of Radiohead to the devotion of their fans. But, there was also an impressive amount of fun with the company I had: many thanks to Robert, Dan, and Steve for sharing this horror with me and for all of us ending the night with smiles on our faces.
Any of you who were feeling bitter or jealous about missing the show this weekend will be happy to hear that you were better off at home. This was without a doubt the worst concert experience of my entire life.
We knew going into it that the forecast was calling for rain. However, the radar seemed to predict that the worst of it would be early in the evening and that it would potentially slacken later on. No. Our generous and extremely helpful friends, Jason and Heather, who we were staying with, outfitted us with rain gear in preparation for the worst. They had given us hats, ponchos, wind-breakers, fleeces, and dry socks to change into. Before going to the show, we had spent much of the afternoon phoning local retailers to find a pair of cheap rainboots for me to wear since I only had my Chucks, which will get soaked in a drizzle in about 5 minutes. With a quick stop to Macy's on the way out to where our friends would pick us up, we got a pair that had been put on hold. We then met up with Dan and his friend Steve and got on the road. This was around 5:30 pm.
We arrived at the concert close to 9 p.m., after driving in bumper-to-bumper traffic down the one-lane road that takes you to the Pavillion and ends in a disorganized mess of gravel parking lots. We could hear Radiohead already playing when we got out of the car. It provided a nice soundtrack for trudging through the gravel, mud, lake-sized puddles, and then what seemed like hundreds of stairs to get to the actual venue. All around us were the other late-arrivals, in varying degrees of preparation for the weather. Some were more prepared than us with heavy-duty tarps; some were only wearing shorts and flip flops. Luckily the temperature was not too too cold in the low 50s, but the rain was bad enough. It did not slacken as we squelched our way through the slippery, demolished hillside to get to a place to stand for the show where our feet would only sink in ankle-high. Those rainboots turned out to be the best $20 I've ever spent in my life because despite standing in a mud puddle for an hour, my feet remained (mostly) mercifully dry. The rain continued throughout the entire concert in a steady, demoralizing downpour. We had our huge golf umbrella up and so did most of the rest of the crowd, which accounts for me not having seen the stage even once the entire time I was there and only getting a few glimpses of the screen. It kept us from getting further drenched while we stood still but all areas not covered by the ponchos (like our legs) were completely soaked through. We stood out there for close to an hour. We heard a couple of really good versions of some songs (I barely remember the set list, but I do remember singing along with the "rain down" portion of "Paranoid Android"), but overall it was frankly a lackluster performance. At one point Tom Yorke took a stab at being a human and said something of a diffident apology for all of us having a terrible day. Usually I go to a concert with a hope that I'll get to hear a few favorite songs, but all I really wanted to hear from him were two words: "Thank you." Just a "thank you" to all of these psychotic people who came out in the pouring rain just because they love their music.
Immediately after the last song we left. We could hear them playing "Karma Police" as we found our way back to the now almost completely-flooded parking lot, incredibly grateful to be in the car again. That was a sensation that was to wear off as we spent the next THREE HOURS (no joke) sitting in the car, waiting to leave the parking lot. It was a complete and total clusterfuck. No movement whatsoever for 2 hours, followed by an hour of jockeying and 4 cars trying to merge into one ill-defined lane, with no traffic control except for one cop in a poncho perfunctorily waving a club in the direction of the exit. Still pissing rain outside, now trapped in the car in various states of undress, wet clothes sealed to our clammy skin, cramped joints and muscles, we slowly began to become deranged. The collective brain damage suffered by the 4 of us in that car is beyond description.
FINALLY we got out of the parking lot, onto a highway where some more cops were forcing traffic in the opposite direction of the one we needed to go. Luckily the car we were in had GPS and we were able to navigate into free-moving traffic. We ended the night with a crazed search for a 24-hour-McDonalds and a frenzied pigout. It was the best moment of the entire night.
We got back to our friend's apartment at 3:30 a.m. We had left at 4:30 p.m. The entire commute time for the concert (that is time in the car, not counting the one hour of actually watching the show) was almost 8 hours to get to and from a venue that was approximately thirty (30) miles from the city. We realized that our friend could have driven us home to New York and back home again in that amount of time. All in all, it was a truly impressive experience on many levels. Impressive amounts of rain. Impressive amounts of dementia. Impressive lack of foresight, planning, caring, or intelligence on the behalf of the builders and proprietors of the Nissan Pavillion. Impressive that Radiohead was suggesting that people take public transportation to the show in order to reduce the carbon footprint of their tour, while at the same time booking the performance at a place in bumfuck Bristow, VA, which is impossible to reach via any other mode of transportation than car. Impressive amounts of (at least seeming) indifference on the part of Radiohead to the devotion of their fans. But, there was also an impressive amount of fun with the company I had: many thanks to Robert, Dan, and Steve for sharing this horror with me and for all of us ending the night with smiles on our faces.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
employee review
In anticipation of the totally pointless annual tradition that is the "Employee Review", my job requires us to fill out a "preappraisal form" with a bunch of asinine questions that will supposedly shape the discussion during our review. Below are the answers that I would like to put on my form:
1. Does the attached job description accurately reflect your current duties and responsibilities? If not, please cite any discrepancies.
My job description does not list "getting jerked around by socially-incompetent troglodytes" or "dealing with a manager with the
emotional age and haircut of an 8-year-old as he nervously taps on my cubicle in abject fear of me".
2. What do you consider the strengths of your performance this year?
Some babble about streamlining schedules and getting more organized.
3. Do you have thoughts on how your performance might be strengthened?
I think if I cared more about such important distinctions as whether a sentence should read "in light of" or "in the light of" instead of wanting to do something worthwhile like being a neuroscientist my performance would improve.
