This will be a long blog post, and it will hopefully compensate for my conspicuous blog neglect.
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I just returned from nine days in Paris - a work trip, with intermittent moments of play and discovery, and intense bouts of an abundance of companions and then none at all. It was busy and exciting, and afforded me some real space from the day-to-day here, even during the part of the trip spent with co-workers. And I would have honestly blogged about it every evening, but I had no reliable internet. So here we go - day by day - little thoughts on my surroundings. Some longer than others. Enjoy.
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NOV 4:
A slow acclimation after a long overnight flight and an early morning power nap. I speak French decently, though slowly, and I understand most of what I hear. But it's always the little differences that accumulate to a mountain of strangeness, and that leave me fumbling a little, as one does in dreams. I've been here before so I know the drill, but there is nevertheless a lot of quick on-your-feet rekindling of old knowledge, which is hard enough on its own but while jetlagged is mind-boggling. I almost forgot that the Metro doors don't open automatically. In fact, all doors are strange - giant things, often with ancient locks and latches and bizarre knobs to turn and twist and click. Grocery store options are many and all new, and oh, the produce is weighed before one pays. Coins involve a clumsy fumbling - no intuitive sense of shape and weight. A general adjustment of tempo.
In a matter of days, this will all feel resolved. But not yet. Right now I need to accept these awkwardnesses, and focus on staying awake so as to fall in step with my new time zone. And thankfully I have eleven companions here today to help me, supplying me with coffee, macarons, walking around looking at beautiful things, a good dinner, more coffee, wine, and laughter so hard it brought tears.
NOV 5:
I am staying in a darling little apartment in the 5th arrondisement. I stayed in this same apartment in 2006 when last I was in Paris, that time for almost a month. It's Paris, so most everything unsurprisingly looks just as I left it on my street, but there are strange absences. The internet cafes are gone, largely thanks to a wireless hotspot-type system provided by the French equivalent of Comcast, which of course I can't tap into. First the internet drove a lot of shops out of business - bookstores sometimes, video rental places often. But it's funny that now one form of internet seems to be bankrupting another. Last time I spent a lot of time in two internet cafes just a block apart - one, a dusty little hovel run by two very kind Indian men. The machines in there were old, but one of them had an American keyboard, which I appreciated as I paid by the hour and the French keyboards required a lot of the "searching and pecking" typing method -- very slow. The other cafe was more of the "cyber cafe" variety - geeky, sleeker, and full of awkward, bleary-eyed French boys in their mid- to late- teens smoking cigarettes and playing World of Warcraft for hours on end. This one was cheaper, and the owner sold me a phone card nothing short of magical, as it seemingly allowed me an endless number of minutes.
The last time I was in Paris I spent much of my trip with a dear friend, with whom I am not really in touch anymore for reasons unknown - but in the way that doesn't preclude me from still calling her a good friend, if that makes any sense at all. We were both in college and on very limited budgets, and did a lot of cooking at home and ate a lot of the cheap street food (a rarity in France) on the street next to ours, rue Mouffletard. My friend learned English as a teenager, and I am always in awe of her complete and rapid mastery of it - the kind of language intuition that leaves few traces of its secondary (or in her case, tertiary) order of acquisition. But there were these endearing moments of slippage - following the course of most languages, she occasionally referred to the ground or the street as the floor. In English this was always very charming to me, and so in my head I always thought of the street crêpes we'd eat on some evenings as "floor crêpes."
I had high hopes that by the time I returned to Paris, I'd have enough disposable income to eat out all the time and avoid succumbing to the temptation of the cheap floor crêpes. What a joke! I'm as broke as ever, and so it was floor crêpes for me again. I can't say that I really minded all that much, secretly, for really what's to hate about a crêpe filled with Nutella, Gran Marnier, and bananas? Nothing. Absolutely nothing.
NOV 6:
Accents are a real bitch. It seems perfectly reasonable that when someone from Italy speaks English to me I know they are Italian, and that when someone from France speaks English to me I know they are French. Yet it nevertheless blows my mind that a well thought-out sentence and a half tumble out of my mouth en français at an art museum and I am immediately singled out as an English speaker. I can't conceive of how my French sounds to a native French speaker at all, and how I wish I could, because it would probably help me out a lot to know this.
I've realized that with French in particular, it's not only the accent, but also the intonation. American English, I've come to realize, is not very animated. But French is - it borders on songlike at points. Take the following sentence:
English: I would like a crepe with Nutella and bananas.
That's more or less how one would say it - just as it's typed up there. And if it were phrased as a question - Do you have a crepe with Nutella and bananas? - you might not know it in English. It's just so monotone sometimes.
In French, the whole thing cascades. And not necessarily with the flow of emphasizing the most important element as the sentence, as one does in German. But more as if it's following some sort of secret rhythm:
Je voudrais un crêpe avec Nutella et banane sounds more like:
Je voudrais un crêpe avec Nutella et banane.
I don't know how quite to type it, this crescendo. But I think it's key to my outing myself as a native English speaker over and over.
NOV 7:
My apartment overlooks a little square which is home to many cafés and where nightlife seems to converge on a regular basis. I've learned to love falling asleep to the noise of it, and skulking around among its (drunken) ranks with my iPod Touch, stealing internet from one of the cafés silly enough to make their password the name of their establishment. From my apartment I can always single out the Americans, not even by the very obvious - that they are speaking English - but by the way they laugh. It's hearty and boisterous and loud. Here the French hold back. Maybe laughter compensates for the lack of affect in our daily speech. Or maybe it's all posturing, and not genuine at all. I don't know. But it's different.
I cringe as I make sweeping generalizations like this, and I should say that I don't mean by this that the French aren't funny, because they can be absolutely hilarious. The differences are not universal, but they are significant enough to warrant mentioning and notice.
And on a side note: I am exploring strange new foods. Fig yogurt: surprisingly good! Take note.
NOV 8:
Today while walking along the Seine I saw something fantastic. An epic garbage collector drama unfolded before my very eyes!
I'll preface this by saying that I find French garbage fascinating for two reasons. One is that they do garbage pickup every day. I had a moment where I said, isn't that kind of excessive? But then my French friend pointed out that Paris smells a fuck of a lot better than American cities, and so I retracted my skepticism. The other thing is their outfits are hilarious to me - they basically look like deflated Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtle-inspired raver outfits - baggy and bright, green and yellow, and covered with reflective tape of all kinds.
In any event, as I was walking along the Left Bank I was keeping good pace with a garbage truck (which, because they collect trash daily, is not the smelly behemoth that it would be in the States, so I didn't really mind). I'd get ahead by about a block as they collected trash, and then they'd catch up.
At one of the Ponts the truck stopped and the man riding on the side hopped off, gathered two bags of trash, tossed one in the back of the truck - and - the driver took off without him! The collector - still carrying one bag of trash - yelled a desperate-sounding "Non! NON!" up the street and then proceeded to do this odd, slow trudge up the block dragging a bag of trash with him.
At the next corner, he tosses that bag in the back and grabbed two more. Until this point, I had assumed that the incident on the last corner had been in error, that the driver thought the thud of the bag landing in the back was the man clambering back up on the truck. But oh how wrong I was, for at this corner the driver did the same thing again! This time he was called after not with a "Non! NON!" but with a slue of other words I shall not reproduce here, and some of which I can only guess at the meaning of, but I'm sure it was absolutely foul. With one bag of trash in hand, the garbage collector started up the hill again to meet the driver.
At this intersection the driver got out. He was doubled over with laughter - what a funny prank he thought he'd pulled. But you know who had the last laugh? The collector. Because he walked right up to the driver and punched him in the face!! The outfits, I must tell you, made this scene all the funnier. I'd show you, but googling "French garbage" called up some very disturbing images.
NOV 9:
The French are boisterous drunks, especially the young men. But unlike American college-age drunks, they aren't (for the most part) out streaking or stealing street signs or acting like total fucking assholes in any number of other ways. Instead they sing. I mean, French music is ghastly, and a bunch of inebriated French men trying to make it through as much caroling as they can before they pass out or go home means that success is a tall order. And if American men were out doing the same thing - in their case, probably singing some sort of sports song - I'd be all "shut the fuck up!!!" out the window and demand quiet sleeping time. But there is something stubbornly endearing about the French dude version of this, and sometimes I can't fall asleep for laughing at them from the safe distance of my apartment.
Lately there have been a number of songs that - what with the distance, their drunkenness, and my sleepiness - I have only understood fragments of. One night there was clearly a regional battle - a faction singing some tune with a deep, gutteral, choral "Ly - yon - naiiiis" followed by some rivals belting out a song that seems to be called "Paris, c'est magique!" More enigmatic is this other song that gets sung just about every night, and that I find so hilarious I can't pay close enough attention to the words. It appears to have the word "dix-huit" in the chorus, but I'm probably actually wrong about this. I just want to hang on to the idea that the song goes something like, "Dix-huit! Dix-huit! Blah! Blah! Blah!" In fact, I've made up tons of variations on the blah blah blah part, and I like to sing the dix-huit song to myself often and with enthusiasm as I make my coffee the following morning.
NOV 10:
Today's thoughts are brief, for I am drunk and full, and I have to knock out before I become entranced by the dix-huit song. This evening brought a culinary adventure for me - a five-course, authentic French meal with all the scary components that make this lapsed vegetarian think many a time, "Are you sure you want to put this thing in your mouth?" These moments of pause were tamped down by free-flowing red wine, and then white wine, and then the promise of a renowned cheese plate and some sort of flaming dessert with rum in it, as well as by the "when in Rome" promise I made myself when I sat down at the table. Neither before nor after (and especially during) my vegetarianism was I ever an especially adventurous carnivore, and so it felt rather odd to be willingly eating tête de veau and not just pushing it around on my plate. Same goes for the paté de foie gras and the mysterious game bird that definitely wasn't a chicken. I can't say that I'd ever do it again outside of France, and truly the reason behind the consumption of such things in the first place was simply to be good company in front of some polite company. But it's nice to know that when such situations arise, I can push the bounds of what I am normally comfortable consuming and bravely try something new. Plus, I'm not gonna lie: that paté was pretty out of this world delicious.
NOV 11:
It's Armistice Day, and just about everything is closed. I ran around all day trying to cram too much in - seeing people last-minute, seeing even more art last-minute, buying presents for my cat-sitters at the few shops open today. Now this evening is reserved for packing and a last stroll up to the Seine. Packing has afforded me the time to look at the books in the apartment I'm renting - a scholar's place, full of all sorts of interesting reading material. A quick skim of titles reveals very little overlap between my library and hers. I love this; so often I get entrenched in my field of study, and spend much time with people in the same boat - and I lose sight of just how much there is out there to read, how narrow my focus is. The apartment owner has all sorts of delightful-looking things I'll never have time to read - books about May 68, medieval chansons, gender studies, poetry, and more novels than I allow myself to buy. We have two books in common: one a book on medieval art, the other, Did the Greeks Believe in their Myths? -- though my copy is in English, hers in French. The last time I was here there was a copy of Middlemarch lying around, which I began to re-read. That would have been a third book in common, but it wasn't here this trip.
It feels oddly like I've been here in Paris forever, and yet, that I haven't been able to do half of what I set out to. And I've traveled enough to know that time plays even more tricks on the other end of my journey, and that this time tomorrow when I am back in the States it will feel strangely like I was never here.
