I'm about to leave the country for 27 months and my brain has been many places other than Catherine the Greatest. I won't be blogging here for the foreseeable future, but I hope you'll follow me over to my new blog to read about my Peace Corps adventures.
Without getting too saccharine, sincere thanks to all of you for reading. I've loved writing this blog more than is probably appropriate, and it's all because I had you to indulge me in my insane ramblings. Sometimes it's only fun to write stupid things when you know other people are willing to read them. Who else besides you would put up with my repeated denials of NASA's value?
I couldn't (temporarily) close the door on this blog without one more list. So here are some of the most-commented entries, in case you need some type of CTG fix down the road. How is it possible that over two years and 120ish posts, I never managed to break the five comment mark? Epic fail! Well, my Back on the Bean entry has eight comments, but they are mostly by porn spammer! Not exactly my target audience.Anyway, here it is.
Word Wench: A Memoir
Peppermint Mocha with a Side of McLatte
Shit Happens (the end to the Hottie McLatte saga)
Top 10 Classroom Personalities
And, just for fun, in case you're wondering what sort of job I'll get when my PC service is through, here are some Antiquated Jobs I Wish I Could Have.
Monday, July 6, 2009
Friday, June 26, 2009
Songs that make your heart sing: Celebrity Death Edition
I bet you've all been wondering what my favorite MJ song is. Truth is, most of my favorites are from the Jackson 5 era, or later, when they were known just as The Jacksons.
It's a little bit surreal driving around, hearing Michael Jackson on every radio station. I guess everyone is deciding to dance and celebrate his music, rather than focus on the scandals and tragedy that dominated most of his life. So here is a true song that makes your heart sing. I can't listen to this song without grinning.
It's a little bit surreal driving around, hearing Michael Jackson on every radio station. I guess everyone is deciding to dance and celebrate his music, rather than focus on the scandals and tragedy that dominated most of his life. So here is a true song that makes your heart sing. I can't listen to this song without grinning.
Sunday, June 21, 2009
Stuff You Should Know: I might die edition
It's been ages since I've put out a good edition of Stuff You Should Know. My records indicate that the last installment was way back in March, when I informed you about some treasures on the Internet. And you know, March is too long ago because I have it on good authority that at least half of my readership (1.5 persons!!!) relies solely on Catherine the Greatest for 100 percent of their news content. You can see why I start to feel really bad when I waste your time writing about hippy festivals, majestic Nabisco products, and borderline sexual assault.
So, here I am, lighting up a cigarette, furrowing my brow, and taking up my role as a modern-day Edward R. Murrow. Seriously, where would you guys be without me?
1) Um, have y'all been keeping up with this Mexican drug cartel business? Shit's whack. NPR is obsessed with it, and it's also all over newsprint (what's that!) and TV news. 60 Minutes just ran a chilling report on the situation tonight. It's a complicated issue with a lot of gritty details, but I did want to draw your attention to one point. Crackdown efforts must be having some impact because reports surfaced this week that the Mexican navy seized more than a ton of cocaine that was hidden in.... wait for it... wait... 20 SHARK CARCASSES.
WHAT?!?!? Slabs of cocaine hidden in sharks. Man, if only this resource had been available to me during childhood games of "Hide the Thimble."
In many ways, I guess, this shark news is a good thing. Traffickers can no longer just ship boxes of cocaine in and around North America willy nilly, and surveillance efforts are keen enough to smell something fishy during checks in a cargo ship. But holy smokes. Can the Discovery channel include this bit of news in their next Shark Week? I need more details.
2) Onto lighter fare... It's summer time and that means TV networks are busy rolling out a bunch of new shows we probably don't want to watch. Um, hello, I have Netflix? But one show I have become obsessed with is Expedition Africa on the History Channel. It's kind of like Survivor, but if Survivor was actually about surviving, and no one gets voted off. (The shows share a creator, Mark Burnett.) The show follows four modern-day explorers who retrace the steps of Dr. David Livingstone and Henry Morton Stanley, the American journalist who went to look for him after his disappearance. Expedition's team members make the trek across Tanzania with virtually no modern comforts, and face many of the same perilous danger, exquisite beauty, and unpredictable adventure Livingstone and Stanley did more than 140 years ago. The true treat is seeing how the cast (who, with the exception of a journalist, are all expedition experts) clash and communicate with each other in the face of real survival situations. They actually know what they're talking about, and along with learning some history, the audience also gets to learn some wilderness first aid, navigation know-how, and tips about how not to get eaten by giant hippos. Don't miss this show, it stands along side Intervention and The Amazing Race as one of the three "reality" shows I can stomach.
3) So have you guys been paying attention to this moon landing business that's under way? I know, I know, it doesn't hold that same do-or-die appeal when Prez. J.Ken isn't yammering on about space races and the Russians breathing down our necks. It also lacks glamour because NASA is sending robots to do our dirty work, although I guess that's a good idea since these space crafts will be crashing into the lunar surface at 6,000 mph. That's pretty fast. Definitely more speed than my colander space helmet could withstand.
Anyway. As you probably know I'm so un-scientifically minded that I barely can wrap my pea brain around the very idea of space, but I do take special interest in NASA's efforts partly because they're pretty cool sometimes but mostly because I think they're a huge waste of money. But what strikes me about this mission is the sheer simplicity of it. I mean, heck, I could have thought this one up. They're sending up two crafts, one which will orbit the moon and generally check things out. Look for hot babes, good real estate, you know, the usual. The other one, called the LCROSS (Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Spacecraft, duh) is going to intentionally CRASH INTO THE SURFACE OF THE MOON with the intent of kicking up a lot of shit to see if any of it is water. Still hoping for water on the moon, guys? Hope springs eternal, I guess. Ugh. I feel like there should be more progress in this department by now. And I mean, I'm probably right because I slept through a whole course in astronomy and NASA calls me sometimes to ask me what I think about things. Yeah, they do.
Have you come across any new stories you feel the need to share? Unleash the burden of your knowledge in the comments section.
So, here I am, lighting up a cigarette, furrowing my brow, and taking up my role as a modern-day Edward R. Murrow. Seriously, where would you guys be without me?
1) Um, have y'all been keeping up with this Mexican drug cartel business? Shit's whack. NPR is obsessed with it, and it's also all over newsprint (what's that!) and TV news. 60 Minutes just ran a chilling report on the situation tonight. It's a complicated issue with a lot of gritty details, but I did want to draw your attention to one point. Crackdown efforts must be having some impact because reports surfaced this week that the Mexican navy seized more than a ton of cocaine that was hidden in.... wait for it... wait... 20 SHARK CARCASSES.
WHAT?!?!? Slabs of cocaine hidden in sharks. Man, if only this resource had been available to me during childhood games of "Hide the Thimble."
In many ways, I guess, this shark news is a good thing. Traffickers can no longer just ship boxes of cocaine in and around North America willy nilly, and surveillance efforts are keen enough to smell something fishy during checks in a cargo ship. But holy smokes. Can the Discovery channel include this bit of news in their next Shark Week? I need more details.
2) Onto lighter fare... It's summer time and that means TV networks are busy rolling out a bunch of new shows we probably don't want to watch. Um, hello, I have Netflix? But one show I have become obsessed with is Expedition Africa on the History Channel. It's kind of like Survivor, but if Survivor was actually about surviving, and no one gets voted off. (The shows share a creator, Mark Burnett.) The show follows four modern-day explorers who retrace the steps of Dr. David Livingstone and Henry Morton Stanley, the American journalist who went to look for him after his disappearance. Expedition's team members make the trek across Tanzania with virtually no modern comforts, and face many of the same perilous danger, exquisite beauty, and unpredictable adventure Livingstone and Stanley did more than 140 years ago. The true treat is seeing how the cast (who, with the exception of a journalist, are all expedition experts) clash and communicate with each other in the face of real survival situations. They actually know what they're talking about, and along with learning some history, the audience also gets to learn some wilderness first aid, navigation know-how, and tips about how not to get eaten by giant hippos. Don't miss this show, it stands along side Intervention and The Amazing Race as one of the three "reality" shows I can stomach.
3) So have you guys been paying attention to this moon landing business that's under way? I know, I know, it doesn't hold that same do-or-die appeal when Prez. J.Ken isn't yammering on about space races and the Russians breathing down our necks. It also lacks glamour because NASA is sending robots to do our dirty work, although I guess that's a good idea since these space crafts will be crashing into the lunar surface at 6,000 mph. That's pretty fast. Definitely more speed than my colander space helmet could withstand.
Anyway. As you probably know I'm so un-scientifically minded that I barely can wrap my pea brain around the very idea of space, but I do take special interest in NASA's efforts partly because they're pretty cool sometimes but mostly because I think they're a huge waste of money. But what strikes me about this mission is the sheer simplicity of it. I mean, heck, I could have thought this one up. They're sending up two crafts, one which will orbit the moon and generally check things out. Look for hot babes, good real estate, you know, the usual. The other one, called the LCROSS (Lunar Crater Observation and Sensing Spacecraft, duh) is going to intentionally CRASH INTO THE SURFACE OF THE MOON with the intent of kicking up a lot of shit to see if any of it is water. Still hoping for water on the moon, guys? Hope springs eternal, I guess. Ugh. I feel like there should be more progress in this department by now. And I mean, I'm probably right because I slept through a whole course in astronomy and NASA calls me sometimes to ask me what I think about things. Yeah, they do.
Have you come across any new stories you feel the need to share? Unleash the burden of your knowledge in the comments section.
Thursday, June 18, 2009
If the wind changes, your face will stay like that.
When I was young, and magic still hung heavily in the air on Christmas Eve, I sat in our candlelit living room and asked my father if he'd ever seen Santa Claus.
What he said kept me awake all night.
He told me that as a boy, he heard a mischievous rustling coming from the living room on the night before Christmas. Curious, he toddled down the hall just in time to see a tiny sliver of a man shoot him a nasty look, with the lights from the Christmas tree glinting in the man's unforgiving yellowish-gray eyes. My father stood dumbfounded as the skinny bearded man leapt from the window.
They were on the second story.
Have you had things like this happen to you? Parents, teachers, or other grown-ups weaving tales so terrifying, disturbing, or unexpected that when you look back on them as an adult, you can't imagine what they were thinking? That Christmas, I was absolutely petrified. My long-held notion of rolly-poly, jolly Santas had been, quite literally, thrown out the window. In its places was the menacing image of a malnourished man who was ticked off that he got caught intruding in a living room that wasn't his own. Did he plummet to his death? I wanted to know. My dad said maybe he did, but if so, he'd been replaced because I'd be getting presents from Santa just as I had before. I think he was trying to reassure me, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that my world was crumbling around me. Santa was suddenly skinny, irritable, unfriendly, and possibly self-harming.
Another story that comes to mind goes back to my days as an eye-patched kindergartener in Mrs. Gay's class. We'd recently read the Gingerbread Man Poem, where a gingerbread cookie dude escapes from many different people and animals who try to eat him. Mrs. Gay told us there would be cookies for us to eat at the end of the week once we'd finished whatever else was involved in the Gingerbread unit (oh, kindergarten, how I miss your simplicity). She reported mid-week that the gingerbread man which had so lovingly been baked for us had disappeared, just like in the poem, and it was up to us to find him. We spent at least two interminable afternoons searching for him, high and low, under balance beams, inside slides, under shady trees and behind fences. Granted, I was five so maybe I remember this taking longer than it really did, but oh how we walked. Our little legs carried us hopefully from one destination to the other, imagining how wonderful it would be to finally find that puckish cookie once and for all.
Are you thinking this story ends in milk and cookies? Or maybe a group field trip to the kitchen to bake our own gingerbread men? Or even an arts and crafts project wherein we made our own cookie-like confections out of paper bags and glitter?
You would be wrong on all accounts. After all of our diligent searching, hard work, and unflappable ambition, the story ends in an anticlimactic epic tragedy. On Friday, Mrs. Gay told us she'd seen the Gingerbread Man walking the halls after school the day before, and tried to catch him for us, but he escaped. He was savagely eaten by the lunch ladies without regard for our tireless efforts or the feelings of the Gingerbread man himself. She said they expressed little regret, and there was nothing more to be done. The Gingerbread Man was gone for good.
Why did she make us walk all that way? Why did she lead us to believe we could find him? She took advantage of our good hearts and angelic gullibility. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, this isn't such a big deal. But at the time, I was deeply disappointed, and frankly fearful of the merciless lunch ladies. What kind of world is this, I thought. At five, I wasn't sure I could live a life in a place where cookies were cruelly captured and eaten by women who pretended to be so friendly. Had this been a lie all along? Could I be sure of anything? Why didn't anyone ever give us any cookies?
Do you have any childhood memories that make you wonder what the adults were thinking? Please share them.
What he said kept me awake all night.
He told me that as a boy, he heard a mischievous rustling coming from the living room on the night before Christmas. Curious, he toddled down the hall just in time to see a tiny sliver of a man shoot him a nasty look, with the lights from the Christmas tree glinting in the man's unforgiving yellowish-gray eyes. My father stood dumbfounded as the skinny bearded man leapt from the window.
They were on the second story.
Have you had things like this happen to you? Parents, teachers, or other grown-ups weaving tales so terrifying, disturbing, or unexpected that when you look back on them as an adult, you can't imagine what they were thinking? That Christmas, I was absolutely petrified. My long-held notion of rolly-poly, jolly Santas had been, quite literally, thrown out the window. In its places was the menacing image of a malnourished man who was ticked off that he got caught intruding in a living room that wasn't his own. Did he plummet to his death? I wanted to know. My dad said maybe he did, but if so, he'd been replaced because I'd be getting presents from Santa just as I had before. I think he was trying to reassure me, but I just couldn't shake the feeling that my world was crumbling around me. Santa was suddenly skinny, irritable, unfriendly, and possibly self-harming.