4. Are there any other comments regarding your job, your progress, your unit, or the MLA that you wish to make?
I wish to make the comment that I find it despicable that the personal whim of one person can dictate what I can and cannot wear to work, when the spirit of the organization (being non-profit) and the attitude of the office (excepting that one person) obviously are not corporate. If I could wear my jeans I would be a lot less of a malcontent and would probably smile at people more in the hallways, in addition to taking less breaks during my work to play Scramble.
1. Does the attached job description accurately reflect your current duties and responsibilities? If not, please cite any discrepancies.
My job description does not list "getting jerked around by socially-incompetent troglodytes" or "dealing with a manager with the
emotional age and haircut of an 8-year-old as he nervously taps on my cubicle in abject fear of me".
2. What do you consider the strengths of your performance this year?
Some babble about streamlining schedules and getting more organized.
3. Do you have thoughts on how your performance might be strengthened?
I think if I cared more about such important distinctions as whether a sentence should read "in light of" or "in the light of" instead of wanting to do something worthwhile like being a neuroscientist my performance would improve.
4. Are there any other comments regarding your job, your progress, your unit, or the MLA that you wish to make?
I wish to make the comment that I find it despicable that the personal whim of one person can dictate what I can and cannot wear to work, when the spirit of the organization (being non-profit) and the attitude of the office (excepting that one person) obviously are not corporate. If I could wear my jeans I would be a lot less of a malcontent and would probably smile at people more in the hallways, in addition to taking less breaks during my work to play Scramble.
Friday, March 21, 2008
avalanche
The following wreckage was strewn across the wasteland of a gmail chat box that has no one on the other end (you know who you are):
Most of the conversations in my life are with people who leave in the middle of them with no warning and no indication of when they will come back. This will, inevitably, add to my psychosis. Despite understanding that others have demanding jobs that may take precedence over chatting on the computer, the impotent rage that is being built layer upon layer like a core of hot magma in my stomach will no doubt have lasting physical and social repercussions.
I think that there is a general lack of understanding of just HOW MANY words I have in me. There are a lot. Think of the most words you can think of and then double that. And once they start, particularly when someone gets me going on a topic dear to my heart, like Labyrinth, or atrocious 80s music, or the Good Doctor, they don't stop easily. They spew forth from my brain to my mouth with incredible number and alacrity. And one day, all the dammed-up ones from thwarted IM conversations will finally overflow, drowning all of you who lack the etiquette to give me a simple "brb" in the avalanche.
Most of the conversations in my life are with people who leave in the middle of them with no warning and no indication of when they will come back. This will, inevitably, add to my psychosis. Despite understanding that others have demanding jobs that may take precedence over chatting on the computer, the impotent rage that is being built layer upon layer like a core of hot magma in my stomach will no doubt have lasting physical and social repercussions.
I think that there is a general lack of understanding of just HOW MANY words I have in me. There are a lot. Think of the most words you can think of and then double that. And once they start, particularly when someone gets me going on a topic dear to my heart, like Labyrinth, or atrocious 80s music, or the Good Doctor, they don't stop easily. They spew forth from my brain to my mouth with incredible number and alacrity. And one day, all the dammed-up ones from thwarted IM conversations will finally overflow, drowning all of you who lack the etiquette to give me a simple "brb" in the avalanche.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
comparative reality.
Last night Rob and I watched "Margot at the Wedding", which is the new movie from Noah Baumbach, who also did "The Squid and the Whale". I did not remember the connection, and when Rob realized it as he was about to put the movie in, he commented that I had hated "The Squid and the Whale". I didn't remember hating it and, although I found it rather depressing, if asked I probably would have said that I thought it was a good movie.
The reason I bring this up is that it is very strange when you have two people contributing to a collective memory, because in ways you hold each other accountable for your exaggerated reactions to things. Of course, in your own head, these are tempered by time and you don't remember being so drastic in the first place. I think that's what happened last night. It's certainly a head-fuck to be told that the way you think about something is not how you thought you think about it, or at least it wasn't. This is a slippery sucker.
The reason I bring this up is that it is very strange when you have two people contributing to a collective memory, because in ways you hold each other accountable for your exaggerated reactions to things. Of course, in your own head, these are tempered by time and you don't remember being so drastic in the first place. I think that's what happened last night. It's certainly a head-fuck to be told that the way you think about something is not how you thought you think about it, or at least it wasn't. This is a slippery sucker.
Wednesday, March 19, 2008
self-efficacy
Well, I don't know what happened. Last night on American Idol, they made a big point of saying that they were expanding the theme and that now instead of just Lennon-McCartney songs, it would be The Beatles. So why'd they do it? I guess they must have read my blog.
Not that it mattered much. Only one person sang a song not penned by Lennon or McCartney. Brooke White (who is affectionately known in my house as "this dingbat") sang "Here Comes the Sun" by George Harrison, which you may or may not know is my favorite song. For that, and for her generally endearing performance and ability to respond to the judges' comments with candor, she got my vote last night.
As for the producers of American Idol, I don't expect them to hand me the credit for steering them away from another week of blundering insult. They are, however, encouraged to continue to read my blog for input on how to improve their show and should feel free to contact me if they need any further assistance. Here's a start: No matter what the theme is, doing it two weeks in a row is ill-advised. If you didn't learn that from last night's less-than-impressive performances, I'm telling you now. Don't do it again.
Not that it mattered much. Only one person sang a song not penned by Lennon or McCartney. Brooke White (who is affectionately known in my house as "this dingbat") sang "Here Comes the Sun" by George Harrison, which you may or may not know is my favorite song. For that, and for her generally endearing performance and ability to respond to the judges' comments with candor, she got my vote last night.