NOV 12:
This was supposed to be a thoughtful entry about leaving this beautiful city, written on my forty-minute train ride to the airport, at which I would have enough time to wander about and find the most hilarious thing in duty-free, which I would photograph and post right here. As you can see, there is no photograph, and no thoughtful post, and that is because the train to the airport was not running today. No announcements, no signs, nothing. I was willing to foot the bill for a cab but I knew better - they are hard to flag down and the traffic situation around the edge of the city is unbelievable. So instead I crossed my fingers, made friends with a lovely British couple and a Danish girl who were in the same predicament, and boarded a train to another destination, at which a French man promised me there would be a shuttle bus waiting to take me to the airport. That there was, and it took just about every curvy, windy, roundabout, slow country road to get there, stopping at two points for a drawbridge and a cow that would not move out of the middle of the road. I got to the ticket counter just about when my plane began boarding, and then I was that jackass running through the airport to my terminal. And so my trip ended, out of breath and sweaty and stuck with the misfortune that is airplane food and fifteen dollars in Euros that was supposed to buy me snacks from the airport terminal. Never again, I tell you. Next time, I leave 16 hours before my flight. So next time, the last blog entry will be better than this. I promise.
Tuesday, November 15, 2011
Saturday, October 1, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part R.I.P. America, and other coming attractions (accurate and inaccurate)
1. I just checked out from the library the autobiography of Ella Young, a slightly looney-tunes mystic / folklorist who almost got turned down at Ellis Island in the 1920s for unashamedly professing her belief in faeries and elves. Don't ask. But the subtitle to this text is: Things Remembered Accurately and Inaccurately. This might be the most honest autobiography title ever. Way to go, hippie avant la lettre!
2. I did not go to Trust Market today because I was at the amazing Mütter Museum all day looking at albumen prints of siamese twins and Civil War surgical results and daguerreotypes of rickets and the enlarged colon of a 19th-century gentleman known as Windbag. In a museum in which photography is strictly forbidden, this is the only image I was able to make on the d.l. Yes, they are real:
3. BUT on my way home - conveniently also the route to TM - I saw this new, exciting holiday décor. And so it will serve as a stand-in for my next TM run. I was so worried it wouldn't be there next week, because it's just too good. Halloween is HUGE in this neighborhood, but I can see someone rethinking the patriotic element of this arrangement:
R.I.P. U.S.A.
4. Inspired by the process of moving into my new place, I decided to write a short little blog entry about each of the apartments I've lived in, starting with the earliest one first. But then I started mulling over whether I wanted to start with dorm rooms. Either way, that's coming up. But not tonight. It's late, and I need to sleep. Cross your fingers that thoughts of the Mütter remain active only in my waking life.
2. I did not go to Trust Market today because I was at the amazing Mütter Museum all day looking at albumen prints of siamese twins and Civil War surgical results and daguerreotypes of rickets and the enlarged colon of a 19th-century gentleman known as Windbag. In a museum in which photography is strictly forbidden, this is the only image I was able to make on the d.l. Yes, they are real:
3. BUT on my way home - conveniently also the route to TM - I saw this new, exciting holiday décor. And so it will serve as a stand-in for my next TM run. I was so worried it wouldn't be there next week, because it's just too good. Halloween is HUGE in this neighborhood, but I can see someone rethinking the patriotic element of this arrangement:
R.I.P. U.S.A.
4. Inspired by the process of moving into my new place, I decided to write a short little blog entry about each of the apartments I've lived in, starting with the earliest one first. But then I started mulling over whether I wanted to start with dorm rooms. Either way, that's coming up. But not tonight. It's late, and I need to sleep. Cross your fingers that thoughts of the Mütter remain active only in my waking life.
Thursday, September 29, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part the backlog
Hi Readers and Lookers,
Two weeks of pictures for you, minus the one time my boss bought me lunch. Enjoy!
**An editorial note: In my layout here, the text looks swell. On the interweb, it looks like ee cummings mauled it. I'm okay with this, but mostly because I'm too sleepy to fix the problem and this blog post is already long overdue.
I like this building.
Partially uprooted tree thanks to Irene.
Bricks.
I was walking to TM with S.H. and she saw this.
I still haven't googled it to see what it's all about.
Maybe one of you guys will.
Trust Market hatch.
Window.
Two weeks of pictures for you, minus the one time my boss bought me lunch. Enjoy!
**An editorial note: In my layout here, the text looks swell. On the interweb, it looks like ee cummings mauled it. I'm okay with this, but mostly because I'm too sleepy to fix the problem and this blog post is already long overdue.
I like this building.
Partially uprooted tree thanks to Irene.
Bricks.
I was walking to TM with S.H. and she saw this.
I still haven't googled it to see what it's all about.
Maybe one of you guys will.
Trust Market hatch.
So, technically this isn't on the way to TM; it's on
the way to another deli I was going to with
awesome co-worker J.R. I liked the many layers of
signage.
Snapped in about two seconds while waiting for
co-worker B. "R.K.P." R. to pay for his sandwich.
I mean, his hoagie.
Window.
Sunday, September 18, 2011
Moving Right Along
Hello from my new apartment! Moving is about 95% complete at this point - just a few things left to grab and to do at the old place, and I can relinquish keys for good to the slumlord management company that runs my first Philadelphia apartment. I am very excited about this.
I owe you, dear readers, a week of On my way to Trust Markets. I have been diligently and dutifully taking these pictures, but until today I had no internets over here, which has caused quite a delay. But a nice gentleman from Comcast came to my house between 9 a.m. and 11 a.m. today (read: 11:35 am) and I'm all hooked up. Internet withdrawal - begone!
There are some really awesome things about my new apartment, the most important of which is that it is all mine. No roommate/s! In all my years I've never had my own place and I think it is going to be really good. From my bathroom I can hear some traffic noise and my neighbors but in every other room in the apartment it's whisper quiet. Since in theory I'm supposed to be writing a book and a dissertation and a few talks right now, this is the greatest thing ever.
Here is something else wonderful:
Look, it's taken with my laptop iSight camera, and it's a weird picture, to be sure. BUT CHECK OUT THE TREES! From every window in my living room, bedroom, and kitchen I see a whole lot of trees. It's amazing. I know that in the winter all the leaves will be gone and I'll just see a bunch of backyards. But it's sunny and green and pretty to look at now, and the cat is super stoked to finally be able to bird watch again after four years of apartments with crappy views.
The slumlorded place I just left looks like something out of a Jacob Riis photograph. Since one of my dissertation chapters is on Riis, I didn't mind this so much. The front of the building was a looming, imposing Victorian townhouse, but the back - where my apartment was located - was a maze of fire escapes and brick, and you could probably reach into your neighbor's window from your own if you tried. Back in the air shaft - as my housemate called it - every sound reverberated and you couldn't always tell if it was sunny or overcast. You always knew if it was raining, though, because the sound of it pounding down on the metal fire escape maze was deafening.
Before that I lived in a graduate student apartment in another town. It was a ground floor apartment that happened to be right next to the bus stop for the campus shuttle. So there was always a smattering of stressed out graduate students mulling over math problems or whatever and staring into space outside, except staring into space usually meant they were staring into my bedroom and living room. Also, the path of least resistance to a cluster of other apartment buildings entailed walking between the bus stop and my window, so there was always a lot of foot traffic about a half meter from my bed. That combined with the contraband cat in a no pets apartment complex meant that the blinds were always down. It was dark and sad in there - fitting for graduate school, but not good for me or for the cat.
The new place is not perfect - it is small, and it is really going to break the bank for me. It's on one of the Grand Boulevards of Philadelphia which is much less desirable than the cute one-way street the air shaft apartment was on. But I don't even care. I'm glad to be here, and without any further ado I shall resume listening to old episodes of This American Life and unpacking.
I owe you, dear readers, a week of On my way to Trust Markets. I have been diligently and dutifully taking these pictures, but until today I had no internets over here, which has caused quite a delay. But a nice gentleman from Comcast came to my house between 9 a.m. and 11 a.m. today (read: 11:35 am) and I'm all hooked up. Internet withdrawal - begone!
There are some really awesome things about my new apartment, the most important of which is that it is all mine. No roommate/s! In all my years I've never had my own place and I think it is going to be really good. From my bathroom I can hear some traffic noise and my neighbors but in every other room in the apartment it's whisper quiet. Since in theory I'm supposed to be writing a book and a dissertation and a few talks right now, this is the greatest thing ever.
Here is something else wonderful:
Look, it's taken with my laptop iSight camera, and it's a weird picture, to be sure. BUT CHECK OUT THE TREES! From every window in my living room, bedroom, and kitchen I see a whole lot of trees. It's amazing. I know that in the winter all the leaves will be gone and I'll just see a bunch of backyards. But it's sunny and green and pretty to look at now, and the cat is super stoked to finally be able to bird watch again after four years of apartments with crappy views.
The slumlorded place I just left looks like something out of a Jacob Riis photograph. Since one of my dissertation chapters is on Riis, I didn't mind this so much. The front of the building was a looming, imposing Victorian townhouse, but the back - where my apartment was located - was a maze of fire escapes and brick, and you could probably reach into your neighbor's window from your own if you tried. Back in the air shaft - as my housemate called it - every sound reverberated and you couldn't always tell if it was sunny or overcast. You always knew if it was raining, though, because the sound of it pounding down on the metal fire escape maze was deafening.
Before that I lived in a graduate student apartment in another town. It was a ground floor apartment that happened to be right next to the bus stop for the campus shuttle. So there was always a smattering of stressed out graduate students mulling over math problems or whatever and staring into space outside, except staring into space usually meant they were staring into my bedroom and living room. Also, the path of least resistance to a cluster of other apartment buildings entailed walking between the bus stop and my window, so there was always a lot of foot traffic about a half meter from my bed. That combined with the contraband cat in a no pets apartment complex meant that the blinds were always down. It was dark and sad in there - fitting for graduate school, but not good for me or for the cat.
The new place is not perfect - it is small, and it is really going to break the bank for me. It's on one of the Grand Boulevards of Philadelphia which is much less desirable than the cute one-way street the air shaft apartment was on. But I don't even care. I'm glad to be here, and without any further ado I shall resume listening to old episodes of This American Life and unpacking.
Monday, September 12, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part 5
Oh hi, Internet. It's Trust Market for me all week, because I'm moving on Friday and my whole kitchen is packed up. And so without further ado:
Thursday, September 8, 2011
Three things
1. This delightful homebrewed Baahston-accented video is just delightful. I love that accent so much. I could watch this over and over. What is this: eeerrrrrrth fuhruit?
Maaaaaahtians
2. I've just spent the morning going through some uncatalogued photographs from the 1930s, all stacked neatly in boxes just big enough to hold them. And now my hands smell like darkroom. If you've ever worked in one, you know what I'm talking about and you probably love it. If you know what I'm talking about but haven't worked in a darkroom, you probably hate it. I find it so staggering that fixers and developers from almost a century ago can still leave their mark on me. I really love it.
3. My On my way to Trust Market from yesterday, which did not get posted as I accidentally ended up at a dinner party until late. GARGOYLE!