Another story that comes to mind goes back to my days as an eye-patched kindergartener in Mrs. Gay's class. We'd recently read the Gingerbread Man Poem, where a gingerbread cookie dude escapes from many different people and animals who try to eat him. Mrs. Gay told us there would be cookies for us to eat at the end of the week once we'd finished whatever else was involved in the Gingerbread unit (oh, kindergarten, how I miss your simplicity). She reported mid-week that the gingerbread man which had so lovingly been baked for us had disappeared, just like in the poem, and it was up to us to find him. We spent at least two interminable afternoons searching for him, high and low, under balance beams, inside slides, under shady trees and behind fences. Granted, I was five so maybe I remember this taking longer than it really did, but oh how we walked. Our little legs carried us hopefully from one destination to the other, imagining how wonderful it would be to finally find that puckish cookie once and for all.
Are you thinking this story ends in milk and cookies? Or maybe a group field trip to the kitchen to bake our own gingerbread men? Or even an arts and crafts project wherein we made our own cookie-like confections out of paper bags and glitter?
You would be wrong on all accounts. After all of our diligent searching, hard work, and unflappable ambition, the story ends in an anticlimactic epic tragedy. On Friday, Mrs. Gay told us she'd seen the Gingerbread Man walking the halls after school the day before, and tried to catch him for us, but he escaped. He was savagely eaten by the lunch ladies without regard for our tireless efforts or the feelings of the Gingerbread man himself. She said they expressed little regret, and there was nothing more to be done. The Gingerbread Man was gone for good.
Why did she make us walk all that way? Why did she lead us to believe we could find him? She took advantage of our good hearts and angelic gullibility. Sure, in the grand scheme of things, this isn't such a big deal. But at the time, I was deeply disappointed, and frankly fearful of the merciless lunch ladies. What kind of world is this, I thought. At five, I wasn't sure I could live a life in a place where cookies were cruelly captured and eaten by women who pretended to be so friendly. Had this been a lie all along? Could I be sure of anything? Why didn't anyone ever give us any cookies?
Do you have any childhood memories that make you wonder what the adults were thinking? Please share them.
Wednesday, June 17, 2009
Bonnaroo Review
For those who don't know, Bonnaroo is a four-day music festival held every June on 700 acres of Tennessee farmland. The multi-stage concert extravaganza started in 2002 and has grown bigger and better each year. Last week, nearly 80,000 people attended, breaking previous records.
Tickets costs $240, which is a great price considering all of the acts and activities there are to see and do throughout the four days. Most attendees camp in various pods surrounding Centeroo, where all the stages are. Being a poor college student, and at the suggestion of Paige, who attended last year, Tuan, my little bro Michael B. and I, all applied to be volunteers. We'd get free tickets and early admission in exchange for working three five-hour shifts.
I had the time of my life and saw some of the best live performances I'll ever see. All in all, I went to about 20 partial or full sets, many of which were some of my favorite bands. In the interest of brevity, I'm going to break this down into sections to save myself from getting too tangential and cloying. But here's the Bonnaroo '09 lowdown through the eyes of a first-timer.
Favorite Sets: Phoenix, Okkervil River, Grizzly Bear, The Decemberists, Rodrigo y Gabriela
Most fun: MGMT went on at 2:15 a.m. We'd volunteered from 12-5 in the heat of the day, seen 4-5 other shows in the afternoon, and were pretty beat. The energy at the show was insane, and the 90-minute dance party was something I'll never forget. I left drenched in sweat, most of which wasn't even mine. Trust me, it was awesome.
Honorable Mention: Al Green. Seeing this legend perform at Bonnaroo's main stage with thousands of adoring fans singing along to his biggest hits (Let's Stay Together, How Can You Mend a Broken Heart) is one of my fondest memories. During "Let's Stay Together" a guy about 10 yards away got down on one knee and proposed to his girlfriend. She said yes, and the crowd erupted in cheers with strangers taking pictures left and right. Al Green's soulful crooning felt just right in the hot June air. No one could wipe the smiles off their faces.
Best Surprises: We caught the end of the Grace Potter and the Nocturnals set. They put on a great show with the entire band playing different parts of the drum kit at once at one point. I'd heard them on the radio a few times, but their soul-infused classic rock sound was so much more impressive live. Here's a band who loves to perform, has a great stage presence, and made me appreciate how great it is to come across bands for the first time in concert.
Phoenix- I'd heard only a little of this band, and had to really make myself show up to their 11:30 set after an exhausting day. Thank heavens I did because it was one of my favorite shows of the whole weekend. They sounded incredible, and with everyone dancing and singing along, I kept thinking of how much I'd have missed if i was asleep in our tent.
What to know about volunteering: I'd think very carefully before you do. Overall the experience wasn't an entirely negative one. I was fortunate enough to get good shifts, and didn't miss a single show I really wanted to see.However, standing on my feet in the broiling sun, with little opportunity for breaks or shelter really affected the rest of my days. For a lot of the time, I was exhausted. It didn't stop me from seeing any shows; I came 1200 miles to see these bands, and I wouldn't miss them just because I was sunburned, my feet were swollen, and I felt like I might fall down.
But do be warned that if you plan to volunteer, bring plenty of water, get plenty of rest at night, and come knowing that your schedule is non-negotiable, and you could miss plenty of acts you really want to see. Also be prepared that the volunteer management is pretty poorly run. When you have 1600 volunteers, double the usual number, delays are to be expected, but we did have to wait a few hours to check in (some unlucky ones got sent to Wal-Mart to camp for the night), and orientation took a couple hours longer than it should have. I wouldn't volunteer again unless I HAD TO GET TO BONNAROO and didn't have the funds to do it without a free ticket.
What to expect if you go: Expect to be hot and uncomfortable sometimes, but not all the time. Prepare for the heat. Make sure to pack several different pairs of comfortable shoes. You will be walking or on your feet 18 hours a day. Bring enough food to feed yourself at camp for four days. Baby wipes are also helpful accessories. You will be dirty.
Expect to meet the kindest, most friendly group of people you'll ever see in one place. Strangers will high-five, hug, and smile at you. We were thanked a few different times by strangers for our efforts in volunteering to help promote sustainability. Expect to have the time of your life. Bring people you love because it makes the experience perfect. Expect to feel euphoric at every great show. Relax and let the rhythm of the music pulse through you like a heartbeat.
In the comments: have you been to Bonnaroo or anything like it? Tell me about it!
Tickets costs $240, which is a great price considering all of the acts and activities there are to see and do throughout the four days. Most attendees camp in various pods surrounding Centeroo, where all the stages are. Being a poor college student, and at the suggestion of Paige, who attended last year, Tuan, my little bro Michael B. and I, all applied to be volunteers. We'd get free tickets and early admission in exchange for working three five-hour shifts.
I had the time of my life and saw some of the best live performances I'll ever see. All in all, I went to about 20 partial or full sets, many of which were some of my favorite bands. In the interest of brevity, I'm going to break this down into sections to save myself from getting too tangential and cloying. But here's the Bonnaroo '09 lowdown through the eyes of a first-timer.
Favorite Sets: Phoenix, Okkervil River, Grizzly Bear, The Decemberists, Rodrigo y Gabriela
Most fun: MGMT went on at 2:15 a.m. We'd volunteered from 12-5 in the heat of the day, seen 4-5 other shows in the afternoon, and were pretty beat. The energy at the show was insane, and the 90-minute dance party was something I'll never forget. I left drenched in sweat, most of which wasn't even mine. Trust me, it was awesome.
Honorable Mention: Al Green. Seeing this legend perform at Bonnaroo's main stage with thousands of adoring fans singing along to his biggest hits (Let's Stay Together, How Can You Mend a Broken Heart) is one of my fondest memories. During "Let's Stay Together" a guy about 10 yards away got down on one knee and proposed to his girlfriend. She said yes, and the crowd erupted in cheers with strangers taking pictures left and right. Al Green's soulful crooning felt just right in the hot June air. No one could wipe the smiles off their faces.
Best Surprises: We caught the end of the Grace Potter and the Nocturnals set. They put on a great show with the entire band playing different parts of the drum kit at once at one point. I'd heard them on the radio a few times, but their soul-infused classic rock sound was so much more impressive live. Here's a band who loves to perform, has a great stage presence, and made me appreciate how great it is to come across bands for the first time in concert.
Phoenix- I'd heard only a little of this band, and had to really make myself show up to their 11:30 set after an exhausting day. Thank heavens I did because it was one of my favorite shows of the whole weekend. They sounded incredible, and with everyone dancing and singing along, I kept thinking of how much I'd have missed if i was asleep in our tent.
What to know about volunteering: I'd think very carefully before you do. Overall the experience wasn't an entirely negative one. I was fortunate enough to get good shifts, and didn't miss a single show I really wanted to see.However, standing on my feet in the broiling sun, with little opportunity for breaks or shelter really affected the rest of my days. For a lot of the time, I was exhausted. It didn't stop me from seeing any shows; I came 1200 miles to see these bands, and I wouldn't miss them just because I was sunburned, my feet were swollen, and I felt like I might fall down.
But do be warned that if you plan to volunteer, bring plenty of water, get plenty of rest at night, and come knowing that your schedule is non-negotiable, and you could miss plenty of acts you really want to see. Also be prepared that the volunteer management is pretty poorly run. When you have 1600 volunteers, double the usual number, delays are to be expected, but we did have to wait a few hours to check in (some unlucky ones got sent to Wal-Mart to camp for the night), and orientation took a couple hours longer than it should have. I wouldn't volunteer again unless I HAD TO GET TO BONNAROO and didn't have the funds to do it without a free ticket.
What to expect if you go: Expect to be hot and uncomfortable sometimes, but not all the time. Prepare for the heat. Make sure to pack several different pairs of comfortable shoes. You will be walking or on your feet 18 hours a day. Bring enough food to feed yourself at camp for four days. Baby wipes are also helpful accessories. You will be dirty.
Expect to meet the kindest, most friendly group of people you'll ever see in one place. Strangers will high-five, hug, and smile at you. We were thanked a few different times by strangers for our efforts in volunteering to help promote sustainability. Expect to have the time of your life. Bring people you love because it makes the experience perfect. Expect to feel euphoric at every great show. Relax and let the rhythm of the music pulse through you like a heartbeat.
In the comments: have you been to Bonnaroo or anything like it? Tell me about it!
Tuesday, June 16, 2009
Songs that make your heart sing: Bonnaroo edition
Hey everyone, I'll have a Bonnaroo rundown coming up later today or tomorrow, but for now I want to tide you over with an edition of Songs that Make Your Heart Sing, featuring a bunch of my favorite songs I saw at the festival. Usually the STMYHS feature is reserved for songs that are exclusively lyrically happy and upbeat but I'll make an exception because seeing these performed live over the weekend was incredible. Live versions are embedded when available in good quality!
"Lisztomania" by Phoenix:
The Charging Sky by the universally admired Jenny Lewis!:
"Impossible Germany" by Wilco:
"Southern Point" by Grizzly Bear:
"Our Life Is Not a Movie but Maybe" by Okkervil River:
"Crane Wife 3" by The Decemberists:
"Lisztomania" by Phoenix:
The Charging Sky by the universally admired Jenny Lewis!:
"Impossible Germany" by Wilco:
"Southern Point" by Grizzly Bear:
"Our Life Is Not a Movie but Maybe" by Okkervil River:
"Crane Wife 3" by The Decemberists:
Sunday, May 31, 2009
Book Review Blitz
In the last month, I've been reading voraciously, binging on lighter fare than college classes usually allow, and enjoying every minute of it. I review things rather rarely at Catherine the Greatest, but I plan to do more of it, so I think it's time to introduce an official rating system: the royal crown! Let's use a 1-5 crown scale. Here are the highlights of what I've read.
Title: Thirteen Reasons Why
Author: Jay Asher
Plot: High-schooler Hannah Baker committed suicide, but before she did, she recorded and mailed 13 audio tapes to each person who played a role in the circumstances of her suicide, for better or worse. Audio tape transcripts are intermingled with the narration of Clay Jensen, one of Hannah's classmates and a recipient of the tapes. He spends an afternoon and night listening to all of the them, visiting the locations Hannah tells him to, and listens to her story unravel. Clay was always friendly to Hannah, and is tortured by thinking that he could have made her depression worse. Asher succeeds in writing a heartbreaking, affecting story that readers won't soon forget.
Takeaway: I didn't realize when I ordered the book from half.com that it was a young-adult novel. It soon became obvious through the level of writing, but adult readers shouldn't be steered away. It's a compelling, gripping novel that I finished in a couple of afternoons, and is definitely a must-have for high-school libraries. It will make you rethink the way you treat other people, and remind you that you never really know anyone's whole story. Asher is brave to cover such a heavy topic that all too often is ignored.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔
Title: I am the messenger
Author: Markus Zusak
Plot: Nineteen-year-old Ed Kennedy is a cab driver who feels like a directionless failure. After being held up at a bank, where he proves himself a local hero, he starts receiving playing cards in the mail with no explanation. Each card has three clues or addresses, and Ed has to find out what message he must to deliver to every person. By helping others, Ed find himself and a new confidence that comes with feeling needed. All of his missions are heartening and the relationships he builds are realistic. Zusak has knack for explaining the human condition simply and beautifully in just a few sentences, while other authors spend lifetimes and fill reams of paper trying to get it just right.
Takeaway: My friend's mother teaches high-school English and says she divides this novel in sections, as if each of Ed's mission is its own short story. It's an effective way to teach this novel which ultimately fails to hold itself together. The book ends abruptly and disappointingly, after having maintained taught suspense throughout. I only really read it because I'm obsessed with Zusak's The Book Thief. So if you're going to read anything, read that one. It will be the best thing you read all year.