As for the producers of American Idol, I don't expect them to hand me the credit for steering them away from another week of blundering insult. They are, however, encouraged to continue to read my blog for input on how to improve their show and should feel free to contact me if they need any further assistance. Here's a start: No matter what the theme is, doing it two weeks in a row is ill-advised. If you didn't learn that from last night's less-than-impressive performances, I'm telling you now. Don't do it again.
Friday, March 14, 2008
exclusion.
Dear Producers of American Idol,
I found last week's theme to be fucking bullshit. Was there some specific reason for making it "the Lennon-McCartney Songbook" as opposed to the more general and inclusive theme of "the Beatles"?
As I recall, there were 4 members of the Beatles, all of whom wrote songs (yes, even Ringo penned one or two). I also recall that George Harrison underwent years of creative frustration during which the songs he wrote never got the consideration that they deserved. He wrote beautifully-crafted songs that were, for the most part, on par with what Lennon and McCartney were creating. They may not have the technically-perfect melodies of Paul's songs, or the apeshit-alienated lyrics of John's, but they have a simple sincerity, a level of humanistic connection that makes them very special. Not to mention his amazing guitar work and--this is a recent observation--he for some reason brought out the best in Ringo. Listen to the drum-work in some of George's songs compared to the others', it has generally stronger and more complex rhythms. George was also the first of the Beatles to release a solo album after their breakup, which also happened to be the first triple-album released by a single artist in rock history.
For all of the reasons above, this exclusion is both incomprehensible and unacceptable. I cannot fathom a reason why you would have chosen to show such disrespect intentionally, nor can I imagine that this was a forgetful omission. Whatever the reason, this neglect is despicable, as is your decision to extend the theme to next week's episode (not to mention redundant).
Most sincerely disgusted,
Jessica Filippi
I would really like to actually send this to the producers of American Idol, however, I can't seem to find any contact information on the website. The only forum that seems available to me is the message boards at americanidol.com. Given their typical content, which consists of bitching about Simon Cowell's attitude, various trivial injustices, and unpunctuated comments about the contestants' relative abilities, I don't think this is the appropriate place for my letter. So, it's here, because I have to unleash this rant somewhere.
I found last week's theme to be fucking bullshit. Was there some specific reason for making it "the Lennon-McCartney Songbook" as opposed to the more general and inclusive theme of "the Beatles"?
As I recall, there were 4 members of the Beatles, all of whom wrote songs (yes, even Ringo penned one or two). I also recall that George Harrison underwent years of creative frustration during which the songs he wrote never got the consideration that they deserved. He wrote beautifully-crafted songs that were, for the most part, on par with what Lennon and McCartney were creating. They may not have the technically-perfect melodies of Paul's songs, or the apeshit-alienated lyrics of John's, but they have a simple sincerity, a level of humanistic connection that makes them very special. Not to mention his amazing guitar work and--this is a recent observation--he for some reason brought out the best in Ringo. Listen to the drum-work in some of George's songs compared to the others', it has generally stronger and more complex rhythms. George was also the first of the Beatles to release a solo album after their breakup, which also happened to be the first triple-album released by a single artist in rock history.
For all of the reasons above, this exclusion is both incomprehensible and unacceptable. I cannot fathom a reason why you would have chosen to show such disrespect intentionally, nor can I imagine that this was a forgetful omission. Whatever the reason, this neglect is despicable, as is your decision to extend the theme to next week's episode (not to mention redundant).
Most sincerely disgusted,
Jessica Filippi
I would really like to actually send this to the producers of American Idol, however, I can't seem to find any contact information on the website. The only forum that seems available to me is the message boards at americanidol.com. Given their typical content, which consists of bitching about Simon Cowell's attitude, various trivial injustices, and unpunctuated comments about the contestants' relative abilities, I don't think this is the appropriate place for my letter. So, it's here, because I have to unleash this rant somewhere.
Monday, March 10, 2008
abandon
My new favorite video. If anyone is ever planning on throwing me a party, this is how I'd like it to be.
Thursday, March 6, 2008
daylight savings
This weekend we will change the clocks and "spring forward" into daylight savings time. It is earlier this year for the 2nd time. Last year it was changed from April to March, providing a small, early respite to the winter-weary by giving us some more afternoon sunshine while we wait for the warm weather to come save us.
Something I've noticed, though, is that when I express happiness about the impending change, I invariably get the following response:
"Doesn't that mean we get less sleep?"
Ok. Yes, it means that we are putting the clocks forward one hour, so I guess that means "less sleep". But seriously, are we that sleep deprived that one hour one day is going to make that big of a difference? It's on a Saturday night for crying out loud...why don't you just sleep an hour later on Sunday to make up for it?? Or stay home and go to bed early if you're really that worried about it. All I'm trying to say here is get a grip because...here comes the sun.
Something I've noticed, though, is that when I express happiness about the impending change, I invariably get the following response:
"Doesn't that mean we get less sleep?"
Ok. Yes, it means that we are putting the clocks forward one hour, so I guess that means "less sleep". But seriously, are we that sleep deprived that one hour one day is going to make that big of a difference? It's on a Saturday night for crying out loud...why don't you just sleep an hour later on Sunday to make up for it?? Or stay home and go to bed early if you're really that worried about it. All I'm trying to say here is get a grip because...here comes the sun.
Wednesday, March 5, 2008
"The man behind the mix"...is my Bobba.
I'm a proud beep! Read this article, recently published on Columbia's blog about Rob.
The Sound of Music
For careful listeners, the best soundtrack on campus is the rotation of Vampire Weekend, Radiohead and other indie darlings at Cafe 212. Bwog cultural correspondent Merrell Hambleton sits down with the man behind the mix.