Maaaaaahtians
2. I've just spent the morning going through some uncatalogued photographs from the 1930s, all stacked neatly in boxes just big enough to hold them. And now my hands smell like darkroom. If you've ever worked in one, you know what I'm talking about and you probably love it. If you know what I'm talking about but haven't worked in a darkroom, you probably hate it. I find it so staggering that fixers and developers from almost a century ago can still leave their mark on me. I really love it.
3. My On my way to Trust Market from yesterday, which did not get posted as I accidentally ended up at a dinner party until late. GARGOYLE!
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part 4
Today it was dreary and chilly and rainy. When I left work, it was so dark that the patio lights were on, something I haven't seen in ... well ... many months. I'm already feeling autumn and that's just fine by me. I like me some seasons, and when suddenly everything in sight is pumpkin-flavored.
Anyway, on my way to Trust Market it was pouring and my umbrella broke so I was unable to take a photo without putting my camera in harm's way. BUT I have a backlog of pictures from when I'd started the project but hadn't yet begun blogging the results. So here you go, a walk to Trust Market on a sunny summer's day:
Dogs. Creepy twin stuffed dogs. Staring at YOU!
Anyway, on my way to Trust Market it was pouring and my umbrella broke so I was unable to take a photo without putting my camera in harm's way. BUT I have a backlog of pictures from when I'd started the project but hadn't yet begun blogging the results. So here you go, a walk to Trust Market on a sunny summer's day:
Dogs. Creepy twin stuffed dogs. Staring at YOU!
Monday, September 5, 2011
Look Around You
Look Around You is some sort of brilliant British spoof on those ridiculous educational films we all had to endure in the 1970s and 1980s. Here are links to a few episodes:
Look Around You: Maths
Look Around You: Iron
Anyway, I've had the introduction to these episodes lodnged in my brain - the part in which the narrator calmly repeats "Look Around You" to the bad synthesizer soundtrack - as I spend more and more time wandering around my neighborhood. Note that this wandering is not because I did not pack a lunch, though I can promise you that there will be an On my way to Trust Market post tomorrow. Instead it has been because I am moving in a few weeks, and the real estate company who owns my current apartment has been showing it every other day, and I do not want to be present for this. Thus for an hour or so in the evening I go find something else to do.
Mind you, there is no rule that requires me to be out of the apartment when prospective tenants come by. But I feel it's best for everyone involved. When I moved to Philadelphia last year, I only had a few days to find a place, and there was just not a lot available. I took the best of what I saw, but this apartment has tons of problems. It's very poorly insulated and doesn't get enough sunlight. There are repairs that need to be done that the management company has ignored. I could go on, and I could also point out that the ads for my apartment on Craigslist list the rent as over $200.00 more than what I currently pay, which was already too much for a place that's falling apart. But anyway it's because of this that I don't want to be home when they show the place: I wouldn't have the heart to lie to prospective tenants and tell them the place is great, and I wouldn't have the nerve to be honest in front of the people who still owe me my security and refundable pet deposit. It's a real moral quandry, and so I've opted out of it every time I get a (less than 24 hours notice) message telling me when my apartment will be shown.
Many of these times I have just gone to a friend's place to hang out, or done some work in my office. Today, though, my friends in the neighborhood were not home and I really didn't want to go to work on my day off. And in observance of Labor Day, nobody was laboring and so all the coffee places were closing up when I needed a nice place to sit for an hour. So, I decided to take a walk around town, knowing that I couldn't go too far because I had things to do up the street soon after today's showing.
In large part I was enthusiastic about this wandering. My Trust Market project has made me realize how little of my neighborhood - which itself isn't terribly large - I've actually deeply explored. In particular, that little hobbit door (mentioned in my most recent post below) prompted me to look around me - I have crossed that intersection so many times and never actually managed to notice that door, which is just absurd. I want to know my neighborhood in such a profoundly deep way - the kind of familiarity that allows you to notice when someone has painted their front door a different color, the kind of looking that will end with a mental map of historical site markers, every corner deli, all the good graffiti, quirky architectural details, funny bumper stickers on cars regularly parked on certain blocks. I love Philadelphia so much, and making a point of learning it like this will help me love it all the more.
Today I discovered an Indian restaurant I didn't know about. And I also saw these two wonderful things:
1. A stair railing of decorative lyres
2. The weirdest window décor ever
I mean, what is up with that? It is not a shop window unless it's an unmarked storefront. I even walked around to the block parallel to this to make sure it wasn't a building that went through the block - it isn't. Is there some cultural reference I'm missing - is this a narrative that makes any sense to anyone? And moreover, why would you do this to your front window? And most important: how long has it been four blocks from my house?
Look Around You: Maths
Look Around You: Iron
Anyway, I've had the introduction to these episodes lodnged in my brain - the part in which the narrator calmly repeats "Look Around You" to the bad synthesizer soundtrack - as I spend more and more time wandering around my neighborhood. Note that this wandering is not because I did not pack a lunch, though I can promise you that there will be an On my way to Trust Market post tomorrow. Instead it has been because I am moving in a few weeks, and the real estate company who owns my current apartment has been showing it every other day, and I do not want to be present for this. Thus for an hour or so in the evening I go find something else to do.
Mind you, there is no rule that requires me to be out of the apartment when prospective tenants come by. But I feel it's best for everyone involved. When I moved to Philadelphia last year, I only had a few days to find a place, and there was just not a lot available. I took the best of what I saw, but this apartment has tons of problems. It's very poorly insulated and doesn't get enough sunlight. There are repairs that need to be done that the management company has ignored. I could go on, and I could also point out that the ads for my apartment on Craigslist list the rent as over $200.00 more than what I currently pay, which was already too much for a place that's falling apart. But anyway it's because of this that I don't want to be home when they show the place: I wouldn't have the heart to lie to prospective tenants and tell them the place is great, and I wouldn't have the nerve to be honest in front of the people who still owe me my security and refundable pet deposit. It's a real moral quandry, and so I've opted out of it every time I get a (less than 24 hours notice) message telling me when my apartment will be shown.
Many of these times I have just gone to a friend's place to hang out, or done some work in my office. Today, though, my friends in the neighborhood were not home and I really didn't want to go to work on my day off. And in observance of Labor Day, nobody was laboring and so all the coffee places were closing up when I needed a nice place to sit for an hour. So, I decided to take a walk around town, knowing that I couldn't go too far because I had things to do up the street soon after today's showing.
In large part I was enthusiastic about this wandering. My Trust Market project has made me realize how little of my neighborhood - which itself isn't terribly large - I've actually deeply explored. In particular, that little hobbit door (mentioned in my most recent post below) prompted me to look around me - I have crossed that intersection so many times and never actually managed to notice that door, which is just absurd. I want to know my neighborhood in such a profoundly deep way - the kind of familiarity that allows you to notice when someone has painted their front door a different color, the kind of looking that will end with a mental map of historical site markers, every corner deli, all the good graffiti, quirky architectural details, funny bumper stickers on cars regularly parked on certain blocks. I love Philadelphia so much, and making a point of learning it like this will help me love it all the more.
Today I discovered an Indian restaurant I didn't know about. And I also saw these two wonderful things:
1. A stair railing of decorative lyres
2. The weirdest window décor ever
I mean, what is up with that? It is not a shop window unless it's an unmarked storefront. I even walked around to the block parallel to this to make sure it wasn't a building that went through the block - it isn't. Is there some cultural reference I'm missing - is this a narrative that makes any sense to anyone? And moreover, why would you do this to your front window? And most important: how long has it been four blocks from my house?
Wednesday, August 31, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, sort of
I did not pack my lunch today, but my boss bought us lunch and brought it back. Why, you ask? Because he's that awesome, that's why. I'm not sure what this means for the picture-taking contract I made with myself, but I did see something so fab on the way to pick up some toothpaste at the drug store after work that I have to post it. So maybe this should be called On my way to Rite-Aid, but that's just not as great-sounding.
I seriously can't even tell you how tiny this door is. We're talking maybe two feet tall. I'm going back with a person for scale and taking another picture at some point, because this really cracked me up. What pushed it over the edge from just weird into hilariously weird is the doorknocker. It's so fantastic. I really hope there are leprechauns living on Spring Garden Street. Oh, that would make me so happy.
*
There will be no more On my way to Trust Market posts this week, and I'll tell you why. This lady got herself a F*A*R*M*S*H*A*R*E this week! Thanks, M.C.! I mean, C.C.!
I have spent the last three hours cooking batches of this stuff and figuring out what I will make with the rest. I'm most excited about the corn and the dillweed, but not together. Also the yogurt is super tangy and delicious andwill make me and A.T.M. some super good popsicles in M.C.'s popsicle maker while she is away this weekend tasted great in a mango smoothie I made earlier this evening. It was also the base for a lemon-dill dressing, which will garnish the salad I packed for lunch tomorrow. So there, photo project!!
I seriously can't even tell you how tiny this door is. We're talking maybe two feet tall. I'm going back with a person for scale and taking another picture at some point, because this really cracked me up. What pushed it over the edge from just weird into hilariously weird is the doorknocker. It's so fantastic. I really hope there are leprechauns living on Spring Garden Street. Oh, that would make me so happy.
*
There will be no more On my way to Trust Market posts this week, and I'll tell you why. This lady got herself a F*A*R*M*S*H*A*R*E this week! Thanks, M.C.! I mean, C.C.!
I have spent the last three hours cooking batches of this stuff and figuring out what I will make with the rest. I'm most excited about the corn and the dillweed, but not together. Also the yogurt is super tangy and delicious and
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part 3
Someone worked really hard to shove that pizza menu in between those doors.
Monday, August 29, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part 2
Trust Market: for when you can't decide between a jar of pickles and a steno notebook.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
Hurricane thoughts
1. I remember being in at least three of these as a kid, and back then I lived less than a quarter mile from the ocean. Far from my mind as a child were the things that usually trouble people during big storms: mortality; property damage; an entire refrigerator full of rotten food; clearing heaps and heaps of brush from the lawn; lost crops. My main memory of these storms was this: This is really, really boring.
Looking back, "boring" was really a good thing, as it meant that our roof didn't blow off or anything dramatic. I think we lost a few windows here and there to high winds, and the yard was a total wreck - a potpourri of fallen branches, fallen trees, and who knows what else, all heavy with water. It's just that there was nothing to do. My parents, my slightly a.d.d. little brother, our two cats, and this mysterious old lady neighbor who only seemed to come over during hurricanes would all huddle in our basement, beginning well before the storm hit and lasting long after it seemed reasonable to go back upstairs. I'm pretty sure this old lady came over becaue her house didn't have a basement level, but it always made the quarantine even more uncomfortable as she was clearly one of those adults who hated children (or maybe just the stir-crazy, locked in the basement with no electricity kind). While the power remained on I was okay. I'd bring a pile of chapter books down to read, and other than the cement floor issue and the inability to shut my brother out of my space, it was more or less how I would spend any other day.
The trouble always began for me when the lights inevitably went out. My brother would get even more fidgety and sitting in the dark with this old lady I didn't know kind of gave me the creeps. And of course there was the plain fact of not being able to read anymore. I wasn't allowed to read by the one window in case the glass blew in and I wasn't allowed to squander flashlight batteries on keeping myself entertained. The radio was on but it was forever news, news, weather, news, weather and it bored me to tears. I tried to just go to sleep but that never worked, either, probably again because of that whole lying on a concrete slab stuffed into a Care Bears sleeping bag business.