Rating: ♔♔♔
Title: The Year of Magical Thinking
Author: Joan Didion
Plot: John Dunne, Didion's husband, dies suddenly on New Year's Eve, after the couple returns from visiting their comatose daughter in a New York hospital. Didion chronicles her year of grief, and the constant struggle to think logically during a time when she admits she was hardly sane.
Takeaway: One of the most beautifully written books I've ever read. Didion is one our greatest living authors, and you'll see why. She can put words to some of the most unspeakable, senseless human emotion, making your heart ache and mind reel. At times, I put the book down just so I could absorb the sheer weight of her words.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔♔
Title: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society
Author: by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
Plot: Author Juliet Ashton is researching topics for a new book, and gets in touch with several residents of Guernsey, an English Channel island that was occupied by Germany during World War II. The book unfolds through the letters she writes to the island's residents, and those they right back. At times the letters jump from subject to subject, from weightier war stories to charming tales of island living, but they're always lively, absorbing and entertaining.
Takeaway: You have to read this. It is an intellectual's answer to light reading, filled with researched history, simple love stories, and vibrant, lovable characters. You'll be sad to leave them when you finish this book.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔
Title: My Sister's Keeper
Author: Jodi Picoult
Plot: Thirteen-year-old Anna was originally conceived to be a genetic match for her sister Kate, who was suffering from leukemia. Having spent her entire life saving Kate's by giving marrow, blood, and now a propose kidney, Anna decides to sue for medical emancipation from her parents. Anna, her mother, father, brother Jesse, sister Kate, lawyer Campbell, and a court-appointed guardian at litem take turns narrating this page-turning medical/legal drama. The toll Anna's case and Kate's illness take on the family is explored in fascinating emotional depth, and will leave you thinking about how easy it is for family members to become so emotionally and morally distant from each other, and what it takes to fix it.
Takeaway: I'd heard a lot about Jodi Picoult but never read one of her novels, thinking they were a fluffier than what I usually am drawn to. But after reading this one, I'll be seeking out all of her other books. Her characters are so richly drawn, you empathize with all of them, and the quality of her writing is unmatched by most other bestselling authors. My Sister's Keeper is a perfect summer read; it'll have you up until three o'clock in the morning.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔♔
Title: Thirteen Reasons Why
Author: Jay Asher
Plot: High-schooler Hannah Baker committed suicide, but before she did, she recorded and mailed 13 audio tapes to each person who played a role in the circumstances of her suicide, for better or worse. Audio tape transcripts are intermingled with the narration of Clay Jensen, one of Hannah's classmates and a recipient of the tapes. He spends an afternoon and night listening to all of the them, visiting the locations Hannah tells him to, and listens to her story unravel. Clay was always friendly to Hannah, and is tortured by thinking that he could have made her depression worse. Asher succeeds in writing a heartbreaking, affecting story that readers won't soon forget.
Takeaway: I didn't realize when I ordered the book from half.com that it was a young-adult novel. It soon became obvious through the level of writing, but adult readers shouldn't be steered away. It's a compelling, gripping novel that I finished in a couple of afternoons, and is definitely a must-have for high-school libraries. It will make you rethink the way you treat other people, and remind you that you never really know anyone's whole story. Asher is brave to cover such a heavy topic that all too often is ignored.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔
Title: I am the messenger
Author: Markus Zusak
Plot: Nineteen-year-old Ed Kennedy is a cab driver who feels like a directionless failure. After being held up at a bank, where he proves himself a local hero, he starts receiving playing cards in the mail with no explanation. Each card has three clues or addresses, and Ed has to find out what message he must to deliver to every person. By helping others, Ed find himself and a new confidence that comes with feeling needed. All of his missions are heartening and the relationships he builds are realistic. Zusak has knack for explaining the human condition simply and beautifully in just a few sentences, while other authors spend lifetimes and fill reams of paper trying to get it just right.
Takeaway: My friend's mother teaches high-school English and says she divides this novel in sections, as if each of Ed's mission is its own short story. It's an effective way to teach this novel which ultimately fails to hold itself together. The book ends abruptly and disappointingly, after having maintained taught suspense throughout. I only really read it because I'm obsessed with Zusak's The Book Thief. So if you're going to read anything, read that one. It will be the best thing you read all year.
Rating: ♔♔♔
Title: The Year of Magical Thinking
Author: Joan Didion
Plot: John Dunne, Didion's husband, dies suddenly on New Year's Eve, after the couple returns from visiting their comatose daughter in a New York hospital. Didion chronicles her year of grief, and the constant struggle to think logically during a time when she admits she was hardly sane.
Takeaway: One of the most beautifully written books I've ever read. Didion is one our greatest living authors, and you'll see why. She can put words to some of the most unspeakable, senseless human emotion, making your heart ache and mind reel. At times, I put the book down just so I could absorb the sheer weight of her words.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔♔
Title: The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Society
Author: by Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows
Plot: Author Juliet Ashton is researching topics for a new book, and gets in touch with several residents of Guernsey, an English Channel island that was occupied by Germany during World War II. The book unfolds through the letters she writes to the island's residents, and those they right back. At times the letters jump from subject to subject, from weightier war stories to charming tales of island living, but they're always lively, absorbing and entertaining.
Takeaway: You have to read this. It is an intellectual's answer to light reading, filled with researched history, simple love stories, and vibrant, lovable characters. You'll be sad to leave them when you finish this book.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔
Title: My Sister's Keeper
Author: Jodi Picoult
Plot: Thirteen-year-old Anna was originally conceived to be a genetic match for her sister Kate, who was suffering from leukemia. Having spent her entire life saving Kate's by giving marrow, blood, and now a propose kidney, Anna decides to sue for medical emancipation from her parents. Anna, her mother, father, brother Jesse, sister Kate, lawyer Campbell, and a court-appointed guardian at litem take turns narrating this page-turning medical/legal drama. The toll Anna's case and Kate's illness take on the family is explored in fascinating emotional depth, and will leave you thinking about how easy it is for family members to become so emotionally and morally distant from each other, and what it takes to fix it.
Takeaway: I'd heard a lot about Jodi Picoult but never read one of her novels, thinking they were a fluffier than what I usually am drawn to. But after reading this one, I'll be seeking out all of her other books. Her characters are so richly drawn, you empathize with all of them, and the quality of her writing is unmatched by most other bestselling authors. My Sister's Keeper is a perfect summer read; it'll have you up until three o'clock in the morning.
Rating: ♔♔♔♔♔
Friday, May 29, 2009
More abominations from your local Kiss station
I've written before about my confusion and distaste for crass pop-music lyrics. Do people not think about what they're singing? Are listeners just bopping around, thinking that it's okay to hum along to the overtly sexual lyrics pulsating through the virginal ear drums of the soccer team in the back of the minivan? I hate to sound like an old codger, but I'm already thinking that if I ever have children (ick), I'll be one of those parents who only lets them listen to the family-friendly soft rock stations. I don't want my eight year old to so much as ask me to kiss them thru the phone, nevermind asking when they'll be old enough to date go-go dancers and rent yachts. Who am I kidding? By the time I have kids, maybe radio will be dead. Looks like they'll be hearing the 7-hour long Celine playlist I have so lovingly crafted. If you remain unconvinced of the rapid degeneration of pop music lyrics, please join me as we take a stroll through the sordid modern day Top 40 Scene.
I'll start with the song I find most egregiously offensive, Lady Gaga's "Love Game." It's a well-known fact that Lady Gaga is certifiably insane, so maybe we can't expect her to have a conscience, or a brain...or integrity. Let's look at the following:
I'm on a mission
And it involves some heavy touching, yeah
You've indicated you're interest
I'm educated in sex, yes
Now I want it bad, want it bad
A love game, a love game
Uh, alrighty. Well, in case you weren't entirely sure what Lady G had been leading up to in the preceding verses, she's here to let you know it involves some heavy touching. I do wish that whoever wrote these fine lyrics had just kept in the original phrase, which we know they were thinking of, "heavy petting." It has been so underused, almost entirely forgotten, ever since we wrapped up the miniature sex-ed unit taught by gym teachers in fifth grade. You know I'm right. And of course, Lady Gaga must too, as she says she is educated in sex. Do you have a degree, my Lady? Or is this more of a life experience/apprenticeship situation? I assume the latter, but nevertheless I'm still curious. However, the real reason I object to this song is this line: "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick."
Are you serious? Can this really mean what I think it does? How, in one or two musical generations, did we go from The Beatles' innocent, "I want to hold your hand" to THIS. I tend to think if there is something you would never say to someone in real life, it should not be the chorus of a pop song. If you said to someone, "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick" and he responded affirmatively, that should be a sign to stay away. That is a sentence no one should say or hear.
Moving on, before I get too upset. The following song was blasting through the radio in a friend's car recently, when everyone suddenly got up in arms about a particular line. However, in my extensive research for this entry, I have found even more objectionable material in "Blame It (On the Alcohol)" by Jamie Foxx feat. T-Pain.
a) Baby I would rather show you
What you been missing in your life when I get inside.
Good lord. If you are going to be a presumptuous womanizer, could you at least do it discreetly? Perhaps employ some literary devices to keep your motivations somewhat shrouded in mystery?
b) Fill another cup up
Feelin on yo butt what?
I guess not. The lyrics to many popular songs theses days fail to exceed the intellectual levels of most sixth-grade boys. Yo butt what!! Speaking of, where on earth is Sisqo?
c) She look me dead in the eye
Then my pants got bigga
This was the lyric that sent the girls in the car squealing. And not in a good way. Remember the swirling romance of Frank Sinatra's "Fly me to the moon" or the understated sexiness of Bob Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay"? THIS SONG IS NOT LIKE THAT.
I was going to close this entry with another song dissection, but after reading Flo rida's "Right round" lyrics, I am just completely exhausted. I know many of these songs are meant to be played in clubs, so singing about strippers and drinking is apropos. But am I the only one who feels her soul whither sometimes? When I'm driving around suburban Massachusetts, passing school children, historical sites, and Girl Scout bake sales, am I the only one who wishes for a little more Simon and Garfunkel and a little less Jesse McCartney and Ludacris?
Leave your favorite lyrics in the comments.
I'll start with the song I find most egregiously offensive, Lady Gaga's "Love Game." It's a well-known fact that Lady Gaga is certifiably insane, so maybe we can't expect her to have a conscience, or a brain...or integrity. Let's look at the following:
I'm on a mission
And it involves some heavy touching, yeah
You've indicated you're interest
I'm educated in sex, yes
Now I want it bad, want it bad
A love game, a love game
Uh, alrighty. Well, in case you weren't entirely sure what Lady G had been leading up to in the preceding verses, she's here to let you know it involves some heavy touching. I do wish that whoever wrote these fine lyrics had just kept in the original phrase, which we know they were thinking of, "heavy petting." It has been so underused, almost entirely forgotten, ever since we wrapped up the miniature sex-ed unit taught by gym teachers in fifth grade. You know I'm right. And of course, Lady Gaga must too, as she says she is educated in sex. Do you have a degree, my Lady? Or is this more of a life experience/apprenticeship situation? I assume the latter, but nevertheless I'm still curious. However, the real reason I object to this song is this line: "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick."
Are you serious? Can this really mean what I think it does? How, in one or two musical generations, did we go from The Beatles' innocent, "I want to hold your hand" to THIS. I tend to think if there is something you would never say to someone in real life, it should not be the chorus of a pop song. If you said to someone, "I wanna take a ride on your disco stick" and he responded affirmatively, that should be a sign to stay away. That is a sentence no one should say or hear.
Moving on, before I get too upset. The following song was blasting through the radio in a friend's car recently, when everyone suddenly got up in arms about a particular line. However, in my extensive research for this entry, I have found even more objectionable material in "Blame It (On the Alcohol)" by Jamie Foxx feat. T-Pain.
a) Baby I would rather show you
What you been missing in your life when I get inside.
Good lord. If you are going to be a presumptuous womanizer, could you at least do it discreetly? Perhaps employ some literary devices to keep your motivations somewhat shrouded in mystery?
b) Fill another cup up
Feelin on yo butt what?
I guess not. The lyrics to many popular songs theses days fail to exceed the intellectual levels of most sixth-grade boys. Yo butt what!! Speaking of, where on earth is Sisqo?
c) She look me dead in the eye
Then my pants got bigga
This was the lyric that sent the girls in the car squealing. And not in a good way. Remember the swirling romance of Frank Sinatra's "Fly me to the moon" or the understated sexiness of Bob Dylan's "Lay Lady Lay"? THIS SONG IS NOT LIKE THAT.
I was going to close this entry with another song dissection, but after reading Flo rida's "Right round" lyrics, I am just completely exhausted. I know many of these songs are meant to be played in clubs, so singing about strippers and drinking is apropos. But am I the only one who feels her soul whither sometimes? When I'm driving around suburban Massachusetts, passing school children, historical sites, and Girl Scout bake sales, am I the only one who wishes for a little more Simon and Garfunkel and a little less Jesse McCartney and Ludacris?
Leave your favorite lyrics in the comments.
Tuesday, May 12, 2009
See you around
Freshman year at SU, when I was still figuring out how to make friends and navigate university life, I often thought about how everyone said college would be the best four years of my life. At the time, I didn't believe it, and I sincerely hoped it wasn't true. I would stare out my dorm window at menacing gray skies, cold slabs of concrete, and huddled kids running from dorm to dining hall through the freezing rain. The outlook seemed grim. If the best four years of my life meant exhaustion, awkward living situations, and unfulfilling academics, then whatever was coming after graduation must be incredibly bleak.