I find Café 212 manager Robert Bell working to hang up two small bulletin boards. "I'm actually doing something with the music," he says. "The music" he's referring to is precisely the reason for our meeting—Bell, tall with longish brown hair, dark framed glasses, and a neatly trimmed chinstrap, has earned a reputation in his year at Columbia for playing some non-traditional Muzak. In fact, its not Muzak at all, it's actually, well, good. If you're haunted by memories of 212's old soundtrack, you'll likely be pleased to hear the likes of Radiohead, Cat Power or the of-late-ubiquitous Vampire Weekend while you wait in the sandwich line.
So what prompted Bell to buck the trend of non-descript instrumental world music and hit-or-miss pop (read: Ferris Booth)? The Virginia native moved to New York (Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, to be specific) in 2004, where he first "got excited by working with food" while working at an Au Bon Pain branch. But chain stores don't offer a whole lot of flexibility. According to Bell, "One thing that really bothered me... was they had this Frank Sinatra thing going on. They had it very carefully orchestrated, so in Hong Kong they had an Au Bon Pain that was also playing Frank Sinatra at 8 AM."
When he arrived at Columbia in 2007, Bell had the opportunity to indulge his pop sensibility—which began, unsurprisingly, with the Beatles. "My dad had a copy of Yellow Submarine, which has got to be the worst Beatles album, but it had 'Hey Bulldog' on it." From there, Bell's taste has expanded significantly, though when I ask if there's a band he plays more than others, Bell admits, "there're a lot of Beatles on." (As we talk, "Get Back" is playing—part of the "Brit Pop" mix). Spoon has been on heavy rotation lately, and when In Rainbows came out Bell let the whole record play through. "Vampire Weekend and Cat Power's Jukebox came out a few weeks ago and I mixed that together and played that in the morning." Of course, Bell doesn't have total freedom, even if the boundaries are self-imposed. "You can't play Gang of Four; you can't play J.U.S.T.I.C.E. here when people are trying to study and digest."
The music Bell plays is almost entirely his own. "Because of the way the music is set up here," He says, "I play CDs, so its not like I'm streaming Pandora... I actually mix CDs from stuff that I have, which fortunately at this point is a large amount of music." Aside from living in Brooklyn and frequenting the Siren Festival, Bell used to read Inkblot Magazine to keep abreast of new bands. "I think a couple of those people broke off and went to Pitchfork. PopMatters is another one."
When he isn't re-ordering Movie Size Junior Mints (incidentally, these are selling really well) and feeding ravenous undergrads, Bell is in class. Intro to Comp Lit is the second course Bell's taken with Bruce Robbins and he claims to be "enjoying it thoroughly." Though not a matriculating student, Bell hopes to apply in the next year or so. Minus the Dining Services jacket, it seems like he'll fit in pretty well.
So does Bell's presence signal a new, edgier direction for Columbia Dining at large? It doesn't seem likely. Ferris is still blasting the Grease Soundtrack on a weekly basis. Still, Bell says he'd like to get the Ferris manager's input. "I think he likes metal."
The Sound of Music
For careful listeners, the best soundtrack on campus is the rotation of Vampire Weekend, Radiohead and other indie darlings at Cafe 212. Bwog cultural correspondent Merrell Hambleton sits down with the man behind the mix.
I find Café 212 manager Robert Bell working to hang up two small bulletin boards. "I'm actually doing something with the music," he says. "The music" he's referring to is precisely the reason for our meeting—Bell, tall with longish brown hair, dark framed glasses, and a neatly trimmed chinstrap, has earned a reputation in his year at Columbia for playing some non-traditional Muzak. In fact, its not Muzak at all, it's actually, well, good. If you're haunted by memories of 212's old soundtrack, you'll likely be pleased to hear the likes of Radiohead, Cat Power or the of-late-ubiquitous Vampire Weekend while you wait in the sandwich line.
So what prompted Bell to buck the trend of non-descript instrumental world music and hit-or-miss pop (read: Ferris Booth)? The Virginia native moved to New York (Prospect Heights, Brooklyn, to be specific) in 2004, where he first "got excited by working with food" while working at an Au Bon Pain branch. But chain stores don't offer a whole lot of flexibility. According to Bell, "One thing that really bothered me... was they had this Frank Sinatra thing going on. They had it very carefully orchestrated, so in Hong Kong they had an Au Bon Pain that was also playing Frank Sinatra at 8 AM."
When he arrived at Columbia in 2007, Bell had the opportunity to indulge his pop sensibility—which began, unsurprisingly, with the Beatles. "My dad had a copy of Yellow Submarine, which has got to be the worst Beatles album, but it had 'Hey Bulldog' on it." From there, Bell's taste has expanded significantly, though when I ask if there's a band he plays more than others, Bell admits, "there're a lot of Beatles on." (As we talk, "Get Back" is playing—part of the "Brit Pop" mix). Spoon has been on heavy rotation lately, and when In Rainbows came out Bell let the whole record play through. "Vampire Weekend and Cat Power's Jukebox came out a few weeks ago and I mixed that together and played that in the morning." Of course, Bell doesn't have total freedom, even if the boundaries are self-imposed. "You can't play Gang of Four; you can't play J.U.S.T.I.C.E. here when people are trying to study and digest."
The music Bell plays is almost entirely his own. "Because of the way the music is set up here," He says, "I play CDs, so its not like I'm streaming Pandora... I actually mix CDs from stuff that I have, which fortunately at this point is a large amount of music." Aside from living in Brooklyn and frequenting the Siren Festival, Bell used to read Inkblot Magazine to keep abreast of new bands. "I think a couple of those people broke off and went to Pitchfork. PopMatters is another one."