A bathroom and food break was permitted as necessary, but the best time to do this was as the eye of the storm passed over. For those unfamiliar with hurricanes, this is when the winds and rain stop and everything gets eerily quiet and still. With the imminent threat of smashing glass and trees tumbling at a standstill, I could go to the bathroom and get a snack without my mother shrilly calling from the basement for me to hurry up and get my butt back down there.
Even once the storm ended, the boredom didn't. The power stayed off for days - once over a week; the phone lines were out almost as long. The yard was off-limits, and the meals got stranger and stranger as we plowed through whatever we had in the house. I remember one time just begging and begging to go to McDonald's - which I didn't even particularly like - just becuae I had heard that morning over the radio that they had re-opened and this seemed like a viable way to get the hell out of the house.
*
Now I am an adult with a few (though not all) of the adult-type storm worries that never concerned me as a child. But I will say this: even with the internet, and the power still on, and adulthood levels of patience and nobody here to interrupt my reading I am still bored. So now I have the perhaps paranoid fear / nervous anticipation of my windows blowing in or a tornado striking plus an unfocused attention, a strange inability to just zone out and get absorbed in a book. I could even read by flashlight later if I wanted, or turn the radio on to rock-n-roll. These are the choices I can make as an adult, but at this particular moment this revelation is alarmingly not as gratifying as I'd imagined.
2. Another thought, 12 hours later: Irene, thank you for being such a wienie. I didn't even lose power. The basement didn't flood. Thank you for that.
Looking back, "boring" was really a good thing, as it meant that our roof didn't blow off or anything dramatic. I think we lost a few windows here and there to high winds, and the yard was a total wreck - a potpourri of fallen branches, fallen trees, and who knows what else, all heavy with water. It's just that there was nothing to do. My parents, my slightly a.d.d. little brother, our two cats, and this mysterious old lady neighbor who only seemed to come over during hurricanes would all huddle in our basement, beginning well before the storm hit and lasting long after it seemed reasonable to go back upstairs. I'm pretty sure this old lady came over becaue her house didn't have a basement level, but it always made the quarantine even more uncomfortable as she was clearly one of those adults who hated children (or maybe just the stir-crazy, locked in the basement with no electricity kind). While the power remained on I was okay. I'd bring a pile of chapter books down to read, and other than the cement floor issue and the inability to shut my brother out of my space, it was more or less how I would spend any other day.
The trouble always began for me when the lights inevitably went out. My brother would get even more fidgety and sitting in the dark with this old lady I didn't know kind of gave me the creeps. And of course there was the plain fact of not being able to read anymore. I wasn't allowed to read by the one window in case the glass blew in and I wasn't allowed to squander flashlight batteries on keeping myself entertained. The radio was on but it was forever news, news, weather, news, weather and it bored me to tears. I tried to just go to sleep but that never worked, either, probably again because of that whole lying on a concrete slab stuffed into a Care Bears sleeping bag business.
A bathroom and food break was permitted as necessary, but the best time to do this was as the eye of the storm passed over. For those unfamiliar with hurricanes, this is when the winds and rain stop and everything gets eerily quiet and still. With the imminent threat of smashing glass and trees tumbling at a standstill, I could go to the bathroom and get a snack without my mother shrilly calling from the basement for me to hurry up and get my butt back down there.
Even once the storm ended, the boredom didn't. The power stayed off for days - once over a week; the phone lines were out almost as long. The yard was off-limits, and the meals got stranger and stranger as we plowed through whatever we had in the house. I remember one time just begging and begging to go to McDonald's - which I didn't even particularly like - just becuae I had heard that morning over the radio that they had re-opened and this seemed like a viable way to get the hell out of the house.
*
Now I am an adult with a few (though not all) of the adult-type storm worries that never concerned me as a child. But I will say this: even with the internet, and the power still on, and adulthood levels of patience and nobody here to interrupt my reading I am still bored. So now I have the perhaps paranoid fear / nervous anticipation of my windows blowing in or a tornado striking plus an unfocused attention, a strange inability to just zone out and get absorbed in a book. I could even read by flashlight later if I wanted, or turn the radio on to rock-n-roll. These are the choices I can make as an adult, but at this particular moment this revelation is alarmingly not as gratifying as I'd imagined.
2. Another thought, 12 hours later: Irene, thank you for being such a wienie. I didn't even lose power. The basement didn't flood. Thank you for that.
Friday, August 26, 2011
On my way to Trust Market, part 1 of many
My dear six readers of this blog,
I need to get better at packing my lunch.
In order to offer myself a lunch-packing incentive, I have a new self-imposed rule. Here it is:
On days that I neglect to pack a lunch, I must take a photograph of something on my way to buy a sandwich at the neighborhood deli.*
Oh, and I have to post the photographs on my blog.
And so it begins.
*In most cases, probably with a crappy cell phone camera. Also you should know that the deli is three very short blocks (about two normal city blocks) from my work.
I need to get better at packing my lunch.
In order to offer myself a lunch-packing incentive, I have a new self-imposed rule. Here it is:
On days that I neglect to pack a lunch, I must take a photograph of something on my way to buy a sandwich at the neighborhood deli.*
Oh, and I have to post the photographs on my blog.
And so it begins.
*In most cases, probably with a crappy cell phone camera. Also you should know that the deli is three very short blocks (about two normal city blocks) from my work.
Monday, August 8, 2011
Photo Booth Lament
I am in Washington D.C. this week for work, and it is swell. During the workday I am in and out of various archives looking at pictures, poring over documents, and meeting other people in my field. In the evenings I return to my sublet and get tons of work done that I've been putting off (and also blogging that I've been putting off). The only other person I know in town is the woman from whom I am renting a room, and she is busy packing to move next week. The only things I brought with me are my laptop and clothes. This leaves me free to sit quietly and think in the evening without feeling guilty about how I should be out having drinks with so-and-so or cleaning my apartment or going to the gym. Not that I mind these things, but it's nice to just shove them aside for seven days and attend to other matters.
I was here last summer, in the very same sublet, but for a much longer stay. I spent each morning and afternoon looking at photographs in the lovely study room in the Library of Congress, furiously taking notes and jotting down ideas and generally having a good time of it. But after hours of careful looking, I always needed a little time out to recharge before heading back to the sublet or going out with friends (I know more people here last year). For me, a bona fide city rat, the best space to regroup was always the most chaotic, and so just about every day I would drag my ass through swampy 105 degree weather to Union Station, sit down with a raspberry lemon smoothie, and do the wretched Metro crossword puzzle and process what I'd seen that day. Where possible, I always sat at the same table in the lower level under some stairs, because it offered a great view of the Presidential Photo Booth.
Old routines are hard to break, and so today when I left the National Gallery I walked to Union Station and went to my old table, only to find that the photo booth was no longer there. This particular photo booth was not really a true "booth" in the first place; it was digital and had a big green screen monitor that allowed others to watch the sitter getting his or her picture made. It was presidential insofar as the sitter posed in a tableau with the president of her or his choice, provided that she or he chose George H.W. Bush or Barack Obama. Most of the people partaking in this activity were evidently politically left-leaning; I watched scores of kids throwing up the peace sign with Obama and Michelle or pretending to moon W. The photo historian in me wondered what scholars in my field would think a century from now if they found a cache of these pictures at auction, or in someone's attic, or in some weird archive. What do they tell us about vernacular photography now? The fact that there wasn't a curtain built into the kiosk is of course telling; no phone booths, no photo booths now. Everything is just loud and out there and public in 2011 in a way that it was not even twenty years ago.
I harbor secret hopes that they simply moved the photo booth, and so tomorrow after a triumphant (?) return to the LC I shall search for it. But probably the company folded, which tells us as much about photography in the present as politics in America right now, I think. Looks like I'm going to have to amend my routine for the next few.
I was here last summer, in the very same sublet, but for a much longer stay. I spent each morning and afternoon looking at photographs in the lovely study room in the Library of Congress, furiously taking notes and jotting down ideas and generally having a good time of it. But after hours of careful looking, I always needed a little time out to recharge before heading back to the sublet or going out with friends (I know more people here last year). For me, a bona fide city rat, the best space to regroup was always the most chaotic, and so just about every day I would drag my ass through swampy 105 degree weather to Union Station, sit down with a raspberry lemon smoothie, and do the wretched Metro crossword puzzle and process what I'd seen that day. Where possible, I always sat at the same table in the lower level under some stairs, because it offered a great view of the Presidential Photo Booth.
Old routines are hard to break, and so today when I left the National Gallery I walked to Union Station and went to my old table, only to find that the photo booth was no longer there. This particular photo booth was not really a true "booth" in the first place; it was digital and had a big green screen monitor that allowed others to watch the sitter getting his or her picture made. It was presidential insofar as the sitter posed in a tableau with the president of her or his choice, provided that she or he chose George H.W. Bush or Barack Obama. Most of the people partaking in this activity were evidently politically left-leaning; I watched scores of kids throwing up the peace sign with Obama and Michelle or pretending to moon W. The photo historian in me wondered what scholars in my field would think a century from now if they found a cache of these pictures at auction, or in someone's attic, or in some weird archive. What do they tell us about vernacular photography now? The fact that there wasn't a curtain built into the kiosk is of course telling; no phone booths, no photo booths now. Everything is just loud and out there and public in 2011 in a way that it was not even twenty years ago.
I harbor secret hopes that they simply moved the photo booth, and so tomorrow after a triumphant (?) return to the LC I shall search for it. But probably the company folded, which tells us as much about photography in the present as politics in America right now, I think. Looks like I'm going to have to amend my routine for the next few.
Sunday, June 26, 2011
And now for something completely different
No words (except these). Just a song that has lodged itself in my brain:
College the First Time
It lasted all of a year, and then I dropped out. At the time I told myself I was just taking a little time off - and, in fact, five years later when I finally went back and loved school, this was actualized. But for a long while in between college round one and college round two, "dropout" would have been the more appropriate term.
I hardly ever think about college round one, but it comes up often enough, mostly when people I meet in an academic context get super confused about how I am in my 30s but only earned my BA five years ago. Earlier this week I was really put through the ringer about the whole ordeal, and so it's been on my mind. I'm trying to piece together what I was up to then, and how to account for how different things were for me when I was 17 than they are now.
College the First Time was a small (I mean really, really small) liberal arts school in New England. My assigned roommate and I were the very best of friends until suddenly we were worst enemies; looking back, I should have known from the start that she was kind of nuts and just kept my distance. She played the guitar, which I had no interest in doing (although took up in my 20s), and was an artist, which I suddenly had every interest in becoming. I arrived with an arsenal of bad poetry and short stories and was determined to churn out many more, not realizing until much later the the medium in which I would eventually find the most creative expression would be non-fiction. During College the First Time I added to my repertoire of creative endeavours drawing, set design, pottery, and photography. I was truly convinced that I had something to say, but I had absolutely no idea what that thing was, and only through photography did I come even remotely close to figuring that thing out. But even there I failed.