Well four years later, my opinions have definitely changed. I graduated last weekend, and for the past few days, have said goodbye to some of my best friends. The moment I waited for for so long--getting a diploma and moving on--was suddenly the moment I dreaded the most. The summer before I arrived here, when I was worried about buying the right books, taking the best classes, and picking the most fitting majors, I remember my father told me that my line of thinking was way off base. He said college isn't so much about what you learn. It's who you meet and what you do that make the lasting impressions. Of course, I'm incredibly grateful for my education. In my time here, my mind has been tugged, stretched, pulled and expanded. I've gotten good at things I didn't know I could do and filled my brain with perspective and skills I'll use forever.
But leaving the classroom behind isn't what makes you cry. It's leaving the people. My dad was right about this one. I can get a degree in a lot of places, in a bunch of different ways. But I couldn't have made the friends or lived the life I did here anywhere else, and I'll never live like this again. A dozen friends won't live down the block, always ready to come over and watch a movie and split a bottle (box) of wine. There is no real-world equivalent to lying on the quad or heading to the bar and seeing every person on campus you know. Staying up until 3 a.m. to finish assignments has much less appeal when there's no one sitting next to you, sharing coffee and filling you in on Facebook updates.
So yes, leaving all of this is hard. Watching people slowly trickle away from campus is depressing. Packing up all over your things for the last time brings back every memory and makes you wish for just a few more days.
But there is relief. We're sad because we had four great years here. We're weepy and on edge because we're saying goodbye to people we love, people we didn't know a couple of years ago, but now, we can't fathom going more than a few weeks without them. We're crying when we say goodbye because we're so happy we got to be here, with each other. We lived a little bit, we learned a lot, and we're leaving with thousands of memories.
So it hurts to go. It's unbelievable that our time here is over. When I arrived freshman year, I felt like I was in the wrong place. Now I walk through campus and resent that a new class is coming in, and it's time to loosen my grip on a university and neighborhood that feels so familiar.
But every time I feel sad about it, I remember that the reason I feel that way is because I'm so grateful to have people and a place to be sad about leaving. When I pack up my last bag next week, the only thing I'll be able to think is how lucky I am to have been here.
Well four years later, my opinions have definitely changed. I graduated last weekend, and for the past few days, have said goodbye to some of my best friends. The moment I waited for for so long--getting a diploma and moving on--was suddenly the moment I dreaded the most. The summer before I arrived here, when I was worried about buying the right books, taking the best classes, and picking the most fitting majors, I remember my father told me that my line of thinking was way off base. He said college isn't so much about what you learn. It's who you meet and what you do that make the lasting impressions. Of course, I'm incredibly grateful for my education. In my time here, my mind has been tugged, stretched, pulled and expanded. I've gotten good at things I didn't know I could do and filled my brain with perspective and skills I'll use forever.
But leaving the classroom behind isn't what makes you cry. It's leaving the people. My dad was right about this one. I can get a degree in a lot of places, in a bunch of different ways. But I couldn't have made the friends or lived the life I did here anywhere else, and I'll never live like this again. A dozen friends won't live down the block, always ready to come over and watch a movie and split a bottle (box) of wine. There is no real-world equivalent to lying on the quad or heading to the bar and seeing every person on campus you know. Staying up until 3 a.m. to finish assignments has much less appeal when there's no one sitting next to you, sharing coffee and filling you in on Facebook updates.
So yes, leaving all of this is hard. Watching people slowly trickle away from campus is depressing. Packing up all over your things for the last time brings back every memory and makes you wish for just a few more days.
But there is relief. We're sad because we had four great years here. We're weepy and on edge because we're saying goodbye to people we love, people we didn't know a couple of years ago, but now, we can't fathom going more than a few weeks without them. We're crying when we say goodbye because we're so happy we got to be here, with each other. We lived a little bit, we learned a lot, and we're leaving with thousands of memories.
So it hurts to go. It's unbelievable that our time here is over. When I arrived freshman year, I felt like I was in the wrong place. Now I walk through campus and resent that a new class is coming in, and it's time to loosen my grip on a university and neighborhood that feels so familiar.
But every time I feel sad about it, I remember that the reason I feel that way is because I'm so grateful to have people and a place to be sad about leaving. When I pack up my last bag next week, the only thing I'll be able to think is how lucky I am to have been here.
Friday, May 1, 2009
Spread the word
A few weeks ago, Paige tweeted about a site called SaveTheWords.org, and since then, I've been a woman possessed. The site is powered by the Oxford Dictionary, and features words that have been stricken from new editions. They do this with the idea that if people learn, remember and use them, the words will be saved.
Well never have I heard a more romantic idea. I understand that dictionaries are intended to reflect the current lexicon--words that people know, use and understand. Sometimes words get dropped from our speech, or lose their applicability to modern life. Language is an ever-evolving thing, and its changes should be reflected in the Bibl, uh I mean, dictionary. Each year, dictionaries add thousands of word. The 11th edition of Merriam Webster saw the addition of "drama queen" and "supersize" and "gastric bypass." This year they added "webinar" and "mental health day." Talk about reflecting cultural shifts. The most recent Oxford revisions added the words "mentee" and "celebutante."
But what about the words that were stricken? The thought of them disappearing makes me sad and anxious. It's like thinking about out of print books. People took the time to write and read them, and as the copies become rarer and harder to find, those works get lost and forgotten. SavetheWords says 90 percent of speech is communicated through 7,000 words.
That's not enough.
Go there and add to your vocabulary, work them into conversation. Or else I will be very misquemed.
Well never have I heard a more romantic idea. I understand that dictionaries are intended to reflect the current lexicon--words that people know, use and understand. Sometimes words get dropped from our speech, or lose their applicability to modern life. Language is an ever-evolving thing, and its changes should be reflected in the Bibl, uh I mean, dictionary. Each year, dictionaries add thousands of word. The 11th edition of Merriam Webster saw the addition of "drama queen" and "supersize" and "gastric bypass." This year they added "webinar" and "mental health day." Talk about reflecting cultural shifts. The most recent Oxford revisions added the words "mentee" and "celebutante."
But what about the words that were stricken? The thought of them disappearing makes me sad and anxious. It's like thinking about out of print books. People took the time to write and read them, and as the copies become rarer and harder to find, those works get lost and forgotten. SavetheWords says 90 percent of speech is communicated through 7,000 words.
That's not enough.
Go there and add to your vocabulary, work them into conversation. Or else I will be very misquemed.
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Top 10 classroom personalities
Next week my college classes end for good, and I'm already feeling nostalgic. We take for granted how lucky we are to get an education, soaking up new information on a daily basis. I realized how lucky I was and how much I enjoyed learning last semester when I was home, and no one was teaching me anything besides how to withstand the unwelcome conversation of subway predators.
We like to think we'll do our own research and continue teaching ourselves things as we leave school behind and transition to adulthood, but once you sink into a rhythm and get used to the 9-5 work day, a lot of that ambition can fall by the wayside.
But my intention in writing today isn't to wax poetic about the intellectual gratification of a college education. Today I would like to bemoan the eventual loss of one of the best people-watching locales: the university classroom. Regular readers of this blog know that I'm a huge creeper, and I spend most of my day observing people around me. The college campus is a veritable treasure trove for my kind! New people are everywhere, and there's always a freak show to catch your attention. Here are some personalities I've categorized during my time creeping behind you in class...
TOP 10 CLASSROOM PERSONALITIES.
10. The Eater. You know the one, that skinny girl who sits in the corner and packs away enough food for a family of four by the time your 55-minute class is over. You've seen her in food.com, getting a stir fry, gummi worms, coffee, soda, a muffin, veggies and hummus,thus spending the equivalent of your entire weekly food budget on her afternoon snack. How can she stay so thin when she eats like Grendel? Also, The Eater's binges never seem to coincide with actual meal times, just normal mid-morning or afternoon snacktimes when the common man would have a granola bar or an apple. What do these people eat at dinner? My guess is a gaggle of kindergarteners.
9. The Sick One. That person who always has a deadly hacking cough, all year around, without fail. The phelgmy discharges are ear-splittingly audible no matter where you sit, and the urge to sanitize every surface keeps you from focusing on your professor's lesson.
8. The Loud One. These people talk all through class, thinking they're whispering, but in reality they are speaking at or above normal speaking volume. They rummage through their bags, slam every possesion onto the desk, crinkle their bag of Fritos with complete disregard for the racket that it's causing. They go to the bathroom in the middle of lecture, chair screeching, feet scuffling, door slamming. Hi, we hear you.
7. The Sleepy One. Not only does this person typically sleep through the entire class, but for the few second they're awake, the circles under their eyes make you feel so bad for them that you avoid participating in class because you see how badly they need sleep. The coffee on their desk goes untouched; they were out cold within minutes of purchasing it. You wonder what type of hours these people keep that they are always dysfunctional from sleep deprivation. All night benders? Obnoxious roommate? Tumultuous relationship? Maybe they do all of their studying between midnight and 7 a.m.?
6. The Stupid One. These people are often the most bold in their question asking, which only leads the entire class to shift uncomfortably every time The Stupid Ones raise their hands, wincing in anticipation of the idiocy that is about to flow forth. I like to think there's no such thing as a stupid question, but I've heard a few. Once, during a health policy class discussion about HIV transmission during genital mutiliation in places where clitorectomies are frequently performed with sticks, rocks, etc., a girl asked, "Wait, how do rocks carry HIV?" She should not be allowed to get a college degree.
5. The Belligerently Angry One. This person has to disagree with everything the professor said, and do so with fervent authority. Everything seems to offend him, and no student statement can go uncontested. The Belligerently Angry One is always disgruntled and most importantly, always right. Just like a closely-related cousin,The Know-It-All. Every statement begins with something like, "During my internship at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation" or "In the honors program we..." or "Actually, that's not true because when I was on an archaelogical dig in Egypt..." I think I speak for all of us when I say, "Shut it."
4. The Lonely One. The person is determined to be your friend. I attract a lot of these, due to my friendly disposition and the magnet lodged deep within me that pulls in the affection of strangers. The Lonely Ones gravitate toward you for group work, wave at you when you're with friends in public, invite you to their birthday parties. This person loves you, and you're not sure how to handle it.
3. The Mute Genius. That unassuming student who doesn't speak a word the whole semester, and then raises her hand to answer one question and delivers the most informed, eloquent answer you've ever heard. Even the professor is amazed. What does that student think while the rest of us sit half-awake bumbling through answers we make up as we go along because doing the reading is too much trouble? Would that person like to peer edit my paper?
2. The Late Comer. You're 45 minute into the 80 minute class, and this bozo wanders in. Why bother coming? You've missed most of lecture and you look like a dumbass. If you can't make it within 10 minutes of the class's start time, stay home. No one will miss you.
1. The Talker with the Annoying Figures of Speech. The only person who contributes in your 9:30 class on Friday, and he has an answer for everything. He keeps the focus off of the other students, but unfortunately his language is peppered with two or three phrases he uses non-stop. Some favorites: To piggyback off that point..., saying "like" every third word, or using grammatically incorrect phrases like "If they would have known" instead of "If they had known" on repeat. You start participating just so no one has to listen to him talk anymore. The Talker with the Annoying Figures of Speech has a twin, The Talker Who Speaks at a Glacial Pace. If you leave 10 seconds between every word, I prohibit you from speaking.
Who are your fave classroom personalities? Who did I leave out?
We like to think we'll do our own research and continue teaching ourselves things as we leave school behind and transition to adulthood, but once you sink into a rhythm and get used to the 9-5 work day, a lot of that ambition can fall by the wayside.
But my intention in writing today isn't to wax poetic about the intellectual gratification of a college education. Today I would like to bemoan the eventual loss of one of the best people-watching locales: the university classroom. Regular readers of this blog know that I'm a huge creeper, and I spend most of my day observing people around me. The college campus is a veritable treasure trove for my kind! New people are everywhere, and there's always a freak show to catch your attention. Here are some personalities I've categorized during my time creeping behind you in class...
TOP 10 CLASSROOM PERSONALITIES.
10. The Eater. You know the one, that skinny girl who sits in the corner and packs away enough food for a family of four by the time your 55-minute class is over. You've seen her in food.com, getting a stir fry, gummi worms, coffee, soda, a muffin, veggies and hummus,thus spending the equivalent of your entire weekly food budget on her afternoon snack. How can she stay so thin when she eats like Grendel? Also, The Eater's binges never seem to coincide with actual meal times, just normal mid-morning or afternoon snacktimes when the common man would have a granola bar or an apple. What do these people eat at dinner? My guess is a gaggle of kindergarteners.
9. The Sick One. That person who always has a deadly hacking cough, all year around, without fail. The phelgmy discharges are ear-splittingly audible no matter where you sit, and the urge to sanitize every surface keeps you from focusing on your professor's lesson.
8. The Loud One. These people talk all through class, thinking they're whispering, but in reality they are speaking at or above normal speaking volume. They rummage through their bags, slam every possesion onto the desk, crinkle their bag of Fritos with complete disregard for the racket that it's causing. They go to the bathroom in the middle of lecture, chair screeching, feet scuffling, door slamming. Hi, we hear you.
7. The Sleepy One. Not only does this person typically sleep through the entire class, but for the few second they're awake, the circles under their eyes make you feel so bad for them that you avoid participating in class because you see how badly they need sleep. The coffee on their desk goes untouched; they were out cold within minutes of purchasing it. You wonder what type of hours these people keep that they are always dysfunctional from sleep deprivation. All night benders? Obnoxious roommate? Tumultuous relationship? Maybe they do all of their studying between midnight and 7 a.m.?
6. The Stupid One. These people are often the most bold in their question asking, which only leads the entire class to shift uncomfortably every time The Stupid Ones raise their hands, wincing in anticipation of the idiocy that is about to flow forth. I like to think there's no such thing as a stupid question, but I've heard a few. Once, during a health policy class discussion about HIV transmission during genital mutiliation in places where clitorectomies are frequently performed with sticks, rocks, etc., a girl asked, "Wait, how do rocks carry HIV?" She should not be allowed to get a college degree.