When he isn't re-ordering Movie Size Junior Mints (incidentally, these are selling really well) and feeding ravenous undergrads, Bell is in class. Intro to Comp Lit is the second course Bell's taken with Bruce Robbins and he claims to be "enjoying it thoroughly." Though not a matriculating student, Bell hopes to apply in the next year or so. Minus the Dining Services jacket, it seems like he'll fit in pretty well.
So does Bell's presence signal a new, edgier direction for Columbia Dining at large? It doesn't seem likely. Ferris is still blasting the Grease Soundtrack on a weekly basis. Still, Bell says he'd like to get the Ferris manager's input. "I think he likes metal."
Friday, February 29, 2008
Busey
After not having thought about the great Gary Busey for what seems like several months, I had a passing thought about him the other day. Then, to my surprise, headlines began appearing about his behavior at the Oscars which, as you can probably guess, was fucking crazy.
He bombarded his way into an interview that Ryan Seacrest was conducting on the red carpet with Laura Linney and Jennifer Garner. This is how it started:
"You ... Ryan Seacrest ... I've been looking for you for years," Busey yelled.
"Why? What have I done," stammered Seacrest.
"It's not what you've done - it's what you haven't done that I'm interested in," Busey replied.
Hahhahahahaha. How could you be looking for Ryan Seacrest for years? He does the same thing all the time, Idol and the radio show in LA. It's not like he's on "Where in the World is Matt Lauer?"
The crazytalk continues as he congratulates Laura Linney and then gives a bear hug to Jennifer Garner. Seacrest, using all of his cunning, deftly maneuvers away from Busey by telling him that they'll talk "at the party later." Jennifer Garner, visibly shaken, makes some prissy bitch comment about being kissed on the neck by "that man", oblivious to having been in the presence of an insane genius.
He bombarded his way into an interview that Ryan Seacrest was conducting on the red carpet with Laura Linney and Jennifer Garner. This is how it started:
"You ... Ryan Seacrest ... I've been looking for you for years," Busey yelled.
"Why? What have I done," stammered Seacrest.
"It's not what you've done - it's what you haven't done that I'm interested in," Busey replied.
Hahhahahahaha. How could you be looking for Ryan Seacrest for years? He does the same thing all the time, Idol and the radio show in LA. It's not like he's on "Where in the World is Matt Lauer?"
The crazytalk continues as he congratulates Laura Linney and then gives a bear hug to Jennifer Garner. Seacrest, using all of his cunning, deftly maneuvers away from Busey by telling him that they'll talk "at the party later." Jennifer Garner, visibly shaken, makes some prissy bitch comment about being kissed on the neck by "that man", oblivious to having been in the presence of an insane genius.
Friday, February 15, 2008
hmmm?
I was just thinking about this: Are we defined by our personal choices of excess?
What I mean is, for example, that I have the ideal of living generally healthily as far as eating habits, exercise, drug and alcohol use, and other general abuse to my body. Because I like to take care of myself. But then there are, of course, pleasures that I allow myself. What I was thinking about is how people can be defined by their choices in this area, meaning what's their poison and in what circumstances they choose to employ it.
Jenny Lewis says, "I'm not my body or how I choose to destroy it." What does anyone else have to say about this? (I'm pretending that anyone other than Rob actually reads this, which they don't).
What I mean is, for example, that I have the ideal of living generally healthily as far as eating habits, exercise, drug and alcohol use, and other general abuse to my body. Because I like to take care of myself. But then there are, of course, pleasures that I allow myself. What I was thinking about is how people can be defined by their choices in this area, meaning what's their poison and in what circumstances they choose to employ it.
Jenny Lewis says, "I'm not my body or how I choose to destroy it." What does anyone else have to say about this? (I'm pretending that anyone other than Rob actually reads this, which they don't).
Wednesday, January 30, 2008
that's it.
The latest outrage:
Are you fucking kidding me?!
I've ranted about this sort of thing before. A previous outrage was when I noticed that both of my parents' new cars had a feature where instead of actually turning the key in the ignition, one merely inserts the key into a slot and then pushes a "start" button.
I thought, "How can anyone in good conscience support this technology?" It takes away one of the best parts of driving. You put the key in, you turn it, and feel the engine turn over; it's so satisfying. Feeling the ridges of the key slide into the ignition, the smooth grind of metal friction, the flick of your wrist that sends your key chain clacking against the console as you hear that low rumble, feel the vibrations through your fingers, up your arms, and into your whole body as the car comes alive underneath you.
I wasn't surprised though. People see new technology such as this and they think it's "neat". Their inherent laziness delights in anything that removes them from a manual process. I'm sure people love this sort of thing.
But THIS bullshit! A car that parks itself?! If you're not going to know how to parallell park your car and you're going to let your car do it by itself, you might as well give up. Let the robots take over, and let them rape your wife. You're done.
Are you fucking kidding me?!
I've ranted about this sort of thing before. A previous outrage was when I noticed that both of my parents' new cars had a feature where instead of actually turning the key in the ignition, one merely inserts the key into a slot and then pushes a "start" button.
I thought, "How can anyone in good conscience support this technology?" It takes away one of the best parts of driving. You put the key in, you turn it, and feel the engine turn over; it's so satisfying. Feeling the ridges of the key slide into the ignition, the smooth grind of metal friction, the flick of your wrist that sends your key chain clacking against the console as you hear that low rumble, feel the vibrations through your fingers, up your arms, and into your whole body as the car comes alive underneath you.
I wasn't surprised though. People see new technology such as this and they think it's "neat". Their inherent laziness delights in anything that removes them from a manual process. I'm sure people love this sort of thing.
But THIS bullshit! A car that parks itself?! If you're not going to know how to parallell park your car and you're going to let your car do it by itself, you might as well give up. Let the robots take over, and let them rape your wife. You're done.