Under the guidance of my new roommate and in a gesture of feminist solidarity I hacked off most of my hair the first week of school. There was much pomp and ceremony involved, and needless to say it really confused many of the people I'd just met. I went through this awkward total butchy moment that I look back on as pretty sincere and endearing but also as kind of the worst choice ever. I was up to my ears in mid-1990s nonsense like overalls and combat boots and thrift store t-shirts that said things like "I love everybody and you're next." When my hair grew back I dyed it fire engine red. The cassette player was always blasting this or this or this or this or this, and it was never not blasting. I spent a lot of time in diners, writing more bad poems.
I'm almost certain I went to class sometimes. In the more traditionally academic courses, I remember a lot of things seeming like they could be super interesting, but paradoxically I wasn't that interested in them (or anything else). I found many poets taxing, was intrigued by Emma Goldman, adored Chaucer, and adored Charles Dickens even more. But that was really about it. Art history - which became my love and my career much later - was not taught because the faculty didn't want the past to taint our creative processes. The one professor who wouldn't stand for this was the man who taught photography, and so as a photo student I was required to take a zero-credit three-hour lecture on the history of photography once a week. The history of photography has become my field, and I would love to say that these lectures way back when informed this decision in some way. But I can't. I hardly remember them. I wish I did, because it would make me feel loads better about still paying off my College the First Time student loans.
By the middle of my second semester I knew I wasn't going to return the following year. And by the time I went back to school - this time, armed with a goal and firm ideas about what I wanted out of the experience - I knew I would transfer to another very different institution. At a rough-and-tumble large urban state school I fell in love with academics. Thank you, College the First Time, for showing me so early what I didn't want.
I hardly ever think about college round one, but it comes up often enough, mostly when people I meet in an academic context get super confused about how I am in my 30s but only earned my BA five years ago. Earlier this week I was really put through the ringer about the whole ordeal, and so it's been on my mind. I'm trying to piece together what I was up to then, and how to account for how different things were for me when I was 17 than they are now.
College the First Time was a small (I mean really, really small) liberal arts school in New England. My assigned roommate and I were the very best of friends until suddenly we were worst enemies; looking back, I should have known from the start that she was kind of nuts and just kept my distance. She played the guitar, which I had no interest in doing (although took up in my 20s), and was an artist, which I suddenly had every interest in becoming. I arrived with an arsenal of bad poetry and short stories and was determined to churn out many more, not realizing until much later the the medium in which I would eventually find the most creative expression would be non-fiction. During College the First Time I added to my repertoire of creative endeavours drawing, set design, pottery, and photography. I was truly convinced that I had something to say, but I had absolutely no idea what that thing was, and only through photography did I come even remotely close to figuring that thing out. But even there I failed.
Under the guidance of my new roommate and in a gesture of feminist solidarity I hacked off most of my hair the first week of school. There was much pomp and ceremony involved, and needless to say it really confused many of the people I'd just met. I went through this awkward total butchy moment that I look back on as pretty sincere and endearing but also as kind of the worst choice ever. I was up to my ears in mid-1990s nonsense like overalls and combat boots and thrift store t-shirts that said things like "I love everybody and you're next." When my hair grew back I dyed it fire engine red. The cassette player was always blasting this or this or this or this or this, and it was never not blasting. I spent a lot of time in diners, writing more bad poems.
I'm almost certain I went to class sometimes. In the more traditionally academic courses, I remember a lot of things seeming like they could be super interesting, but paradoxically I wasn't that interested in them (or anything else). I found many poets taxing, was intrigued by Emma Goldman, adored Chaucer, and adored Charles Dickens even more. But that was really about it. Art history - which became my love and my career much later - was not taught because the faculty didn't want the past to taint our creative processes. The one professor who wouldn't stand for this was the man who taught photography, and so as a photo student I was required to take a zero-credit three-hour lecture on the history of photography once a week. The history of photography has become my field, and I would love to say that these lectures way back when informed this decision in some way. But I can't. I hardly remember them. I wish I did, because it would make me feel loads better about still paying off my College the First Time student loans.
By the middle of my second semester I knew I wasn't going to return the following year. And by the time I went back to school - this time, armed with a goal and firm ideas about what I wanted out of the experience - I knew I would transfer to another very different institution. At a rough-and-tumble large urban state school I fell in love with academics. Thank you, College the First Time, for showing me so early what I didn't want.
Wednesday, June 22, 2011
Get your pets spayed and neutered, people (redux)
I know I've blogged somewhere down there about The Price is Right, but here I am doing it again. Just bear with me. And if you're one of my co-workers, and you think this blog post is going to be about the time last week in Arizona when I had to go swimming with my boss in a pool owned by someone named Bob Barker (not the actual game show host) -- think again. I would never.
Nope. This blog post is about last Monday, when I took my first ever for realz sick day from work.
I know what you're thinking - you're thinking, but A.B., you've been working for a million years at so many jobs -- how can this be? But it's really true. All the jobs I had between undergrad round 1 and underground round 2 that afforded me sick days made it truly impossible to actually take them. They were the sorts of employment situations in which very few people could replace you, especially last-minute, and you were absolutely integral to things not falling to bits. It was Really Frowned Upon to call out, and generally so doing would mean begging a coworker to cover for you and then owing them tenfold in shifts later on. These were the sorts of jobs that on paper were forty hours per week but really ended up being sixty, and so time off was sacred. Calling in sick meant disrupting someone else's sacred time. It was a real problem.
And then when I was putting myself through college, I had two hourly jobs. Calling in sick would disrupt the very delicate balance of barely being out of debt and being in debt. It was all very complicated, and so I always went to work even when I felt like total ass.
Now, however, I have a real(ish) job with a lovely boss at which I am not expected to show up if I don't feel well unless something really and truly dire is going on. I had no idea what to make of this, and so Monday when I woke up after my Sunday evening "I'm in denial about my scratchy throat" South Philly water ice [look it up, non-Philly people] crawl and felt even worse, I definitely lay in bed for about an hour willing myself to get up and get in the shower and drag myself to my desk. I had the same debate an hour before about bagging on my morning run, but I felt certain that I would make it to my job. But at some point I surrendered, and left an all-too-long and over-explain-y voice mail for my boss, and then a worse one for the department administrator, about how awful I felt. And then I went back to sleep.
It was amazing.
Around 11 I woke up and really needed to watch an episode of The Price is Right, like the good old days of middle school mornings spent home sick. I was hoping to turn up some 1980s episodes with Bob Barker, but the internet did not provide. Instead I watched a recent one on CBS with Drew Carey as host. I was pleased to find that he threw out the same Barker tagline at the end about spaying and neurering your pets, though it didn't have the same je-ne-sais-quoi that Bob's got. It's also worth pointing out that the Price is Right mystique that I recall from childhood - aka "How the hell do they know how much this shit is worth?!" was not solved by my graceful entry into legitimate adulthood. Put a six egg boiler or a steam shower or a speedboat or a vacation to Hawai'i or some Fiestaware in front of me, and I still can't tell you if it costs $5 or $5,000. They need some sort of secondhand store version of this show. At that I'd be a champion.
FWIW, I'm on the mend now. And that sick day sure helped. Thanks, my job.
Nope. This blog post is about last Monday, when I took my first ever for realz sick day from work.
I know what you're thinking - you're thinking, but A.B., you've been working for a million years at so many jobs -- how can this be? But it's really true. All the jobs I had between undergrad round 1 and underground round 2 that afforded me sick days made it truly impossible to actually take them. They were the sorts of employment situations in which very few people could replace you, especially last-minute, and you were absolutely integral to things not falling to bits. It was Really Frowned Upon to call out, and generally so doing would mean begging a coworker to cover for you and then owing them tenfold in shifts later on. These were the sorts of jobs that on paper were forty hours per week but really ended up being sixty, and so time off was sacred. Calling in sick meant disrupting someone else's sacred time. It was a real problem.
And then when I was putting myself through college, I had two hourly jobs. Calling in sick would disrupt the very delicate balance of barely being out of debt and being in debt. It was all very complicated, and so I always went to work even when I felt like total ass.
Now, however, I have a real(ish) job with a lovely boss at which I am not expected to show up if I don't feel well unless something really and truly dire is going on. I had no idea what to make of this, and so Monday when I woke up after my Sunday evening "I'm in denial about my scratchy throat" South Philly water ice [look it up, non-Philly people] crawl and felt even worse, I definitely lay in bed for about an hour willing myself to get up and get in the shower and drag myself to my desk. I had the same debate an hour before about bagging on my morning run, but I felt certain that I would make it to my job. But at some point I surrendered, and left an all-too-long and over-explain-y voice mail for my boss, and then a worse one for the department administrator, about how awful I felt. And then I went back to sleep.
It was amazing.
Around 11 I woke up and really needed to watch an episode of The Price is Right, like the good old days of middle school mornings spent home sick. I was hoping to turn up some 1980s episodes with Bob Barker, but the internet did not provide. Instead I watched a recent one on CBS with Drew Carey as host. I was pleased to find that he threw out the same Barker tagline at the end about spaying and neurering your pets, though it didn't have the same je-ne-sais-quoi that Bob's got. It's also worth pointing out that the Price is Right mystique that I recall from childhood - aka "How the hell do they know how much this shit is worth?!" was not solved by my graceful entry into legitimate adulthood. Put a six egg boiler or a steam shower or a speedboat or a vacation to Hawai'i or some Fiestaware in front of me, and I still can't tell you if it costs $5 or $5,000. They need some sort of secondhand store version of this show. At that I'd be a champion.
FWIW, I'm on the mend now. And that sick day sure helped. Thanks, my job.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
A Random Assortment of Philadelphia Occurrences, May the 28th, 2011
1.
Overheard snippit of a conversation between a heavily-tattooed guy in his late 20s and his girlfriend:
Guy: Yeah, so, the thing about this tattoo (points to cobweb tattoo on left elbow) is that all these bitches keep getting them even when they haven't been in the slammer. Like the other day I saw this girl with one and I was like "Yo, where were you locked up?" and she says, "Huh?" And I say, "What prison were you at?" and I point to her tattoo. And she's like "Ummm, I wasn't in prison." Let me tell you, that bitch is lucky nobody's walked right up to her after that answer and cut that tattoo right off her fucking arm.
[pause]
Oh hey, you want to go into H&M?
2.
Overheard conversation between two guys on the street near City Hall:
Guy 1: You know what? It's fucking beautiful outside today.
Guy 2: Yeah. But you know you've said that maybe a dozen times today already.
Guy 1: Well fuck you cuz I'm gonna say it at least 100 more times today. Because it's fucking GOOOORGEOUS out and I FUCKING LOVE PHILADELPHIA!!! WHO'S WITH ME HERE PEOPLE??
3.
Noticed, better late than never:
When you stand in the middle of the Parkway, you can see all the way from City Hall (Broad / 14th Street) clear to the Art Museum.
4.
Observed at Market and 9th (thereabouts):
A Ramones cover band set up - amps and all - and got through two great and extremely loud songs before some cops figured out they didn't have permits and shut their shit down.
5.
Observed at my house:
Two squirrels trying in vain to enter my neighbor's apartment through their cat door.
6.
I love this city.