5. The Belligerently Angry One. This person has to disagree with everything the professor said, and do so with fervent authority. Everything seems to offend him, and no student statement can go uncontested. The Belligerently Angry One is always disgruntled and most importantly, always right. Just like a closely-related cousin,The Know-It-All. Every statement begins with something like, "During my internship at the Bill and Melinda Gates Foundation" or "In the honors program we..." or "Actually, that's not true because when I was on an archaelogical dig in Egypt..." I think I speak for all of us when I say, "Shut it."
4. The Lonely One. The person is determined to be your friend. I attract a lot of these, due to my friendly disposition and the magnet lodged deep within me that pulls in the affection of strangers. The Lonely Ones gravitate toward you for group work, wave at you when you're with friends in public, invite you to their birthday parties. This person loves you, and you're not sure how to handle it.
3. The Mute Genius. That unassuming student who doesn't speak a word the whole semester, and then raises her hand to answer one question and delivers the most informed, eloquent answer you've ever heard. Even the professor is amazed. What does that student think while the rest of us sit half-awake bumbling through answers we make up as we go along because doing the reading is too much trouble? Would that person like to peer edit my paper?
2. The Late Comer. You're 45 minute into the 80 minute class, and this bozo wanders in. Why bother coming? You've missed most of lecture and you look like a dumbass. If you can't make it within 10 minutes of the class's start time, stay home. No one will miss you.
1. The Talker with the Annoying Figures of Speech. The only person who contributes in your 9:30 class on Friday, and he has an answer for everything. He keeps the focus off of the other students, but unfortunately his language is peppered with two or three phrases he uses non-stop. Some favorites: To piggyback off that point..., saying "like" every third word, or using grammatically incorrect phrases like "If they would have known" instead of "If they had known" on repeat. You start participating just so no one has to listen to him talk anymore. The Talker with the Annoying Figures of Speech has a twin, The Talker Who Speaks at a Glacial Pace. If you leave 10 seconds between every word, I prohibit you from speaking.
Who are your fave classroom personalities? Who did I leave out?
Friday, April 17, 2009
Is Simon Cowell's soul more tender than mine?
It can be so lonely when you're on the wrong side of a trend. Trust me, I've been there more than once. Many of my peers had closets full of Beanie Babies before fifth grade, and sure, I had a few, but frankly, they were too small to hug, too limp to assume much of a personality, and I was always a little overanxious about whether I should keep the tags on in anticipation of the millions that could await me in the future. I've never put my hair in a side ponytail, didn't feel threatened by Y2K, and haven't seen an episode of Lost, 24, or even Seinfeld. Better still, after four years at SU, I still have never donned a pair of leggings.
Which brings me to this Susan Boyle craze. In case you're entirely oblivious to pop culture, her audition from Britain's Got Talent has been all over the Internoodle, and I mean all over it. If you're just resurfacing after a weeks-long coma, let me first say it's great to have you back! Second, you can view the clip here. She sings beautifully, and apparently this is groundbreaking news for everyone because HOW COULD SUCH A LOVELY VOICE COME OUT OF SUCH AN ORDINARY-LOOKING PERSON?
Ms. Boyle is showing up in the Trends on Twitter. A fan site was created. Her name is the second fastest-growing search term in the world; there is talk that she might be the biggest YouTube sensation ever. Debates are flaring up about whether she should be made over, if it's true that she's never been kissed, blah blah blah.
I just don't get it. Columns at HuffPo and Boston.com go to great lengths to explain the phenomenon, and have me wondering if I'm the only one in the world who didn't have an earthshattering revelation when I saw the clip. There seem to be two basic schools of thought on the Boyle Bonanza:
1) When she shuffled out in her frumpy dress and nervously told the world that she lives with cats and volunteers with the church, the audience expected another formulaic "Let's-laugh-at-the-freak-show-with-big-dreams-and-a-small-brain" audition that would leave the audience giggling and the contestant humiliated. But lo! When we heard her sing, everyone realized how shallow they were for assuming a somewhat awkward, but otherwise regular-looking person wouldn't have anything to offer. Oh the soaring heights of humanity! We met the depths of our shallowness and then basked in the glory of a shared humanity!
Or...
2) We all relate to Susan. She reminds us we all have something to offer, even if as the Boston.com post quotes, "Without classic good looks, without work, without a spouse, living in a small town, people like Susan Boyle may not seem particularly 'important.'" That is, we all feel like Susan on the inside. And we all feel loved when the world welcomes us with open arms. Journey style.
Well okay. That's nice. Maybe I feel underwhelmed because I assumed she would sing well when I saw a link to the video. I still can't help but feel like I'm missing out on some of the life-affirming ecstasy that everyone else seems to be experiencing when they watch it. Will someone help me? Are people so sad that a spirited Scottish woman with a sublime singing voice can offer the perfect mix of escapism and hope to put the spring back in their steps? Have Lindsay and Britney disappointed us all so sorely that we want to handpick a new icon from the common folk? Or is this society's rejection of airbrushed, hungry models in favor of someone who looks like the neighbor we wave at but don't really talk to?
It's possible I've put too much though into all of this.
Which brings me to this Susan Boyle craze. In case you're entirely oblivious to pop culture, her audition from Britain's Got Talent has been all over the Internoodle, and I mean all over it. If you're just resurfacing after a weeks-long coma, let me first say it's great to have you back! Second, you can view the clip here. She sings beautifully, and apparently this is groundbreaking news for everyone because HOW COULD SUCH A LOVELY VOICE COME OUT OF SUCH AN ORDINARY-LOOKING PERSON?
Ms. Boyle is showing up in the Trends on Twitter. A fan site was created. Her name is the second fastest-growing search term in the world; there is talk that she might be the biggest YouTube sensation ever. Debates are flaring up about whether she should be made over, if it's true that she's never been kissed, blah blah blah.
I just don't get it. Columns at HuffPo and Boston.com go to great lengths to explain the phenomenon, and have me wondering if I'm the only one in the world who didn't have an earthshattering revelation when I saw the clip. There seem to be two basic schools of thought on the Boyle Bonanza:
1) When she shuffled out in her frumpy dress and nervously told the world that she lives with cats and volunteers with the church, the audience expected another formulaic "Let's-laugh-at-the-freak-show-with-big-dreams-and-a-small-brain" audition that would leave the audience giggling and the contestant humiliated. But lo! When we heard her sing, everyone realized how shallow they were for assuming a somewhat awkward, but otherwise regular-looking person wouldn't have anything to offer. Oh the soaring heights of humanity! We met the depths of our shallowness and then basked in the glory of a shared humanity!
Or...
2) We all relate to Susan. She reminds us we all have something to offer, even if as the Boston.com post quotes, "Without classic good looks, without work, without a spouse, living in a small town, people like Susan Boyle may not seem particularly 'important.'" That is, we all feel like Susan on the inside. And we all feel loved when the world welcomes us with open arms. Journey style.
Well okay. That's nice. Maybe I feel underwhelmed because I assumed she would sing well when I saw a link to the video. I still can't help but feel like I'm missing out on some of the life-affirming ecstasy that everyone else seems to be experiencing when they watch it. Will someone help me? Are people so sad that a spirited Scottish woman with a sublime singing voice can offer the perfect mix of escapism and hope to put the spring back in their steps? Have Lindsay and Britney disappointed us all so sorely that we want to handpick a new icon from the common folk? Or is this society's rejection of airbrushed, hungry models in favor of someone who looks like the neighbor we wave at but don't really talk to?
It's possible I've put too much though into all of this.
Tuesday, April 14, 2009
Songs that make your heart sing: Classic Rock Edition
Here's a "Little Engine That Could" anthem for you kids to rock out to this week. Think of it as the "good music" version of "I Will Survive."
I'm Not Down, by the Clash
I'm Not Down, by the Clash
Monday, April 6, 2009
Getting felt up in the Schine atrium, A Reflection
I have a well-documented aversion to people touching me in unexpected locations. I'd guess this is a fairly common characteristic, as most of us don't anticipate unsolicited pelvic grazes or torso caresses as we go through our daily motions. My "I'll-scream-if-you-touch-my-midsection" reflex has been beaten into submission recently, however, mostly due to overfriendly yoga classes, and a particular housemate who pokes and prods me with the reckless abandon of an overeager medical student.
Last year, after hearing Connie rave about the free Healthy Monday massages offered in our student center, I decided to confront my anxieties about human touch head-on. There is certainly something uncomfortable about lying down and letting a stranger massage you in the middle of a bustling university hub, but I decided the benefits outweighed the cost. After all, I'm rather prone to knotted muscles and lower back pain, and maybe a massage could help.
So last spring the massages quickly became a regular item on my Monday agenda. The uneasiness subsided almost immediately, and I looked forward to allowing myself that weekly indulgence. This semester, I hadn't made it back until today, when my Com law class (read: a type of hell that requires its own circle in Dante's inferno) let out early, and I remembered to wander by. I noticed they had three massage artists working, instead of two, and a couple of them were using tables instead of the typical massage chairs. This was going to be good, I thought to myself.
But it wasn't. No, it was not. It was very, very bad.
I hadn't seen the girl who would be my masseuse before, which was slightly discouraging. I have an old favorite, a tiny slip of a thing who somehow manages to dig out knots with the force of a 300-pound wrestler. But I'm open to change. What followed, however, was perhaps a bit too much change.
Okay, so I'll just say it. There was a lot of butt touching. These massages are supposed to be focused on your back. Sometimes there could be a little neck or scalp massage, but generally they stick to familiar spinal territory. And that's how this girl started too, slowly putting heavy pressure all over my back, which made me especially relaxed and sedate. But once she had me sleepy and vulnerable, she moved southward, kneading the extreme lower back with one hand and putting her other on the side of my hip, and sort of, I don't know, poking. She occasionally wandered into butt territory, but just barely crossing the 38th parallel into unadulterated gluteous geography.
Just as I was getting jumpy, it was time to incorporate yet another bodily region. She massaged my hamstrings and calves for several minutes, then moved back northward to go in for the kill on the butt massage.
LADY?!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Would it have been inappropriate for me to ask her to stop? This is not what I signed up for!! I assume they told her in massage school that the derriere is not where most people carry their stress, so why is she touching me like this IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STUDENT CENTER.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she finally seemed to be done copping feels and sending exploratory jabs to locate my hip bones. But this was seriously shaping up to be the longest massage ever. It had to be over soon.
Alas. She began working on my legs again and seemed rather perplexed by the tension she found there. With both of my ankles in hand, she leaned back with all her might, yanking, and I slid several inches down the table. I can't lie, it was sort of enjoyable, if not slightly reminiscent of medieval torture techniques. Then, bending my leg at the knee, she tried to lift it off the table, and apparently took notice of the fact that there is absolutely no flexibility contained within my "hip sockets."
This clearly was a clue to her that she needed to half-mount the table, placing her bended leg under my thigh, hoping to provide some height and added stretch of my quads.
"Catherine, relax your leg onto mine," she gently coaxed.
Again. LADY?!?!? NO! I don't want to do that. I came here thinking you were going to work the knots out of my shoulders, not engage me in some type of physical therapy regimen worthy of an injured quarterback trying to rehab a torn hamstring.
I just laid there, quelling my inner panic and insecurities as all passersby were able to see the circus show that was taking place between my legs. She repeated this process on other side of the table with my right leg, again emphatically stating that I wasn't relaxing my leg into hers enough.
UMMMM. I can't relax. I'm scared.
The massage ended rather abruptly after that. She told me to get up. I said thank you, but I couldn't bring my eyes to meet hers. Unsure of what just happened, I scurried away, threw my jacket back on, and ran out the door.
I don't think I like what happens on those lie-down massage tables.
Last year, after hearing Connie rave about the free Healthy Monday massages offered in our student center, I decided to confront my anxieties about human touch head-on. There is certainly something uncomfortable about lying down and letting a stranger massage you in the middle of a bustling university hub, but I decided the benefits outweighed the cost. After all, I'm rather prone to knotted muscles and lower back pain, and maybe a massage could help.
So last spring the massages quickly became a regular item on my Monday agenda. The uneasiness subsided almost immediately, and I looked forward to allowing myself that weekly indulgence. This semester, I hadn't made it back until today, when my Com law class (read: a type of hell that requires its own circle in Dante's inferno) let out early, and I remembered to wander by. I noticed they had three massage artists working, instead of two, and a couple of them were using tables instead of the typical massage chairs. This was going to be good, I thought to myself.
But it wasn't. No, it was not. It was very, very bad.
I hadn't seen the girl who would be my masseuse before, which was slightly discouraging. I have an old favorite, a tiny slip of a thing who somehow manages to dig out knots with the force of a 300-pound wrestler. But I'm open to change. What followed, however, was perhaps a bit too much change.
Okay, so I'll just say it. There was a lot of butt touching. These massages are supposed to be focused on your back. Sometimes there could be a little neck or scalp massage, but generally they stick to familiar spinal territory. And that's how this girl started too, slowly putting heavy pressure all over my back, which made me especially relaxed and sedate. But once she had me sleepy and vulnerable, she moved southward, kneading the extreme lower back with one hand and putting her other on the side of my hip, and sort of, I don't know, poking. She occasionally wandered into butt territory, but just barely crossing the 38th parallel into unadulterated gluteous geography.
Just as I was getting jumpy, it was time to incorporate yet another bodily region. She massaged my hamstrings and calves for several minutes, then moved back northward to go in for the kill on the butt massage.
LADY?!? WHAT ARE YOU DOING?
Would it have been inappropriate for me to ask her to stop? This is not what I signed up for!! I assume they told her in massage school that the derriere is not where most people carry their stress, so why is she touching me like this IN THE MIDDLE OF THE STUDENT CENTER.
I breathed a sigh of relief when she finally seemed to be done copping feels and sending exploratory jabs to locate my hip bones. But this was seriously shaping up to be the longest massage ever. It had to be over soon.