Wednesday, January 23, 2008
pinkos.
Last night, Rob and I watched "Masters of the Universe." In a fit of madness over the weekend, we decided that it needed to be watched and was therefore placed on the queue, at the top. The movie is ridiculous, obviously. But it is also illustrative of a trend in 80s cinema, which was the constant scapegoating of the Communists.
In case you've forgotten the plot of this movie, it goes like this: On the planet Eternia, the evil Skeletor and his army of darkness have taken over Castle Greyskull, imprisoned The Sorceress of Greyskull, and Skeletor has begun draining her powers as he bids to claim the powers of Greyskull and become master of the universe. Mighty warrior He-Man, the most powerful man in the universe, and his companions, loyal soldier Man-at-Arms, his daughter Teela, and a dwarf inventor named Gwildor, accidentally transport themselves to Earth with Gwildor's creation, The Cosmic Key, a device that can open portals that lead to any part of the galaxy. Skeletor requires the key for his goal for universal conquest. The Comsic Key is found by Julie Winston and her boyfriend Kevin, and Skeletor and his mercenaries arrive on Earth in pursuit of He-Man and his companions, who are also searching for The Cosmic Key so they can return to Eternia and defeat Skeletor.
Of course, thrown into the mix is a surly and incredulous cop who keeps running into the two teenagers in the wake of damage caused by skirmishes between He-Man and his companions and Skeletor's minions. Naturally, he suspects that the boy Kevin is lying to him that The Cosmic Key is really an advanced new synthesizer from Japan that he found in the graveyard. He believes that Kevin is responsible for the damage and arson, and intends to arrest him. The cop is the vehicle through which the Communist paranoia seeps into this film. At first, when he is in the music store with Kevin, looking to find a reasonable explanation for the "synthesizer", he says something along the lines of "Do you think it's from the Russians?" But the more outrageous example is yet to come.
Just as the two teenagers, He-Man, Man-at-Arms, Teela, and Gwildor are about to fix the now-damaged Key and return to Eternia to stop Skeletor, the cop attempts to arrest them at gun-point with a rifle. In the ensuing chaos, they open the portal and are all transported to Eternia, including part of the brick wall from the building behind them, and half of the pink Cadillac that Gwildor earlier hot-wired and altered to "run on neutrinos". They are thrown into the middle of the throne room at Greyskull, where an intense battle begins. As the minions of Skeletor shoot at them, the cop, in disbelief and rage, yells out "Okay, you pinkos! Nobody takes pot shots at me!" and starts shooting back with his rifle.
What the hell? PInkos. He calls these people, Queerman, Monster Mash, and Zoomacroom, "pinkos":
Maybe it's just me, but they do not seem to be Communists or have any Red tendencies. They do not seem to have any political leanings at all, other than "minions of Skeletor", who most certainly is NOT a pinko. I just can't fathom how they came up with that. Perhaps it is because I think the word "pinko" itself is inordinately funny, but when applied in the most insanely inappropriate atmosphere of the throne room at Greyskull during the defining battle between He-Man and Skeletor, it goes to a whole new level.
In case you've forgotten the plot of this movie, it goes like this: On the planet Eternia, the evil Skeletor and his army of darkness have taken over Castle Greyskull, imprisoned The Sorceress of Greyskull, and Skeletor has begun draining her powers as he bids to claim the powers of Greyskull and become master of the universe. Mighty warrior He-Man, the most powerful man in the universe, and his companions, loyal soldier Man-at-Arms, his daughter Teela, and a dwarf inventor named Gwildor, accidentally transport themselves to Earth with Gwildor's creation, The Cosmic Key, a device that can open portals that lead to any part of the galaxy. Skeletor requires the key for his goal for universal conquest. The Comsic Key is found by Julie Winston and her boyfriend Kevin, and Skeletor and his mercenaries arrive on Earth in pursuit of He-Man and his companions, who are also searching for The Cosmic Key so they can return to Eternia and defeat Skeletor.
Of course, thrown into the mix is a surly and incredulous cop who keeps running into the two teenagers in the wake of damage caused by skirmishes between He-Man and his companions and Skeletor's minions. Naturally, he suspects that the boy Kevin is lying to him that The Cosmic Key is really an advanced new synthesizer from Japan that he found in the graveyard. He believes that Kevin is responsible for the damage and arson, and intends to arrest him. The cop is the vehicle through which the Communist paranoia seeps into this film. At first, when he is in the music store with Kevin, looking to find a reasonable explanation for the "synthesizer", he says something along the lines of "Do you think it's from the Russians?" But the more outrageous example is yet to come.
Just as the two teenagers, He-Man, Man-at-Arms, Teela, and Gwildor are about to fix the now-damaged Key and return to Eternia to stop Skeletor, the cop attempts to arrest them at gun-point with a rifle. In the ensuing chaos, they open the portal and are all transported to Eternia, including part of the brick wall from the building behind them, and half of the pink Cadillac that Gwildor earlier hot-wired and altered to "run on neutrinos". They are thrown into the middle of the throne room at Greyskull, where an intense battle begins. As the minions of Skeletor shoot at them, the cop, in disbelief and rage, yells out "Okay, you pinkos! Nobody takes pot shots at me!" and starts shooting back with his rifle.
What the hell? PInkos. He calls these people, Queerman, Monster Mash, and Zoomacroom, "pinkos":
Maybe it's just me, but they do not seem to be Communists or have any Red tendencies. They do not seem to have any political leanings at all, other than "minions of Skeletor", who most certainly is NOT a pinko. I just can't fathom how they came up with that. Perhaps it is because I think the word "pinko" itself is inordinately funny, but when applied in the most insanely inappropriate atmosphere of the throne room at Greyskull during the defining battle between He-Man and Skeletor, it goes to a whole new level.