Overheard snippit of a conversation between a heavily-tattooed guy in his late 20s and his girlfriend:
Guy: Yeah, so, the thing about this tattoo (points to cobweb tattoo on left elbow) is that all these bitches keep getting them even when they haven't been in the slammer. Like the other day I saw this girl with one and I was like "Yo, where were you locked up?" and she says, "Huh?" And I say, "What prison were you at?" and I point to her tattoo. And she's like "Ummm, I wasn't in prison." Let me tell you, that bitch is lucky nobody's walked right up to her after that answer and cut that tattoo right off her fucking arm.
[pause]
Oh hey, you want to go into H&M?
2.
Overheard conversation between two guys on the street near City Hall:
Guy 1: You know what? It's fucking beautiful outside today.
Guy 2: Yeah. But you know you've said that maybe a dozen times today already.
Guy 1: Well fuck you cuz I'm gonna say it at least 100 more times today. Because it's fucking GOOOORGEOUS out and I FUCKING LOVE PHILADELPHIA!!! WHO'S WITH ME HERE PEOPLE??
3.
Noticed, better late than never:
When you stand in the middle of the Parkway, you can see all the way from City Hall (Broad / 14th Street) clear to the Art Museum.
4.
Observed at Market and 9th (thereabouts):
A Ramones cover band set up - amps and all - and got through two great and extremely loud songs before some cops figured out they didn't have permits and shut their shit down.
5.
Observed at my house:
Two squirrels trying in vain to enter my neighbor's apartment through their cat door.
6.
I love this city.
Monday, May 23, 2011
Pea Shoots
Oh hi, blog. Sorry about that. I've been ... busy.
Right now if you looked in my window you would see me shoveling salad into my face as fast as possible. Stupid ruffage requires so much chewing, but it's a labor of love because it's springtime and all sorts of produce is suddenly in season and everything tastes fresh and crunchy and flavorful and delicious.
One of the things on my salad is pea shoots by far my favorite of the sprout-type things. Nonetheless their taste is always so confusing to me because I'm pretty sure some wires got crossed in the sensory department when I was a small child. Pea shoots taste like, well, pea shoots, but they also taste like cigars.
Let me explain.
I grew up in the suburbs, except not really, because there wasn't an "urb" for miles and miles and miles. But I say "suburb" because it definitely wasn't the country. I could tell you where it was, but I'm not going to do that because the internet is full of weirdos and I'm not too down with blabbing my shit all over the place. But know that it was a place full of towns that were supposed to be quaint but that I found sort of horrifying, and also old people. Tons of fucking old people.
Our neighbors were not old people, but I counted them as such because they didn't have any kids. They also weren't very friendly, and I always interpreted that as a sign of old age curmudgeony. What they did have going for them was a sweet vegetable garden with which I was mildly obsessed from about age 3 to age 6. There was no fence between our houses, but I was definitely not allowed to go investigate what the curmudgeony neighbors were doing over there. So often I just sat and watched them garden from afar, hoping that my very sincere interest would be rewarded with some sort of response. This was one of two periods of my life in which I was acutely interested in Science, and I was really determined to figure out plants.* We didn't have much going on in our yard, so the next-door neighbors were my best bet.
The husband curmudgeon did most or all of the gardening. He was always out there milling about, pulling weeds, picking vegetables, plotting against squirrels. Also, he was smoking cigars pretty much nonstop. And so forever after I have truly mixed up those two smells: when I smell cigars, I think I am smelling green beans and peas; when I smell peas, I think I am smelling cigars.
The only time I got to go hang out in the garden was the week their extended family came to visit. One of the kids was roughly my age and we got along okay. Her name was Sally, and she would have me over to eat fresh sugar snap peas right off the plant. More important but totally unrelated to peas and cigars, she had this amazing t-shirt I coveted but was never allowed to get myself - a blue ringer tee with Blueberries for Sal on the front. I don't even remember what that book was about, but I know I loved it.
OK blog. I can't promise I'll post again soon. But I can promise that I'll eat more pea shoots all summer.
*My interest in science is also the reason I once got grounded for hoarding apple seeds and then during some unstructured free time planting them all over the yard. Obviously none grew, but there were trenches in the yard forever after where grass wouldn't grow. My plan really backfired.
Right now if you looked in my window you would see me shoveling salad into my face as fast as possible. Stupid ruffage requires so much chewing, but it's a labor of love because it's springtime and all sorts of produce is suddenly in season and everything tastes fresh and crunchy and flavorful and delicious.
One of the things on my salad is pea shoots by far my favorite of the sprout-type things. Nonetheless their taste is always so confusing to me because I'm pretty sure some wires got crossed in the sensory department when I was a small child. Pea shoots taste like, well, pea shoots, but they also taste like cigars.
Let me explain.
I grew up in the suburbs, except not really, because there wasn't an "urb" for miles and miles and miles. But I say "suburb" because it definitely wasn't the country. I could tell you where it was, but I'm not going to do that because the internet is full of weirdos and I'm not too down with blabbing my shit all over the place. But know that it was a place full of towns that were supposed to be quaint but that I found sort of horrifying, and also old people. Tons of fucking old people.
Our neighbors were not old people, but I counted them as such because they didn't have any kids. They also weren't very friendly, and I always interpreted that as a sign of old age curmudgeony. What they did have going for them was a sweet vegetable garden with which I was mildly obsessed from about age 3 to age 6. There was no fence between our houses, but I was definitely not allowed to go investigate what the curmudgeony neighbors were doing over there. So often I just sat and watched them garden from afar, hoping that my very sincere interest would be rewarded with some sort of response. This was one of two periods of my life in which I was acutely interested in Science, and I was really determined to figure out plants.* We didn't have much going on in our yard, so the next-door neighbors were my best bet.
The husband curmudgeon did most or all of the gardening. He was always out there milling about, pulling weeds, picking vegetables, plotting against squirrels. Also, he was smoking cigars pretty much nonstop. And so forever after I have truly mixed up those two smells: when I smell cigars, I think I am smelling green beans and peas; when I smell peas, I think I am smelling cigars.
The only time I got to go hang out in the garden was the week their extended family came to visit. One of the kids was roughly my age and we got along okay. Her name was Sally, and she would have me over to eat fresh sugar snap peas right off the plant. More important but totally unrelated to peas and cigars, she had this amazing t-shirt I coveted but was never allowed to get myself - a blue ringer tee with Blueberries for Sal on the front. I don't even remember what that book was about, but I know I loved it.
OK blog. I can't promise I'll post again soon. But I can promise that I'll eat more pea shoots all summer.
*My interest in science is also the reason I once got grounded for hoarding apple seeds and then during some unstructured free time planting them all over the yard. Obviously none grew, but there were trenches in the yard forever after where grass wouldn't grow. My plan really backfired.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Pen Fifteen
Two thoughts on childhood, triggered by recent trips to NYC:
1. A friend and I were discussing pranks and jokes that kids play on each other. Or, more precisely, we resurrected our absolute favorite: Club Pen Fifteen. In case you don't remember or in case this somehow passed you by in third grade:
A: Do you want to join my club?
B: What is it?
A: It's called the Pen Fifteen Club. It's awesome.
B: How do I join?
A: It's easy. All the members just have the club name written on their arm. I'll do it right now for you.
B: OK, I'm in.
Person B then spends the rest of the day with PEN15 fancifully written on his or her arm, then finds another unaware and uninitiated youth, and advances to the role of Person A.
Genius. Comic genius. Perhaps the only joke from elementary school that still makes me laugh.
2. I am forever delighted when I hear a song I used to sing along to as a kid, and realize that there are a number of metaphors that really passed me by. Monday in the car I heard this song and realized it was not about driving but actually about coke. That blew my mind:
This in turn reminded me about something else great: misunderstanding song lyrics as a child. Like how I thought a second Eagles song was about hiding lion eyes. And how I thought this one went "Every time I poop I lose":
That one still really cracks me up, by the way. It gets stuck in my head all the time, unprompted. And it takes a whole lot of self-restraint to not belt out all of "Every time I poop I lose" when this happens. I am laughing right now just thinking about it.
1. A friend and I were discussing pranks and jokes that kids play on each other. Or, more precisely, we resurrected our absolute favorite: Club Pen Fifteen. In case you don't remember or in case this somehow passed you by in third grade:
A: Do you want to join my club?
B: What is it?
A: It's called the Pen Fifteen Club. It's awesome.
B: How do I join?
A: It's easy. All the members just have the club name written on their arm. I'll do it right now for you.
B: OK, I'm in.
Person B then spends the rest of the day with PEN15 fancifully written on his or her arm, then finds another unaware and uninitiated youth, and advances to the role of Person A.
Genius. Comic genius. Perhaps the only joke from elementary school that still makes me laugh.
2. I am forever delighted when I hear a song I used to sing along to as a kid, and realize that there are a number of metaphors that really passed me by. Monday in the car I heard this song and realized it was not about driving but actually about coke. That blew my mind:
This in turn reminded me about something else great: misunderstanding song lyrics as a child. Like how I thought a second Eagles song was about hiding lion eyes. And how I thought this one went "Every time I poop I lose":
That one still really cracks me up, by the way. It gets stuck in my head all the time, unprompted. And it takes a whole lot of self-restraint to not belt out all of "Every time I poop I lose" when this happens. I am laughing right now just thinking about it.
Saturday, March 12, 2011
I argue, I posit, I demonstrate, I contend ...
I am deep in the trenches of dissertation grant applications right now, which means that I really want to do anything but. This includes tending to my neglected blog and its three readers. Sorry, guys.
I wanted to blog about two things today, one being this: why the hell I wake up at 6:13 am every single morning. This has happened every morning for the last two weeks, and it's starting to make me feel slightly nuts. My alarm does not ring until 6:45 on weekdays and 7:30 on weekends, so what on earth is rousing me from much-needed sleep every morning at the exact same minute is really beyond me. Ideas welcome.
The other subject I'm mulling over is my lifelong obsession with cities, which would make for a much more interesting and thoughtful post. But it will have to wait until this application is done.
In the meantime, please enjoy this adorable music video about cuckoo clocks (I think?) of which I understand about every fourth word:
I wanted to blog about two things today, one being this: why the hell I wake up at 6:13 am every single morning. This has happened every morning for the last two weeks, and it's starting to make me feel slightly nuts. My alarm does not ring until 6:45 on weekdays and 7:30 on weekends, so what on earth is rousing me from much-needed sleep every morning at the exact same minute is really beyond me. Ideas welcome.
The other subject I'm mulling over is my lifelong obsession with cities, which would make for a much more interesting and thoughtful post. But it will have to wait until this application is done.
In the meantime, please enjoy this adorable music video about cuckoo clocks (I think?) of which I understand about every fourth word:
Friday, February 25, 2011
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Question
Has looking at a Lewis Hine photograph ever made you weep?
I was asked this yesterday by a scholar (in certain ways, THE scholar) who knows Hine's work well. It was in the middle of a conversation that was more or less academically-oriented - the usual questions about Hine's practice of image-making. It caught me off-guard, not because it's an irrelevant question to ask about those images but because I've never heard an academic ask somebody that.
Truly, Hine's pictures are hard to look at. All the images I'm writing about are hard to look at, which is maybe why scholars don't often seem to look at them very carefully. I think one of the most difficult things about these (and other early social documentary) photographs is that there was so much invested in their making, that the photographers really believed that pictures would move their audiences more than they actually did. But no, I haven't cried. The question is really sticking with me, though.