Alas. She began working on my legs again and seemed rather perplexed by the tension she found there. With both of my ankles in hand, she leaned back with all her might, yanking, and I slid several inches down the table. I can't lie, it was sort of enjoyable, if not slightly reminiscent of medieval torture techniques. Then, bending my leg at the knee, she tried to lift it off the table, and apparently took notice of the fact that there is absolutely no flexibility contained within my "hip sockets."
This clearly was a clue to her that she needed to half-mount the table, placing her bended leg under my thigh, hoping to provide some height and added stretch of my quads.
"Catherine, relax your leg onto mine," she gently coaxed.
Again. LADY?!?!? NO! I don't want to do that. I came here thinking you were going to work the knots out of my shoulders, not engage me in some type of physical therapy regimen worthy of an injured quarterback trying to rehab a torn hamstring.
I just laid there, quelling my inner panic and insecurities as all passersby were able to see the circus show that was taking place between my legs. She repeated this process on other side of the table with my right leg, again emphatically stating that I wasn't relaxing my leg into hers enough.
UMMMM. I can't relax. I'm scared.
The massage ended rather abruptly after that. She told me to get up. I said thank you, but I couldn't bring my eyes to meet hers. Unsure of what just happened, I scurried away, threw my jacket back on, and ran out the door.
I don't think I like what happens on those lie-down massage tables.
Tuesday, March 31, 2009
Pots of gold and rainbows, and me red balloons!
So, tomorrow is April 1st, and jobless college seniors everywhere will whimper quietly as the dawn of a new month reminds us all of the unstoppable gallop toward graduation. A lot of you probably never imagined you'd be dreading graduation day so much, but sometime between now and our freshman year, the world collapsed, and suddenly it seems we're left in the dusty fallout of four years of hard work, inflated dreams, and accumulating student loan debt with no hope in sight.
I'm sorry, is this outlook too dreary for you? You can tell me if it is, but I get the sense from all of my friends' increasingly anxious Twitter updates that I'm not the only once facing nightly quarterlife crisis anxiety attacks. It seems unfathomable to me that after I've tried to do everything right during college and taken all the advice of people who told me to volunteer, get good grades, get involved with campus media and organizations, and immerse myself in new situations, that I'm still just another unremarkable faceless wanderer in the way overcrowded jobseeker purgatory.
Then something occurred to me, and hey you, yeah, the one weeping at the computer screen, I want this to occur to you too. Let's not get depressed. Lend me your ear, sugar plum.
So am I the only one who feels like every time someone (granted, these are mostly stories from journalists, so make of that what you will) tells me how they found a job, it always involves some freak occurrence/unexpected twist of fate? I can't count how many people have described finding a job in a way similar to this: "Well, I was walking down the street, feeling bad for myself because I couldn't find a job as a reporter at any New England newspaper. I decided to stop at a farmer's market, and got to talking with a local farmer who was selling a kind of fruit I'd never heard of. He told me it was the only thing unicorns would eat. Unicorns? I thought this guy was crazy, but then out of the corner of my eye, a real, live unicorn emerged out of a shady thicket and beckoned to me. In a leap of faith, I got on its back and it flew me to a Chuck E Cheese,
where the owner happened by with a free pizza for me and my new unicorn friend, and mentioned that years ago, he'd interned at the Hartford Courant. His old supervisor works for The Providence Journal now and is incidentally looking for a new health beat reporter. And you won't believe this, but at that very second the editor from the Providence Journal walked into Chuck E Cheese with his daughter. It was her sixth birthday. We had an impromptu, and obviously informal, interview in the ball pit, and I was hired on the spot. No clips, resume, networking, or cover letter required!"
Have you heard tales like this? Any speaker to ever come into one of my reporting or writing classes seems to relate some type of "I slipped on a banana peel, and the man who helped me up is my boss now" sort of story. It's not exactly helpful advice for people involved in old-school, rigorous job searches, but there is information to be gleaned from these tales. Here's my advice. Don't feel bad about yourselves just yet. Let's look for four-leaf clovers, throw spilled salt over our left shoulders, and make even more eye contact with strangers than usual. Make wishes on gingersnaps, keep your eyes peeled for leprechauns, and spend sleepless nights looking for shooting stars.
This is how you find a job.
I'm sorry, is this outlook too dreary for you? You can tell me if it is, but I get the sense from all of my friends' increasingly anxious Twitter updates that I'm not the only once facing nightly quarterlife crisis anxiety attacks. It seems unfathomable to me that after I've tried to do everything right during college and taken all the advice of people who told me to volunteer, get good grades, get involved with campus media and organizations, and immerse myself in new situations, that I'm still just another unremarkable faceless wanderer in the way overcrowded jobseeker purgatory.
Then something occurred to me, and hey you, yeah, the one weeping at the computer screen, I want this to occur to you too. Let's not get depressed. Lend me your ear, sugar plum.
So am I the only one who feels like every time someone (granted, these are mostly stories from journalists, so make of that what you will) tells me how they found a job, it always involves some freak occurrence/unexpected twist of fate? I can't count how many people have described finding a job in a way similar to this: "Well, I was walking down the street, feeling bad for myself because I couldn't find a job as a reporter at any New England newspaper. I decided to stop at a farmer's market, and got to talking with a local farmer who was selling a kind of fruit I'd never heard of. He told me it was the only thing unicorns would eat. Unicorns? I thought this guy was crazy, but then out of the corner of my eye, a real, live unicorn emerged out of a shady thicket and beckoned to me. In a leap of faith, I got on its back and it flew me to a Chuck E Cheese,
where the owner happened by with a free pizza for me and my new unicorn friend, and mentioned that years ago, he'd interned at the Hartford Courant. His old supervisor works for The Providence Journal now and is incidentally looking for a new health beat reporter. And you won't believe this, but at that very second the editor from the Providence Journal walked into Chuck E Cheese with his daughter. It was her sixth birthday. We had an impromptu, and obviously informal, interview in the ball pit, and I was hired on the spot. No clips, resume, networking, or cover letter required!"Have you heard tales like this? Any speaker to ever come into one of my reporting or writing classes seems to relate some type of "I slipped on a banana peel, and the man who helped me up is my boss now" sort of story. It's not exactly helpful advice for people involved in old-school, rigorous job searches, but there is information to be gleaned from these tales. Here's my advice. Don't feel bad about yourselves just yet. Let's look for four-leaf clovers, throw spilled salt over our left shoulders, and make even more eye contact with strangers than usual. Make wishes on gingersnaps, keep your eyes peeled for leprechauns, and spend sleepless nights looking for shooting stars.
This is how you find a job.
Monday, March 30, 2009
Songs that make your heart sing: Double whammy edition
I'm bringing you two songs today because I'm feeling generous.
First up, Laura Izibor with ''From my heart to yours." Laura's awesome! She definitely has her own sound, but if I had to describe it I would say Jill Scott meets Alicia Keys meets John Legend by way of Otis Redding a dash of Stevie Wonder. Aka awesomeness. Not everyone knows about my weakness for soul music and good R+B, but I'm confessing it now. Well, perhaps confessing is the wrong word. I am proudly declaring it!
I first heard this song on a Syracuse radio station I don't normally listen to when my Zune died at the gym. I've listened to it a dozen times since then, and it sounds to me like the a perfect, upbeat song to play while the days get longer and the temperature gets warmer.
Second, I'm still not over the elation I felt at the Ra Ra Riot show this weekend. If you've ever heard them live, you know what I mean. Definitely one band whose live performances far exceed any studio recording. Here's the video for ''Can you tell." Anyone want to go drum on doors with me? It looks fun.
First up, Laura Izibor with ''From my heart to yours." Laura's awesome! She definitely has her own sound, but if I had to describe it I would say Jill Scott meets Alicia Keys meets John Legend by way of Otis Redding a dash of Stevie Wonder. Aka awesomeness. Not everyone knows about my weakness for soul music and good R+B, but I'm confessing it now. Well, perhaps confessing is the wrong word. I am proudly declaring it!
I first heard this song on a Syracuse radio station I don't normally listen to when my Zune died at the gym. I've listened to it a dozen times since then, and it sounds to me like the a perfect, upbeat song to play while the days get longer and the temperature gets warmer.
Second, I'm still not over the elation I felt at the Ra Ra Riot show this weekend. If you've ever heard them live, you know what I mean. Definitely one band whose live performances far exceed any studio recording. Here's the video for ''Can you tell." Anyone want to go drum on doors with me? It looks fun.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
Word wench
I knew I had a problem when I was 11-years-old, standing in my small town's newly remodeled supermarket, beaming proudly at the new express checkout lanes. The sign no longer read “10 items or less,” but instead “10 items or fewer.” Somewhere along the remodel process, in the big building where supermarket signage is manufactured, a person--no, a hero--corrected decades of grievous grammatical error. You see, the word “fewer” is used for a countable number of items, and less is used for items that cannot be counted. It should always have been 10 items or fewer, and shame on copy writers everywhere for not correcting this sooner. (Example: People who go through the express checkout with fewer items spend less time at the store!)
The erection of these new signs was a victory for grammar, and if the excitement pulsing through my veins was any indication, I felt it was a tiny victory for me too.
An 11-year-old should probably care about other, less mature topics, like kickball, sleepovers, and the Backstreet Boys. But not me.
As long as I can remember I've harbored what some would call an inappropriate emotional investment in all things spelling and grammar. One of my proudest life moments was when I finished my first New York Times crossword puzzle without assistance. It was my own personal “Rocky” moment. I danced in circles, waved my arms over my head, leapt from toe to toe. Except I had no fans cheering in the stands, and no one really understood the sincere depths of my elation. Similarly, one of my most crippling life moments was when a self-described verbally challenged boyfriend beat me in Boggle, a battleground on which I always reigned supreme. The worst? He beat me on a technicality, writing down a combination of letters which may or may not have formed a legitimate word. Of course he made me check it, and when it came up on dictionary.com, my vision went blurry and I felt for a moment as if I might lose consciousness.
You know, sometimes it feels like word games are all I have. It is the only area of life when I know I will perform better than the majority of players. When I don't, it feels like my one talent is pulled violently from my grasp. Remember in Titanic, when the passengers get locked up in steerage, and that lovely Irish bloke pleads, "Let us have chance!" I feel like that.
So yes, if you beat me at a word game or correct my grammar, the emotional fallout that results is equivalent to what I would feel if I was locked on the bottom of the world's greatest ocean liner. No keys, merciful ship crew, ravishing Kate Winslet, or Carpathia in sight. Devastation does not begin to describe it. But as low as my lowest points are, oh! The highs are even higher!
Imagine the dizzying glee I feel when I find an error or style inconsistency in anything from a publication to commercial product packaging (typically rife with error). Every day is like a scavenger hunt. It reaffirms my existence when I find a spelling or grammar mistake in a book. The world needs me so I can find this. I saw it; I know it's here; I want to fix it. Sometimes if I'm having a bad day, I pick up flyers or brochures for the specific purpose of editing them. I feel a rush of relief when I make an edit. I render order in my small corner of the world for a few brief seconds, when the words are lined up just like I want, perfectly punctuated so a new reader can breeze easily through.
I guess you could call this compulsion a mental illness, since I've all but given up on a career in writing, editing, or publishing of any kind. Why do I continue to care so much if all of this anxiety, emotional investment, and red-penning won't lead to a paycheck? In order to get hired, apparently, you need to do more than be able to find missing emdashes and compound modifiers in print. Also, apparently the touchdown dance I do every time I find a mistake isn't "workplace appropriate."
Well, I'll be. Brandi Chastain took her shirt off when she won the Women's World Cup game in 1999. Is my victory over run-on sentences any less meaningful?
My only regret in all of this is that on occasion, especially when involved in a game of Scrabble or Bananagrams, I've let my feverish competition get the best of me. I have yelled at strangers when they ask if proper nouns are acceptable. I've sent shivers down the spines of my friends by unleashing tortured screeches from the depths of my soul when I'm beaten. This is not how a lady should act. I would hate to think that my death grip on the English language has frightened people, or prevented the development of new friendships. My inner circle nicknamed me "the word wench," and even I am forced to admit a more fitting nickname has never been bequeathed.
Monday, March 23, 2009
Stuff You Should Know: Internet Treasures
Months have passed since I last brought you an honest-to-goodness edition of Stuff You Should Know. So here I am. This week's focus is on sites I've dug up on the Internoodle, just a few little things I think you need to see.
1) Sickdujour! On a whim, I started following the user sickdujour on Twitter last week. I soon realized that each day this guy features a rare disease or disorder on his blog, and boy, are they gruesome. If you've ever found yourself engrossed in the surgical removal of a 500-pound tumor, or fantasize about interviewing Tree Man's team of doctors, you'll love this blog. He features diseases I've never heard of, but will undoutedly make great conversation at the next cocktail party. That is, if I want to get vomited on/asked to leave. Check out his entry on freakish growths trapped in the gastrointestinal tract... but only if you have a strong stomach. (Don't yell at me, I warned you.) Each entry is presented in easy-to-read, digestible little nuggets, ending in a 0-10 ranking on lethality and disturbing scales. The perfect thing to read over your morning coffee. Looks like the blog has only been around for a few weeks, but sickdujour has already won a dedicated reader in me.
2) I make no bones about the fact that I love a good parenting blog. Sure, I have no kids, and frankly don't want any, but reading merry stories about the trials and tribulations of parenthood is endlessly entertaining. I do love kids, and maybe if I just continue to read about other people's, I'll be able to avoid the gentle tug of my maternal instincts until it's too late! Anyway. One of my favorite bloggers is Jim at Sweet Juniper!, who writes beautifully about being a stay-at-home dad in Detriot. The tender stories and pictures of his two kids will make your heart melt. But some of my favorite entries are his stories about what he finds on his walks around the city. He adroitly juxtaposes the odd and aching pairings of dilapidation and economic depression with beautiful public parks, museums, and neighborhoods, all of which go undiscovered in a city that most of the country wrote off as a lost cause. But today I wanted to feature his "Terrifying Nixon-Era Children's Books" tag, where he scans in books from the 60s and 70s that are perplexing to say the least. Seeing books like these makes me wonder if I should try my hand at my long-forgotten dream of book publishing. If they can do it, I can, right? Here's the complete collection. Scroll through, and let me know your favorite book.