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
this is what i am talking about
I'm posting a link to a recent episode of Frontline that is about the rise in prescriptions of psychoactive drugs for young children. Personally, it makes me livid, because there are so many examples of the wrongheaded and insane thinking that many psychologists have about how to approach the problem, like prescribing drugs that were created for adults and without testing how they will affect children, like writing the prescriptions before they have even formed a diagnosis, like forming diagnoses with a COMPLETE lack of critical thinking about what other factors may cause a symptom like "extreme irritability" instead of leaping to the conclusion that means bipolar disorder just because it's listed in the DSM, like succumbing to pressure and bribery from the drug companies to write a lot of prescriptions, etc. I am also in awe of the way these parents will blindly follow the advice of a doctor, even in situations where their child is 4 years old and every single trip to the doctor they come away with a new prescription and/or increases in the ones their child already takes. Or when they say, "Well, his preschool teacher suggested medication, she thought his acting-behavior might be due to a chemical imbalance." WHEN THE HELL DID A PRESCHOOL TEACHER BECOME QUALIFIED TO MAKE THAT SORT OF STATEMENT?!?!?!
The most terrifying aspect of this video to me is how the parents are convinced the children will have to be on drugs for the rest of their lives in order to cope with their conditions. These premature diagoses create a label for the child, not for their behavior, that becomes their identity. Telling your twelve-year-old daughter that she will have to take medication for the rest of her life because she is bipolar is a death sentence. These people don't think about or understand anything about the effects of what they put in their childrens' minds or bodies. There is one mother with a 4-year-old who is insatiably hungry as a side effect of one of his many medications. What does she feed him? Corn dogs. CORN DOGS! How about some fruit, asshole?
This is what I am going to school for. I want to be involved in research that shows how detrimental these drugs can be when used blindly, research into alternative methods for treating these problems (like, how about not one of the psychologists in the video even MENTIONS therapy as an option, as an alternative or supplement to the drugs. Guess what? Our brains are very complex and they are not in a vacuum. It's both nature AND nurture), and research that will further educate us as to how this very complex system works. The oversimplification in the way the brain is described to some of these patients is staggering. People need to be educated about what we know about how the brain works (and this knowledge has to keep increasing through research and NOT research funded and skewed by the drug companies), and they need to be educated or for crying out loud have the goddam intellectual curiosity to SEEK OUT education about what these drugs actually do before they idiotically put them in their own and in their childrens' bodies.
Here's the link:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/medicatedchild/
The most terrifying aspect of this video to me is how the parents are convinced the children will have to be on drugs for the rest of their lives in order to cope with their conditions. These premature diagoses create a label for the child, not for their behavior, that becomes their identity. Telling your twelve-year-old daughter that she will have to take medication for the rest of her life because she is bipolar is a death sentence. These people don't think about or understand anything about the effects of what they put in their childrens' minds or bodies. There is one mother with a 4-year-old who is insatiably hungry as a side effect of one of his many medications. What does she feed him? Corn dogs. CORN DOGS! How about some fruit, asshole?
This is what I am going to school for. I want to be involved in research that shows how detrimental these drugs can be when used blindly, research into alternative methods for treating these problems (like, how about not one of the psychologists in the video even MENTIONS therapy as an option, as an alternative or supplement to the drugs. Guess what? Our brains are very complex and they are not in a vacuum. It's both nature AND nurture), and research that will further educate us as to how this very complex system works. The oversimplification in the way the brain is described to some of these patients is staggering. People need to be educated about what we know about how the brain works (and this knowledge has to keep increasing through research and NOT research funded and skewed by the drug companies), and they need to be educated or for crying out loud have the goddam intellectual curiosity to SEEK OUT education about what these drugs actually do before they idiotically put them in their own and in their childrens' bodies.
Here's the link:
http://www.pbs.org/wgbh/pages/frontline/medicatedchild/
Friday, January 11, 2008
fin de semana
Last Thursday night I was aimlessly deleting songs from my iTunes (a process to which I have now taken a more systematic approach, with very satisfying results), when Robert "I have three weeks off from work" Bell poured himself a rum and coke and set the tone for the entire weekend. What followed was a Rum and Coke Renaissance, in which I remembered how much I used to love them and had to have 4 or 5 reminders to really reinforce it. The thing is, I stopped ordering them at bars because what you get there is a watered-down drink that wouldn't even be satisfying as just a cola. The ones I make are perfect. Captain Morgan's Spiced Rum, enough to really taste it but not enough to make it antiseptic, and the coke preferably slightly warm and just barely perceptably a tiny bit flat. Mmmm.
Anyway, after those 4 or 5 reminders and staying up far later than I usually do led to the decision to skip work the next day, even though I had only worked Wednesday and Thursday of that week so far due to the holidays. I originally intended to merely go in late but when I woke up at 8 (the time I am usually getting to the office), I realized that wasn't happening and proceeded to go back to sleep until 11 (possibly the latest I have slept in the past 2 years). After waking, Rob and I poked around the house for a while, then went to see "Atonement" and ate tex-mex for dinner.
After dinner, we planned to go down to a bar in Park Slope, where we had read that they serve hot buttered rum. It was freezing and the perfect day for it. First, we went home to prepare ourselves for the long, cold walk down to 5th Ave and to also give ourselves a taste-enhancing treat. So of course when we finally got there, in addition to the incredibly delicious hot buttered rums, we had to also order cake. Rob got a chocolate and I got a red velvet; we could feel the sugar crackling on our tongues like Pop Rocks. The only unpleasant thing about the experience was the performance going on in the restaurant.