I was asked this yesterday by a scholar (in certain ways, THE scholar) who knows Hine's work well. It was in the middle of a conversation that was more or less academically-oriented - the usual questions about Hine's practice of image-making. It caught me off-guard, not because it's an irrelevant question to ask about those images but because I've never heard an academic ask somebody that.
Truly, Hine's pictures are hard to look at. All the images I'm writing about are hard to look at, which is maybe why scholars don't often seem to look at them very carefully. I think one of the most difficult things about these (and other early social documentary) photographs is that there was so much invested in their making, that the photographers really believed that pictures would move their audiences more than they actually did. But no, I haven't cried. The question is really sticking with me, though.
Saturday, February 5, 2011
More Saturday!
Let it be known that somebody at the Library of Congress also appreciates the roller skate:
Crazy Sk8
Crazy Sk8
Monday, January 31, 2011
xoxo
Philly.com has taped up like eight thousand xoxo with love, Philadelphia ads all over Penn Station, which I guess is just fine by me. It's loads better than sneaker ads, I'll give them that.
However, the text is just - I don't know how else to put it - weird. I think there was one that said something along the lines of "let's conspire by the fire. with love, Philadelphia." What does that even mean? And then there's this: "Pack an extra set of pajamas and stay an extra night. xoxo Philly." Do people seriously pack a pair of pajamas for every night they're staying somewhere?! And can it instead read, "Pack a fucking snow plow and stay an extra night! xoxo Philadelphia." Because we really need those more than a second set of flannels.
Can someone please explain these ads to me? Am I missing something clever? Otherwise, I'm just filing this away under "Yet another reason Philadelphia is broke."
Goodnight.
However, the text is just - I don't know how else to put it - weird. I think there was one that said something along the lines of "let's conspire by the fire. with love, Philadelphia." What does that even mean? And then there's this: "Pack an extra set of pajamas and stay an extra night. xoxo Philly." Do people seriously pack a pair of pajamas for every night they're staying somewhere?! And can it instead read, "Pack a fucking snow plow and stay an extra night! xoxo Philadelphia." Because we really need those more than a second set of flannels.
Can someone please explain these ads to me? Am I missing something clever? Otherwise, I'm just filing this away under "Yet another reason Philadelphia is broke."
Goodnight.
Friday, January 28, 2011
Liberté, Egalité, Faternité
Last week I had a supermarket crisis on my hands: the only Stonyfield Farms yogurt in stock was apricot, which is disgusting; there was no skyr; and the Greek kind had dangerously close expiration dates for someone who forgets to eat breakfast half the time. Whole Foods: fire your suppliers.
I was forced to branch out. I hate trying new things when I'm the one who has to pay for them. Also I refuse to buy more than one of any particular product if I've never had it before in case it turns out to be revolting. The yogurt I ended up selecting came from Canada, so the odds were already stacked against it.
I'm just kidding - I love Canada. And I love my Canadian friend who recommended the stuff to me months ago. It's called Liberté, and besides the allure of its fancy French[Canadian] name, it also comes in some swell flavors [er, sorry Canada -- flavours] like plum walnut and passion fruit. I've only seen it in health food stores so I figured it would be aspertaine-free and not have a bunch of crap in it. Also it was just over a dollar for a little six-ounce container. The price was right. I bought a coconut-flavoured one and it was absolutely divine. I enjoyed every bite. The cat enjoyed licking the inside of the foil lid, which I let her do on occasion. Everyone was happy.
Today I made the Liberté commitment and bought enough for the next week of breakfasts. The delight of finding that there were little coconut bits in the bottom of some seriously tangy yogurt would not leave my mind. More had to be acquired. I was pleased with my purchase.
But, dear reader, don't follow my example. For I just looked at the label on the back and this six ounce tub of yogurt contains 17 grams of fat. I didn't think that was even possible outside of fast food establishments and microwave meals and foods containing chocolate. Oh, and don't try to blame this on the coconut, either, because the passion fruit one clocks in at 15 g.
Mind you: I am not an obsessive calorie counter. I don't overdo it, but I don't fret too much over such things most of the time. Part of the reason I don't sweat it is that I pick foods like yogurt and fruit instead of fried eggs and bacon for my breakfast every day. Except now my yogurt is some sort of Benedict Arnold fried egg accomplice [pun unintentional, and it stays]. Honestly, there should really be a point after which yogurt is quarantined away from its bretheren and labeled "DESSERT." I say that point is when the fat content hits double digits.
OK, I'm done yelling about yogurt now. You're welcome.
I was forced to branch out. I hate trying new things when I'm the one who has to pay for them. Also I refuse to buy more than one of any particular product if I've never had it before in case it turns out to be revolting. The yogurt I ended up selecting came from Canada, so the odds were already stacked against it.
I'm just kidding - I love Canada. And I love my Canadian friend who recommended the stuff to me months ago. It's called Liberté, and besides the allure of its fancy French[Canadian] name, it also comes in some swell flavors [er, sorry Canada -- flavours] like plum walnut and passion fruit. I've only seen it in health food stores so I figured it would be aspertaine-free and not have a bunch of crap in it. Also it was just over a dollar for a little six-ounce container. The price was right. I bought a coconut-flavoured one and it was absolutely divine. I enjoyed every bite. The cat enjoyed licking the inside of the foil lid, which I let her do on occasion. Everyone was happy.
Today I made the Liberté commitment and bought enough for the next week of breakfasts. The delight of finding that there were little coconut bits in the bottom of some seriously tangy yogurt would not leave my mind. More had to be acquired. I was pleased with my purchase.
But, dear reader, don't follow my example. For I just looked at the label on the back and this six ounce tub of yogurt contains 17 grams of fat. I didn't think that was even possible outside of fast food establishments and microwave meals and foods containing chocolate. Oh, and don't try to blame this on the coconut, either, because the passion fruit one clocks in at 15 g.
Mind you: I am not an obsessive calorie counter. I don't overdo it, but I don't fret too much over such things most of the time. Part of the reason I don't sweat it is that I pick foods like yogurt and fruit instead of fried eggs and bacon for my breakfast every day. Except now my yogurt is some sort of Benedict Arnold fried egg accomplice [pun unintentional, and it stays]. Honestly, there should really be a point after which yogurt is quarantined away from its bretheren and labeled "DESSERT." I say that point is when the fat content hits double digits.
OK, I'm done yelling about yogurt now. You're welcome.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Snow Day
First of all, let me just say: Philadelphia, you look ravishing in white.
Work is closed today. I can't tell you how much love I have for snow days. I loved them in middle school a lot because I got to sit at home and watch crap tv all day and this was about 1,000,000,000 x more awesome than middle school. But the whole day was also spent dreading the next one, by which time all the snow would be cleared and I'd have to go back to school. Now that I'm an adult and I love my job, snow days are even cooler. Mother Nature calls a time out, and I get 24 hours to fuck around and watch movies and walk around the neighborhood in giant boots and pajamas. And then everything is back to normal again the next day, and I just pick up where I'd left off. No problem.
And now I am going to go finish reading Just Kids and find some Price is Right reruns on the internet. Get your pets spayed and neutered, people.
Work is closed today. I can't tell you how much love I have for snow days. I loved them in middle school a lot because I got to sit at home and watch crap tv all day and this was about 1,000,000,000 x more awesome than middle school. But the whole day was also spent dreading the next one, by which time all the snow would be cleared and I'd have to go back to school. Now that I'm an adult and I love my job, snow days are even cooler. Mother Nature calls a time out, and I get 24 hours to fuck around and watch movies and walk around the neighborhood in giant boots and pajamas. And then everything is back to normal again the next day, and I just pick up where I'd left off. No problem.
And now I am going to go finish reading Just Kids and find some Price is Right reruns on the internet. Get your pets spayed and neutered, people.
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
90s box
So back in 2001 the college kids discovered the 80s. Something happened that made new wave hits cool once again, to say nothing of the strange and only partially ironic fascination with power ballads and hair bands. My housemate and I watched as records and cds you couldn't give away five years back were suddenly being snapped up left and right and got progressively more expensive to buy used. And then a profound idea struck us:
Holy shit, it's not the 90s anymore. Let's get on this before all the kids figure it out. We started making lists of 90s hits and misses (mostly the feel-good misses). And then on our days off we'd raid the two used cd stores in Jamaica Plain, list (when remembered) in hand. And there we'd labor for hours, making little piles of cds, prioritizing and reordering and debating the relative merits of our selections until finally we'd decided on a small handful of treasures to buy. The two biggest factors in this process were price v. musical merit, and then also what gaps it filled in our growing collection (which we stored in an empty Budweiser 24-can box). Is the Spin Doctors really worth 49 cents? Do we ever really want to listen to Chumbawumba again? Are they really charging $4.99 for Better than Ezra? Who the hell are The Toadies again? Etc.
We were totally stoked about all of this, and subjected just about every house guest to a selection of tunes they almost certainly wanted to forget. We patted ourselves on the back for our sound judgment and genius idea when we heard later that year that the Post Office would be releasing 1990s stamps. Boy were we ahead of the game on this one.
I still have the 90s box, though it's all digital now because I couldn't see why I would spend all of graduate school lugging around Third Eye Blind and MC Hammer CDs. Today just for a good laugh I shuffled the 90s playlist and here for you, dear reader, are the first five hits. Bon appetit.
1. Cracker - Low
2. L7 - Pretend We're Dead
3. Jesus Jones - Right Here Right Now
4. Naughty by Nature - Feel me Flow
5. Blind Melon - No Rain (side note: that bee costume is someday going to be my Halloween getup)
Holy shit, it's not the 90s anymore. Let's get on this before all the kids figure it out. We started making lists of 90s hits and misses (mostly the feel-good misses). And then on our days off we'd raid the two used cd stores in Jamaica Plain, list (when remembered) in hand. And there we'd labor for hours, making little piles of cds, prioritizing and reordering and debating the relative merits of our selections until finally we'd decided on a small handful of treasures to buy. The two biggest factors in this process were price v. musical merit, and then also what gaps it filled in our growing collection (which we stored in an empty Budweiser 24-can box). Is the Spin Doctors really worth 49 cents? Do we ever really want to listen to Chumbawumba again? Are they really charging $4.99 for Better than Ezra? Who the hell are The Toadies again? Etc.
We were totally stoked about all of this, and subjected just about every house guest to a selection of tunes they almost certainly wanted to forget. We patted ourselves on the back for our sound judgment and genius idea when we heard later that year that the Post Office would be releasing 1990s stamps. Boy were we ahead of the game on this one.
I still have the 90s box, though it's all digital now because I couldn't see why I would spend all of graduate school lugging around Third Eye Blind and MC Hammer CDs. Today just for a good laugh I shuffled the 90s playlist and here for you, dear reader, are the first five hits. Bon appetit.
1. Cracker - Low
2. L7 - Pretend We're Dead
3. Jesus Jones - Right Here Right Now
4. Naughty by Nature - Feel me Flow
5. Blind Melon - No Rain (side note: that bee costume is someday going to be my Halloween getup)
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Forgetting. Remembering.
Rediscovering a song I once loved that somehow (like so many things) got lost in the shuffle.