3) I was devastated last December when John Marshall announced his blog News Gems, published through the Society of Professional Journalists, would close. It was a consistent resource for some of the finest writing in print and on the Web, and I always came across articles I never would have seen otherwise.
While it's by no means a replacement, I was heartened to see The New York Times relaunch their Ideas blog this week, now calling it Idea of the Day. They say, "As suggested by the new name, we’re streamlining the blog to a single post daily, to highlight one article or current of thought on the Web that, out of a wealth of reading choices, seems worth your attention for its relevance, thoughtfulness, provocativeness or quality. We’ll also recommend additional readings at the bottom of each morning’s post."
In the era of a lighting-paced news cycle, I love to see any publication seize the opportunity for depth and research in its reporting, even if that comes in a quick write-up and list of links. Taking the time to look at one issue closely, and encourage readers to delve into it thoughtfully and critically might be at the heart of good media practices of the future. Party on, New York Times.
1) Sickdujour! On a whim, I started following the user sickdujour on Twitter last week. I soon realized that each day this guy features a rare disease or disorder on his blog, and boy, are they gruesome. If you've ever found yourself engrossed in the surgical removal of a 500-pound tumor, or fantasize about interviewing Tree Man's team of doctors, you'll love this blog. He features diseases I've never heard of, but will undoutedly make great conversation at the next cocktail party. That is, if I want to get vomited on/asked to leave. Check out his entry on freakish growths trapped in the gastrointestinal tract... but only if you have a strong stomach. (Don't yell at me, I warned you.) Each entry is presented in easy-to-read, digestible little nuggets, ending in a 0-10 ranking on lethality and disturbing scales. The perfect thing to read over your morning coffee. Looks like the blog has only been around for a few weeks, but sickdujour has already won a dedicated reader in me.
2) I make no bones about the fact that I love a good parenting blog. Sure, I have no kids, and frankly don't want any, but reading merry stories about the trials and tribulations of parenthood is endlessly entertaining. I do love kids, and maybe if I just continue to read about other people's, I'll be able to avoid the gentle tug of my maternal instincts until it's too late! Anyway. One of my favorite bloggers is Jim at Sweet Juniper!, who writes beautifully about being a stay-at-home dad in Detriot. The tender stories and pictures of his two kids will make your heart melt. But some of my favorite entries are his stories about what he finds on his walks around the city. He adroitly juxtaposes the odd and aching pairings of dilapidation and economic depression with beautiful public parks, museums, and neighborhoods, all of which go undiscovered in a city that most of the country wrote off as a lost cause. But today I wanted to feature his "Terrifying Nixon-Era Children's Books" tag, where he scans in books from the 60s and 70s that are perplexing to say the least. Seeing books like these makes me wonder if I should try my hand at my long-forgotten dream of book publishing. If they can do it, I can, right? Here's the complete collection. Scroll through, and let me know your favorite book.
3) I was devastated last December when John Marshall announced his blog News Gems, published through the Society of Professional Journalists, would close. It was a consistent resource for some of the finest writing in print and on the Web, and I always came across articles I never would have seen otherwise.
While it's by no means a replacement, I was heartened to see The New York Times relaunch their Ideas blog this week, now calling it Idea of the Day. They say, "As suggested by the new name, we’re streamlining the blog to a single post daily, to highlight one article or current of thought on the Web that, out of a wealth of reading choices, seems worth your attention for its relevance, thoughtfulness, provocativeness or quality. We’ll also recommend additional readings at the bottom of each morning’s post."
In the era of a lighting-paced news cycle, I love to see any publication seize the opportunity for depth and research in its reporting, even if that comes in a quick write-up and list of links. Taking the time to look at one issue closely, and encourage readers to delve into it thoughtfully and critically might be at the heart of good media practices of the future. Party on, New York Times.
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
Hi, is this gas station clothing optional?
It is impossible for me to talk enough about how much I love Habitat for Humanity. I took my first week-long Collegiate Challenge trip my sophomore year to Eastman, Georgia and had the time of my life. The people I've met on Habitat trips, whether from the SU volunteer group, or the members of the local community and H4h affiliate, are always the most delightful. A week bonding with new people, doing something good, meeting local homeowners, and working up a sweat is my idea of a perfect vacation. It is oddly freeing to let your mind wander away from textbooks and deadlines and focus on a particular, unfamiliar task at hand. I always chuckle finding skills I never knew I had (roofing!) and the things no one should ever allow me to do again (using a nail gun--my inner Terminator took over when I mistook it for an automatic weapon and fired four nails into one hole).
Last week I spent my spring break in Palm Beach, Florida working on a 27-home build. So much happened, I can't possibly recount it all (though you can read some of my play-by-plays on Twitter). We know I love a good list, so I'll recount some of the top highlights and lowlights for you here.
HIGHLIGHTS
- I took my first H4h trip all by myself. Quite the leap of faith, but I made some great friends and was happy to throw myself out of my comfort zone. But this trip was extra special because it was my senior year, and I went with one of my best lady friends, Paige. We grew even closer (5.a.m. heart-to-hearts through torrential rain in North Carolina), but also let each other be alone long enough to harass new people into being our friends. I had a great time with you, boo!
- You may find this impossible to believe, but the car rides are some of my favorite parts. By the end of them, you can recite the complete dating history, favorite childhood pets, and social security numbers of all of your fellow carmates. Long car rides breed intense intimacy. However, they also breed a little bit of insanity. Somewhere between New York and Florida, I thought it would be HILARIOUS to deem everything clothing optional. Libraries? Clothing optional. Starbucks? Only if it's topless. Habitat work sites? Soooo clothing optional. This was one of the week's catchphrases, and I immediately gained a reputation as being the group's biggest creeper. Which is okay. I would typically be the last person to suggest group nudity, but you know? Sometimes it could be fun. I got some people to disrobe, and fun was had by all.
-Related highlight: Tuesday, after a lobster dinner, we all hit Palm Beach for a night on the town. At the beginning of the night, on a whim, I asked a bartender if the bar was clothing optional. He said "Absolutely, it's encouraged," and the new dress code was announced over the microphone three times. Cha-ching. People went buck wild; dancing on bars ensued, booty contests galore, strange cougars macked on our SU boys. Paige and I just stared in disbelief. These people came to party.
-New construction skills! Our work site was extra special because several houses were in different stages of completion, so we were assigned a variety of tasks. We framed the walls of an entire house, fastened tar paper on its roof, shingled another, gave one nearly completed house three coats of interior paint, and laid sod and planted trees. So many new skills to add to my resume.
- Beach. Ocean temps were in the 70s. The weather all week was heavenly, dry and sunny in the lower 80s. We went to the beach almost every day after work, and played board games, Bananagrams, and ultimate frisbee. Small buzzkill: whenever I play a sport, I assume the mindset of a 300-pound toothless rugby player, so I got some ferocious sandburn scrapes from diving (okay, and a little falling). All the beach time made this trip feel much more like a real vacation than my past trips.
-Cuse games. We watched all four games that week, including the incredible, heart-attack-inducing UConn game. We were absolutely beat after long days of building and beaching, but sipping a mojito in an outdoor bar and watching the Orange make us proud was the perfect end to the day.
(Edited to add)- Becoming a local celebrity. Monday night, on our way home form a Marlins/Tigers spring training game, I got pulled over for the first time ever. Quite the blow to my ego, but earlier in the day, we had been featured on the local news while we were working at the re-store. The officer recognized us from the broadcast and let me go with a warning!
LOWLIGHTS
No church dinners! One of the reasons my GA trip was so meaningful was because of our interaction with the community there. One night the ladies at the local church cooked a huge meal for us. We learned about them, their town, and the Habitat affiliate. We spent time with the homeowners of the house we worked on, and heard their stories. I'll never forget how sincerely grateful they were to us, and the disbelief in their eyes as they watched strangers put their house together, just because we wanted to. We had similar experiences in Louisiana when we met people displaced by Katrina, and ate dinner every night with volunteers at the church where we stayed. Unfortunately we didn't meet any homeowners this time, and I missed the focus on getting to know the community we came to serve.
Lack of participating in state park activities! We stayed in Jonathan Dickinson state park (read a creepy story from the park's history here), and they have hiking and biking trails, horseback riding, and loads of wildlife (our group saw an armadillo...ew). Alligators are frequently seen in the river, where you can canoe and kayak. Paige and I wanted to go, even if we were sortofkindof terrified, especially after we were told that a little boy was eaten a few years earlier. We ran out of time and never got to canoe, and I never got to see an alligator. The siren song of the Jupiter beaches just drew us back day after day, and I loved every minute of it.
I could go on forever, but I'm sure you're all sick of hearing me talk nonstop about Habitat. But for any of my legions of readers who have time left in college, take a trip with Habitat. These trips are my favorite things I've done at SU, and they'll be yours too. Promise.
Last week I spent my spring break in Palm Beach, Florida working on a 27-home build. So much happened, I can't possibly recount it all (though you can read some of my play-by-plays on Twitter). We know I love a good list, so I'll recount some of the top highlights and lowlights for you here.
HIGHLIGHTS
- I took my first H4h trip all by myself. Quite the leap of faith, but I made some great friends and was happy to throw myself out of my comfort zone. But this trip was extra special because it was my senior year, and I went with one of my best lady friends, Paige. We grew even closer (5.a.m. heart-to-hearts through torrential rain in North Carolina), but also let each other be alone long enough to harass new people into being our friends. I had a great time with you, boo!
- You may find this impossible to believe, but the car rides are some of my favorite parts. By the end of them, you can recite the complete dating history, favorite childhood pets, and social security numbers of all of your fellow carmates. Long car rides breed intense intimacy. However, they also breed a little bit of insanity. Somewhere between New York and Florida, I thought it would be HILARIOUS to deem everything clothing optional. Libraries? Clothing optional. Starbucks? Only if it's topless. Habitat work sites? Soooo clothing optional. This was one of the week's catchphrases, and I immediately gained a reputation as being the group's biggest creeper. Which is okay. I would typically be the last person to suggest group nudity, but you know? Sometimes it could be fun. I got some people to disrobe, and fun was had by all.-Related highlight: Tuesday, after a lobster dinner, we all hit Palm Beach for a night on the town. At the beginning of the night, on a whim, I asked a bartender if the bar was clothing optional. He said "Absolutely, it's encouraged," and the new dress code was announced over the microphone three times. Cha-ching. People went buck wild; dancing on bars ensued, booty contests galore, strange cougars macked on our SU boys. Paige and I just stared in disbelief. These people came to party.
-New construction skills! Our work site was extra special because several houses were in different stages of completion, so we were assigned a variety of tasks. We framed the walls of an entire house, fastened tar paper on its roof, shingled another, gave one nearly completed house three coats of interior paint, and laid sod and planted trees. So many new skills to add to my resume.
- Beach. Ocean temps were in the 70s. The weather all week was heavenly, dry and sunny in the lower 80s. We went to the beach almost every day after work, and played board games, Bananagrams, and ultimate frisbee. Small buzzkill: whenever I play a sport, I assume the mindset of a 300-pound toothless rugby player, so I got some ferocious sandburn scrapes from diving (okay, and a little falling). All the beach time made this trip feel much more like a real vacation than my past trips.
-Cuse games. We watched all four games that week, including the incredible, heart-attack-inducing UConn game. We were absolutely beat after long days of building and beaching, but sipping a mojito in an outdoor bar and watching the Orange make us proud was the perfect end to the day.
(Edited to add)- Becoming a local celebrity. Monday night, on our way home form a Marlins/Tigers spring training game, I got pulled over for the first time ever. Quite the blow to my ego, but earlier in the day, we had been featured on the local news while we were working at the re-store. The officer recognized us from the broadcast and let me go with a warning!
LOWLIGHTS
No church dinners! One of the reasons my GA trip was so meaningful was because of our interaction with the community there. One night the ladies at the local church cooked a huge meal for us. We learned about them, their town, and the Habitat affiliate. We spent time with the homeowners of the house we worked on, and heard their stories. I'll never forget how sincerely grateful they were to us, and the disbelief in their eyes as they watched strangers put their house together, just because we wanted to. We had similar experiences in Louisiana when we met people displaced by Katrina, and ate dinner every night with volunteers at the church where we stayed. Unfortunately we didn't meet any homeowners this time, and I missed the focus on getting to know the community we came to serve.
Lack of participating in state park activities! We stayed in Jonathan Dickinson state park (read a creepy story from the park's history here), and they have hiking and biking trails, horseback riding, and loads of wildlife (our group saw an armadillo...ew). Alligators are frequently seen in the river, where you can canoe and kayak. Paige and I wanted to go, even if we were sortofkindof terrified, especially after we were told that a little boy was eaten a few years earlier. We ran out of time and never got to canoe, and I never got to see an alligator. The siren song of the Jupiter beaches just drew us back day after day, and I loved every minute of it.
I could go on forever, but I'm sure you're all sick of hearing me talk nonstop about Habitat. But for any of my legions of readers who have time left in college, take a trip with Habitat. These trips are my favorite things I've done at SU, and they'll be yours too. Promise.
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Beyond Belief
A good documentary should leave you unhinged.
It could blow your mind by exposing a new culture, or uncovering the the unfamiliar in your own. Maybe it strikes an emotional chord, reverberating in a dusty, forgotten recess of your heart. Maybe it confirms something you always knew but never considered closely enough.