The place was mostly empty, only a handful of people besides us, but in the back corner behind the bar was a guy set up with a microphone and his acoustic guitar. He was terrible. Not regular "guy with an acoustic guitar in a bar" bad. Beyond the pale. Whiny. Bad covers of really good Cat Stevens songs. Recordings of his grandmother talking about some little girl who used to live down the street from her. And the most amazing, when he prefaced a song with the following statement: "Next I'm going to play a song I wrote based on a poem written by Anne Frank."
Seriously, Anne Frank.
It was unbelievable. We were willing to acknowledge the dissassociation that our current state surely contributed to. But Anne. Frank. In Park Slope, on a Friday night, in a down-home Southern themed restaurant. Why? Unacceptable. We got out of that place quickly while that lunatic was taking a break. Then, Saturday we went to the opera.
Anyway, after those 4 or 5 reminders and staying up far later than I usually do led to the decision to skip work the next day, even though I had only worked Wednesday and Thursday of that week so far due to the holidays. I originally intended to merely go in late but when I woke up at 8 (the time I am usually getting to the office), I realized that wasn't happening and proceeded to go back to sleep until 11 (possibly the latest I have slept in the past 2 years). After waking, Rob and I poked around the house for a while, then went to see "Atonement" and ate tex-mex for dinner.
After dinner, we planned to go down to a bar in Park Slope, where we had read that they serve hot buttered rum. It was freezing and the perfect day for it. First, we went home to prepare ourselves for the long, cold walk down to 5th Ave and to also give ourselves a taste-enhancing treat. So of course when we finally got there, in addition to the incredibly delicious hot buttered rums, we had to also order cake. Rob got a chocolate and I got a red velvet; we could feel the sugar crackling on our tongues like Pop Rocks. The only unpleasant thing about the experience was the performance going on in the restaurant.
The place was mostly empty, only a handful of people besides us, but in the back corner behind the bar was a guy set up with a microphone and his acoustic guitar. He was terrible. Not regular "guy with an acoustic guitar in a bar" bad. Beyond the pale. Whiny. Bad covers of really good Cat Stevens songs. Recordings of his grandmother talking about some little girl who used to live down the street from her. And the most amazing, when he prefaced a song with the following statement: "Next I'm going to play a song I wrote based on a poem written by Anne Frank."
Seriously, Anne Frank.
It was unbelievable. We were willing to acknowledge the dissassociation that our current state surely contributed to. But Anne. Frank. In Park Slope, on a Friday night, in a down-home Southern themed restaurant. Why? Unacceptable. We got out of that place quickly while that lunatic was taking a break. Then, Saturday we went to the opera.
Thursday, January 3, 2008
only in dreams
Last night I dreamed that I was riding again. I was at Stonyhill, the barn I rode at near my parents' house for over ten years. But I was riding Willow, my favorite horse from TSH, my riding camp. I only remember one part of the lesson, and I don't know which of my many trainers was there telling me to warm up with a crossrail. Taking the turn at a trot, feeling so vividly all the mechanics of the movement. Muscle memory that is so deeply ingrained that I can recall it while dreaming. That horse was tall, around 17 hands, and even at the trot he just ate the ground in front of the jump. The warm up jump was always a combination of exciting and laughably small; it always went fast and was just fine. The faceless dream trainer then told me to take the jump again, this time just letting my horse ease into a canter around the turn if he wanted to. She raised the jump, it was now around 2'6" or 3'.
Trotting off, I took the turn and felt my horse's steps quicken in excitement. I felt the tension in my thighs as I followed his movement but tried to stay still enough not to spur him on. The transition from trot to canter was so smooth and controlled, that I knew all I had to do was wait. Oddly, when I looked ahead at the jump, it wasn't there. There was no bar across the two posts. Then I looked again and it was back. I felt my control slipping, my seat pushing my horse forward in anticipation as we got closer. The last two strides are like a black hole for me. I often hold my breath and, like the moment before a car crash, it seems the whole world is bearing down on the barrier in front of me. I have to try to hold onto a shred of consciousness in that moment, if I do, I can feel the rhythm and take the jump right. This happened in the dream last night. It was that pulsing moment where I was looking down at the base of the jump, heading for a chip. But I looked up and we took off, getting the distance just right. When that happens, it's not just about equitation or "doing it right" or how it looks. It is the best feeling I know. It feels like I am in perfect unison with a 2,000 pound animal that is carrying me as, for a few seconds, it flies.
I'm not sure what this dream was about, other than missing the horses. I think sometimes it is simply about getting to experience something that is gone from your life, like talking to someone you lost or visiting a place you've left.
Trotting off, I took the turn and felt my horse's steps quicken in excitement. I felt the tension in my thighs as I followed his movement but tried to stay still enough not to spur him on. The transition from trot to canter was so smooth and controlled, that I knew all I had to do was wait. Oddly, when I looked ahead at the jump, it wasn't there. There was no bar across the two posts. Then I looked again and it was back. I felt my control slipping, my seat pushing my horse forward in anticipation as we got closer. The last two strides are like a black hole for me. I often hold my breath and, like the moment before a car crash, it seems the whole world is bearing down on the barrier in front of me. I have to try to hold onto a shred of consciousness in that moment, if I do, I can feel the rhythm and take the jump right. This happened in the dream last night. It was that pulsing moment where I was looking down at the base of the jump, heading for a chip. But I looked up and we took off, getting the distance just right. When that happens, it's not just about equitation or "doing it right" or how it looks. It is the best feeling I know. It feels like I am in perfect unison with a 2,000 pound animal that is carrying me as, for a few seconds, it flies.
I'm not sure what this dream was about, other than missing the horses. I think sometimes it is simply about getting to experience something that is gone from your life, like talking to someone you lost or visiting a place you've left.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
Posts