Radiohead: Fake Plastic Trees
Radiohead: Fake Plastic Trees
Thursday, January 20, 2011
This is what evil looks like
I'm not even going to post the picture, that's how much it is dripping with pure, unfiltered EVIL. You'll have to click the link.
(despite the horrors within, this link is safe for work viewing)
Just click it already.
Courtesy of my boss.
(despite the horrors within, this link is safe for work viewing)
Just click it already.
Courtesy of my boss.
Tuesday, January 18, 2011
Four wheels in two rows
You know how much I love my roller skates. Old school white ones with red gel wheels and some serious 'tude. Just wait until springtime, when I start skating to work. It's going to be epic. Look out, Kelly Drive runners. It's on.
However, right now there is snow all over the place, so here's a pile of 19th-century roller skating trading cards instead:
Roller skates
Enjoy.
However, right now there is snow all over the place, so here's a pile of 19th-century roller skating trading cards instead:
Roller skates
Enjoy.
Monday, January 17, 2011
Sounds about right
Well, it's that part of the long weekend in which I just missed one train home because the scanner in the library was taking forever and now have an hour to kill and am too tired to read more AND already a bit anxious about and dreading how tired I am going to be at work tomorrow.
But that is not what I was going to write about. Instead I wanted to throw this your way:
I spent some of today reading Lewis Wickes Hine's collected letters, which he signed in all sorts of clever ways. I can't decide whether my favorite is "Hiney" or "H-sign."
Also you should look at this, because it's awesome - Lewis Hine Project - even if you're not a photo nerd.
But that is not what I was going to write about. Instead I wanted to throw this your way:
I spent some of today reading Lewis Wickes Hine's collected letters, which he signed in all sorts of clever ways. I can't decide whether my favorite is "Hiney" or "H-sign."
Also you should look at this, because it's awesome - Lewis Hine Project - even if you're not a photo nerd.
Sunday, January 16, 2011
Friday, January 14, 2011
Men in skirts who aren't Mummers
So, you should know that the internets are broken in my house. Right now I am practically hanging out the window trying to steal signal from the neighbors to get a train schedule online, and while I'm at it I figure I'll post something here. I mean, the window is closed, but it's winter and I'm cold in my own home and I am especially, especially cold by the window. At the wee hours of the morning tomorrow (7am), a nice gentleman or gentlewoman from Comcast is on the case. We'll see.
Anyway, I just rediscovered this great photographic postcard from ca. 1910. I bought it as a cheer-you-up present for a good friend, but you'd better believe I scanned it first. When I am in a bad mood - like, say, when I'm freezing my butt off trying to check my e-mail - I like to look at it because it makes me laugh. So now you too can look at it and laugh. You'd better be laughing.
Anyway, I just rediscovered this great photographic postcard from ca. 1910. I bought it as a cheer-you-up present for a good friend, but you'd better believe I scanned it first. When I am in a bad mood - like, say, when I'm freezing my butt off trying to check my e-mail - I like to look at it because it makes me laugh. So now you too can look at it and laugh. You'd better be laughing.
Wednesday, January 12, 2011
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Overheard: Penn Station, New York Edition
Two girls - who I am assuming to be American based on the absence of foreign accent. And by "girls," I mean "college-age teenagers."
Girl 1 [looking at departure board]: Where is Chicago, anyways? It's near Boston, right?
Girl 2 [looking pensive]: Yeah.
A moment passes.
Girl 2: No wait, no it's not. It's totally in the South. I think it's in Georgia?
Girl 1: Oh, cooool.
Girl 1 [looking at departure board]: Where is Chicago, anyways? It's near Boston, right?
Girl 2 [looking pensive]: Yeah.
A moment passes.
Girl 2: No wait, no it's not. It's totally in the South. I think it's in Georgia?
Girl 1: Oh, cooool.
Monday, January 10, 2011
MONSTER BOOBER
You know, for the most part I eat pretty well. I'm not one of those people who does so on principle and gets all self-righteous about it. It's just that I really like to eat fresh vegetables more than I like to eat processed, vacuum-sealed foods. Generally speaking.
There are some strange and stubborn exceptions to this rule. I wrote them out here in a list - there were eight of them - but then it started to gross me out, especially because I started thinking about eating them together -- like, a big mouthful of canned black olives and oatmeal cream pie. I couldn't do it. But I'll tell you this: at the top of the list is Boo Berry Crisp cereal. I don't know what it is about that stuff that is so good, but it really is. And it's only available at Halloween time!
Anyway I totally stocked up on this stuff and forgot all about it until I found the receipt for my purchase on my desk. It's itemized by the grocery store as MONSTER BOOBER. Now I am eating MONSTER BOOBER right out of the box. Life is grand sometimes.
There are some strange and stubborn exceptions to this rule. I wrote them out here in a list - there were eight of them - but then it started to gross me out, especially because I started thinking about eating them together -- like, a big mouthful of canned black olives and oatmeal cream pie. I couldn't do it. But I'll tell you this: at the top of the list is Boo Berry Crisp cereal. I don't know what it is about that stuff that is so good, but it really is. And it's only available at Halloween time!
Anyway I totally stocked up on this stuff and forgot all about it until I found the receipt for my purchase on my desk. It's itemized by the grocery store as MONSTER BOOBER. Now I am eating MONSTER BOOBER right out of the box. Life is grand sometimes.
Sunday, January 9, 2011
At the Met
William Langenheim, Frederick Langenheim Looking at Talbotypes. Daguerreotype, ca. 1849-51.
Friday, January 7, 2011
Belated Christmas fodder
This print is fantastic! As is the trivia! And the blog! Lots of exclamation points!
Printing Press Descends from Heaven
Printing Press Descends from Heaven
Philadelphia, 1955
So I had absolutely nothing to post, but then a friend found this gem:
Philadelphia, 1955
A lot has changed in ~half a century. I'm fascinated.
Philadelphia, 1955
A lot has changed in ~half a century. I'm fascinated.
Tuesday, January 4, 2011
Handwriting
When you spend an extended period of months poring over documents, letters, notes, annotations, and so on by a particular author (in my case, a photographer), you really grow to deeply understand their handwriting. At first the learning curve is really steep with all but a precious few excessively careful writers. You spend a lot of time scrutinizing a word, a letter, a phrase, trying to decipher what at first glance looks like a daunting row of squiggles and scribbles. But as you push forward, light bulbs go on and you realize, "Oh, that thing that looks like a Euro symbol before the Euro was actually currency is really a very fanciful "F" and it eventually seems absurd that you couldn't read this stuff in the first place. Then comes the moment when you can intuitively imitate it yourself. And in some strange, slightly quirky way the fact of this makes me, at least, feel very close to a person who I only know through the artifacts he left behind.
This all makes me wonder (worry?) about what the archives of the present generation onward will look like. Or really, what it will be like to look at them. Maybe I'm just a fuddy-duddy to be attached to letters and paper books full of marginalia and the contents of peoples' rolodexes. But I can't imagine that scrolling through e-mails and tweets and hard drives will feel the same or reveal as much about their authors.
This all makes me wonder (worry?) about what the archives of the present generation onward will look like. Or really, what it will be like to look at them. Maybe I'm just a fuddy-duddy to be attached to letters and paper books full of marginalia and the contents of peoples' rolodexes. But I can't imagine that scrolling through e-mails and tweets and hard drives will feel the same or reveal as much about their authors.
Monday, January 3, 2011
Thank you, British Museum
And many thanks also to the good friend who sent this along today:
WOMBATS!
I have so much love for 19th-century weirdness, friends. Especially of this sort.
WOMBATS!
I have so much love for 19th-century weirdness, friends. Especially of this sort.
If not for this ...
...then for what, I ask you, what is the internet for? I have absolutely no idea what the first picture posted to the intertubes was, but I would bet that it was a cute cat picture. Someone find this out for me, ok?
In any case, it's my cat's birthday today. Specifically, she is turning fourteen, which is not a small number. I have had her since before she was born - her momma, Porch (named for where she got knocked up), was a stray we took in back in 1996 - out popped one kitten. A kitten who is now really old, with arthritis and heart problems and thyroid issues and the whole lot. Sometimes when my mind wanders, I think about how much of my student loans from undergrad I could have paid back if I'd never gotten a cat. But then she's just so adorable, it's hard to think that way.
In any case: now that she's 14 and totally legal to work, could one of you hire her, please? I'm sick and tired of being the only breadwinner around here. She's, um, homeschooled? and ... can't lift forty pounds or more and definitely lacks opposable thumbs but is friendly, outgoing, and really good at killing mice (despite the arthritis). Prefers to work from home, but will commute. Any leads on this, please e-mail me.
Also: she will be getting tuna fish shaped like the number 14 on a plate later. Just so you know.
Sunday, January 2, 2011
MUMMERS! (part 2, nighttime)
After the parade ended, we took a break and ate some delicious food at Jamaican Jerk Hut. Ali saw a pair of earrings hanging off their fence:
A lot of the 2 Street night pictures are blurry. Sorry about that - but to be honest, that's how the whole event feels, anyhow. It's fitting.
One of the many things I learned from others regarding the Mummers parade:
Mummers = cool.
Mummer = weird.
It's really true. Collectively, they're awesome but there is something really creepy about an aimless, wandering, solitary Mummer. This guy seems to have lost his people somewhere:
Silly String : Daytime :: Beer cans : Nighttime:
Salvaged parasol!:
Other moments:
After 2 Street, we went to Franklin Fountain for ice cream and headed home. 2011 has begun, and it is awesome.
Things I learned about Mummers Day from others that turned out to be true:
* you will be offended at least once.
* if a Mummer approaches you in a staggering-type way, just run, because that means they're going to try to make out with you.
* there are good soft pretzels and bad ones, and a way to tell the difference (which I am not sharing with my blog readers! Ha!)
* it is unlike anything else you will ever see.
* "it's like third-world party strategy in a first-world city"
Things I learned on my own:
* unless you are transporting lots of beer cans, you don't need a bag and you will be happier without one.
* don't wear anything you ever want to wear again, because it will probably smell like warm domestic beer forever.
Philadelphia: I love you.
A lot of the 2 Street night pictures are blurry. Sorry about that - but to be honest, that's how the whole event feels, anyhow. It's fitting.
One of the many things I learned from others regarding the Mummers parade:
Mummers = cool.
Mummer = weird.
It's really true. Collectively, they're awesome but there is something really creepy about an aimless, wandering, solitary Mummer. This guy seems to have lost his people somewhere:
Silly String : Daytime :: Beer cans : Nighttime:
Salvaged parasol!:
Other moments:
After 2 Street, we went to Franklin Fountain for ice cream and headed home. 2011 has begun, and it is awesome.
Things I learned about Mummers Day from others that turned out to be true:
* you will be offended at least once.
* if a Mummer approaches you in a staggering-type way, just run, because that means they're going to try to make out with you.
* there are good soft pretzels and bad ones, and a way to tell the difference (which I am not sharing with my blog readers! Ha!)
* it is unlike anything else you will ever see.
* "it's like third-world party strategy in a first-world city"
Things I learned on my own:
* unless you are transporting lots of beer cans, you don't need a bag and you will be happier without one.
* don't wear anything you ever want to wear again, because it will probably smell like warm domestic beer forever.
Philadelphia: I love you.
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