You should watch Beyond Belief . It will do all of these things, and it will unhinge you.
The film tells the story of two women, Susan Retik and Patti Quigley, suburban moms from Massachusetts whose husbands were killed in the planes that hit the towers on September 11. Both women were pregnant at the time. The documentary delves deeply and intimately into their grief, showing the endlessness of the heartache that follows the unfathomable death of a loved one.
But what makes Beyond Belief so remarkable is how Retik and Quigley transform their sadness into a cross-cultural journey to help the widows in Afghanistan, who have suffered through decades of war and a lifetime of oppression. Retik and Quigley founded Beyond the 11th, a foundation to raise money to support Afghan widows by providing them with chickens, coops, and incubators. With such simple tools, women can feed their families, and forge some economic independence by selling the eggs. With the money they make, most send their children to school.
You'll follow Quigley and Retik on their trip to Afghanistan, a country which before 9/11, Retik confesses she couldn't have found on a map. You'll watch as they realize the remote country is inextricably linked to their own, and the universality of the grief they find there. The warmth with which they are received, and the candor with which the Afghan women tell their stories of loss and hardship will leave you both wildly hopeful and devastatingly discouraged.
More than half a million women in Afghanistan are trapped in cycles of poverty, because they are illiterate, economically disenfranchised, and the sole caretakers for their children. (In Afghan culture, if widows remarry, their children must go to the deceased father's family. Women stay single in order to stay with their children.)
This is a must-see movie. It will reveal the nuanced, painful truth behind the triumphant headlines of Al-Qaeda captures and little girls going to school. It will remind you to look for the human faces that are all too often left out of war coverage. It will make you feel guilty for forgetting them in the first place, and implore you never to forget them again.
(image from: http://www.principlepictures.com/beyondbelief)
Word Cloud
(Click to see it bigger in a new window)
Who knew I wrote so frequently about Russians? This also makes me think I need to start blogging about something more substantive. But then where would you go for your daily nonsense fix?
Songs that make your heart sing: "How is this a song"? edition
I derive absurd amounts of guilty pleasure from this song. A radio station back home used to play it almost every Saturday when I was on my way to the gym, and I always sang along loud and proud while bopping to the beat in my mother's glamorous minivan. Kudos to whomever added the wildly inappropriate subtitles to the YouTube video. Highly enjoyable, and please, let's all start saying " 'Sup baby girl, how you livin'?" Not.
Although, if I ever find myself in a serious relationship, and my faithful eyes are wandering, you better believe I'll confide in my best friend and tell her, in between fits of girlish giggles, that I've been tempted by the fruit of another.
Although, if I ever find myself in a serious relationship, and my faithful eyes are wandering, you better believe I'll confide in my best friend and tell her, in between fits of girlish giggles, that I've been tempted by the fruit of another.
Sunday, March 1, 2009
In the mind of a procrastinator...a stream of consciousness
I'm going to write my paper. Let me find the course reader and my notes. Page 29...women in the labor movement...
I'm thirsty. I guess I should make some tea. Oh, this kitchen is disgusting. I should clean it.
Kitchen is cleaned. Back to work, but I shouldn't do my history homework right now. Must research my magazine article so I can sketch out some interview questions. Let's check the news to see if there are any updates on my topic. Better yet, Twitter. Now let's read the Twitter feeds of every single one of my followers. So many links from NPR! I need to listen to these stories.
This has been productive. Maybe I'll write some cover letters for jobs. Let's pull up the Career Center's e-mail. Ooh! An email from my mom! Hi mom! I should write back. Sent. Ooh! Someone wrote on my wall. Which reminds me, I need to go on facebook to RSVP to an event. Huh? Facebook says it's Julie's birthday? I have to call her.
Where's my phone? Can someone call my phone? Oh I hear it, it's in my bed. Oh my God, when was the last time I washed my sheets? I need to do that right now. Okay, laundry's on. Back to work.
But first I should put on some music. I can only be productive if I'm listening to something good. Hey, where's my Ipod? Oh I hope I didn't leave it at the gym. Speaking of, I need to put on another load of laundry. My gym clothes smell worse than a fifth-grade classroom after recess.
But I don't have any more quarters for the washer and dryer. I have to take a walk to the coin machine. I need some fresh air anyway.
Back. Found my Ipod in the hamper. I'm going to sit on my bed and read, away from the computer. No reading news, e-mails, Twitter, anything. I can only read about women in the labor movement.
Labor movement? Textile mills my foot, at least they had jobs! I will never find work. Why am I even trying to study? I'm a second-semester senior. I haven't watched Grey's in three weeks. Maybe I should just do that instead.
I'm thirsty. I guess I should make some tea. Oh, this kitchen is disgusting. I should clean it.
Kitchen is cleaned. Back to work, but I shouldn't do my history homework right now. Must research my magazine article so I can sketch out some interview questions. Let's check the news to see if there are any updates on my topic. Better yet, Twitter. Now let's read the Twitter feeds of every single one of my followers. So many links from NPR! I need to listen to these stories.
This has been productive. Maybe I'll write some cover letters for jobs. Let's pull up the Career Center's e-mail. Ooh! An email from my mom! Hi mom! I should write back. Sent. Ooh! Someone wrote on my wall. Which reminds me, I need to go on facebook to RSVP to an event. Huh? Facebook says it's Julie's birthday? I have to call her.
Where's my phone? Can someone call my phone? Oh I hear it, it's in my bed. Oh my God, when was the last time I washed my sheets? I need to do that right now. Okay, laundry's on. Back to work.
But first I should put on some music. I can only be productive if I'm listening to something good. Hey, where's my Ipod? Oh I hope I didn't leave it at the gym. Speaking of, I need to put on another load of laundry. My gym clothes smell worse than a fifth-grade classroom after recess.
But I don't have any more quarters for the washer and dryer. I have to take a walk to the coin machine. I need some fresh air anyway.
Back. Found my Ipod in the hamper. I'm going to sit on my bed and read, away from the computer. No reading news, e-mails, Twitter, anything. I can only read about women in the labor movement.
Labor movement? Textile mills my foot, at least they had jobs! I will never find work. Why am I even trying to study? I'm a second-semester senior. I haven't watched Grey's in three weeks. Maybe I should just do that instead.
Friday, February 27, 2009
My brother's a genius and I just blog.
I'm a failure. My second stab at 20 posts in 30 days was a catastrophe; I only posted ten entries! My computer crashed, I realized I was enrolled in classes and had a plethora of assignments due, and also was busy with several quarterlife crisis moments along the way. Time was scarce, and so was inspiration. Last time I tried a blogging blitz. my life was defined by dreams of McLatte, slave labor at the intern desk, and my absurd devotion to a particularly shameful ABC reality show. I had more to write about and definitely more time to do it. But no excuses. Let's pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and get back to the hard-hitting, thought-provoking material you've come to expect from Catherine the Greatest.
THREE THINGS YOU THINK YOU UNDERSTAND BUT YOU REALLY DON'T.
My older brother James is a physics major doing graduate solar research at Penn State. He understands everything about science, machines and technology. I feel that he was born with this knowledge. He definitely didn't it get it from my parents, and his teachers were generally too busy collecting squirrels for pets (that really happened) or making their students write letters to other students on boats (that also really happend). He just knows everything. More than once I have called him with a question like "How do microwaves work?" or "How are electrical fires started underground? Where is the electricity in relation to the sewer system and subways in a big city?" And he always knows! How does he have such extensive knowledge about everything from kitchen appliances to sanitation systems?! My brother is so smart! He's always been a patient teacher with me, but I think he knows that my liberal-arts word-oriented brain will never be receptive to his techy, nerdy lessons. So here's a list of things, many of which he has thoroughly explained to me multiple times, that I still do not understand.
3. Aviation. I should probably go to the library and check out a book on the Wright brothers, because it is unfathomable to me that someone said, "Hey, let's take a giant weighty machine and propel it through the air." And sure, I have come across the word "aerodynamics" before, but don't lie, you don't really understand how planes work either. And don't tell me to go to howstuffworks.com. I've been there. I can read and understand it, but there is still a voice in the back of my head whispering, "This is pretend." Hundreds of people pile into a large metal object and soar through the air. WHAT?!
2. Space. One day I am going to write an opinion piece about all of the conflicting emotions I have about NASA. The fact that $18 billion dollars a year goes into that program astonishes me, and frankly I feel that the folks over at NASA could be screwing us all over and no one would be the wiser. Huh, Pluto's not a planet? Erm okay. What's that? Water on Mars? Maybe so! They could tell us Whitey Bulger was found on the moon, and who are we to say, "That's not possible"?
Remember when the Columbia shuttle exploded because of the damaged tile? NASA knew the piece broke off, but didn't really look into it, despite the persistent pleas of a chief engineer who was on his game. Also, it was Martin Luther King weekend, so people were out of the office, and didn't feel like investigating the matter. How do you send a SPACESHIP out into the solar system, and then just put your feet up and take a three-day weekend? I wrote about this topic before, but my indignant rage has not subsided in the least. Also while we're talking about Space... that "picture" of the Milky Way... is not really pictures of the Milky Way. Didn't you ever stop to think how they could possibly photograph a galaxy we're allegedly a part of? They're just pictures of other spiral-armed galaxies that science nerds imagine the Milky Way could be like. How deceptive. I feel cheated. Next time I see an astronomer, I am giving them the wickedest wedgie.
1. The Internet. James has tried to explain this to me forever, but I still don't get it, and don't lie, you don't either. Tell me, when you send an e-mail, where does it go? How can governments block sites in certain countries? When you get a virus that paralyzes your entire computer by releasing hundreds of "trojans," what is that? The Internoodle is one of life's greatest mysteries, but unlike space, I am grateful for it on a daily basis. I imagine all of its processes to be similar to what happened in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Mike TV puts his candy bar in the machine, and it breaks into tiny pieces, and is put back together again. If this is not how the Noodle works, then don't tell me because I don't want to hear it. In my tiny brain, the Internet is sort of a cross between Humpty Dumpty and chocolate. On a related note, fax machines are ridiculously far beyond my comprehension. How does the phone send an image?!? On another related note: phones...so much easier to understand when there were actual wires and cables. Alexander Graham Bell would have a stroke if we told him about cell towers.
What don't you understand? You can say it; I am clearly in no position to judge.
THREE THINGS YOU THINK YOU UNDERSTAND BUT YOU REALLY DON'T.
My older brother James is a physics major doing graduate solar research at Penn State. He understands everything about science, machines and technology. I feel that he was born with this knowledge. He definitely didn't it get it from my parents, and his teachers were generally too busy collecting squirrels for pets (that really happened) or making their students write letters to other students on boats (that also really happend). He just knows everything. More than once I have called him with a question like "How do microwaves work?" or "How are electrical fires started underground? Where is the electricity in relation to the sewer system and subways in a big city?" And he always knows! How does he have such extensive knowledge about everything from kitchen appliances to sanitation systems?! My brother is so smart! He's always been a patient teacher with me, but I think he knows that my liberal-arts word-oriented brain will never be receptive to his techy, nerdy lessons. So here's a list of things, many of which he has thoroughly explained to me multiple times, that I still do not understand.
3. Aviation. I should probably go to the library and check out a book on the Wright brothers, because it is unfathomable to me that someone said, "Hey, let's take a giant weighty machine and propel it through the air." And sure, I have come across the word "aerodynamics" before, but don't lie, you don't really understand how planes work either. And don't tell me to go to howstuffworks.com. I've been there. I can read and understand it, but there is still a voice in the back of my head whispering, "This is pretend." Hundreds of people pile into a large metal object and soar through the air. WHAT?!
2. Space. One day I am going to write an opinion piece about all of the conflicting emotions I have about NASA. The fact that $18 billion dollars a year goes into that program astonishes me, and frankly I feel that the folks over at NASA could be screwing us all over and no one would be the wiser. Huh, Pluto's not a planet? Erm okay. What's that? Water on Mars? Maybe so! They could tell us Whitey Bulger was found on the moon, and who are we to say, "That's not possible"?
Remember when the Columbia shuttle exploded because of the damaged tile? NASA knew the piece broke off, but didn't really look into it, despite the persistent pleas of a chief engineer who was on his game. Also, it was Martin Luther King weekend, so people were out of the office, and didn't feel like investigating the matter. How do you send a SPACESHIP out into the solar system, and then just put your feet up and take a three-day weekend? I wrote about this topic before, but my indignant rage has not subsided in the least. Also while we're talking about Space... that "picture" of the Milky Way... is not really pictures of the Milky Way. Didn't you ever stop to think how they could possibly photograph a galaxy we're allegedly a part of? They're just pictures of other spiral-armed galaxies that science nerds imagine the Milky Way could be like. How deceptive. I feel cheated. Next time I see an astronomer, I am giving them the wickedest wedgie.
1. The Internet. James has tried to explain this to me forever, but I still don't get it, and don't lie, you don't either. Tell me, when you send an e-mail, where does it go? How can governments block sites in certain countries? When you get a virus that paralyzes your entire computer by releasing hundreds of "trojans," what is that? The Internoodle is one of life's greatest mysteries, but unlike space, I am grateful for it on a daily basis. I imagine all of its processes to be similar to what happened in Willy Wonka and the Chocolate Factory, when Mike TV puts his candy bar in the machine, and it breaks into tiny pieces, and is put back together again. If this is not how the Noodle works, then don't tell me because I don't want to hear it. In my tiny brain, the Internet is sort of a cross between Humpty Dumpty and chocolate. On a related note, fax machines are ridiculously far beyond my comprehension. How does the phone send an image?!? On another related note: phones...so much easier to understand when there were actual wires and cables. Alexander Graham Bell would have a stroke if we told him about cell towers.
What don't you understand? You can say it; I am clearly in no position to judge.
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