You Deserve to Read This: The Culture of "Deserving" in America
You know what always bothers me about contestants on reality shows? How they continually announce that they "deserve" to win because they've worked hard, as though their hard work is some how different and more honorable than their fellow bakers/designers/survivors. This mentality extends to interviews done with family and friends as well, often times focusing on the contestants morality: He deserves to win because he's such a good person. She deserves this because she's got such a big heart.
How has the media, such as L'Oreal's "You're Worth It" campaign, played into this? Have evolving parenting methods affected our sense of self-worth? And what is the effect of this phenomena on our ability to sympathize with others, especially those who are very "other"?
Annnnnnnnnd go!
Monday, April 22, 2013
Tuesday, August 28, 2012
More thesis papers I want to read
Giving Them a Place to Go:
Children, especially teens, are going to gather together and socialize. They always have, they always will. And they're not going to do it at home. We need to give them somewhere to go, or they're going to find their own places...and those are usually not the most ideal ones.
Places like skate parks, events like "Friday Night Live" (a weekly teen get together at a rec center in Texas), a Teen Club at a Beaches resort, or a Ballroom Dancing program in NYC schools offer kids a safe place to socialize, dance, be silly and dramatic...basically to be teenagers.
How do each of these places benefit the areas they exist in, the adults who support them, and the teens who use them? How do curfews and restrictions at usual hang outs like malls hurt them?
Annnnnndddddd....go!
Friday, August 17, 2012
For all those in need of topics
Thesis papers I'd like to read:
Fifty Shades of Culture: What the sales of and sex in 50 Shades of Grey says about our culture's approach to sexuality.
Magically Thin: Actresses on Diets vs Characters Who Eat Normally
Er...this one might need a better title. Basically, when you showcase a female character who has terrible eating habits (fast food, tons of candy, etc) on the show but is played by an incredibly thin actress, the message being sent is this: be thin, but do it magically.
I have more of these somewhere...
Fifty Shades of Culture: What the sales of and sex in 50 Shades of Grey says about our culture's approach to sexuality.
Magically Thin: Actresses on Diets vs Characters Who Eat Normally
Er...this one might need a better title. Basically, when you showcase a female character who has terrible eating habits (fast food, tons of candy, etc) on the show but is played by an incredibly thin actress, the message being sent is this: be thin, but do it magically.
I have more of these somewhere...
Thursday, August 9, 2012
Spellcheck
Words I cannot spell on the first try, ever, at all, never:
proportion
elaborate
restaurant
convenience
proportion
elaborate
restaurant
convenience
From LHA's Prompt: What do we fear most?
Amazing author and extraordinary speaker Laurie Halse Anderson has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.
A lot of people have themes that repeat in their dreams and mine is always the inability to see. Whatever strange scenario is being played out as I sleep, there is almost always an issue with my sight: I’m straining to see something in the distance but it’s blurry or I’m trying to focus on one thing and it keeps evading my eyes. It’s both frustrating and frightening in that dream state, but the real scare is when I wake up into my normal world of terrible, awful, no good sight. My biggest fear is getting to a state where my sight can no longer be corrected by contact or glasses. In short, I fear blindness.
Some might stop here and ruminate on the beauty of the world and how it would be missed, or reflect on their loved ones faces and how not seeing them again would be a tragedy. Sure, sure, that’s all terrible, but that’s not why I fear what I do. It’s the complete and total loss of independence that terrifies me, the vulnerable position I’d be in that I desperately want to avoid. Without sight we are without our true free will. Were I not able to see, I could not live completely on my own or travel at will or escape other people and have any kind of isolated experience. There is an immediate dependence that comes with the loss of a sense, a knowledge that you are at the mercy of others that just terrifies me.
Women (and maybe men?) have a habit of discussing things they’d like to change about themselves, mostly to do with their physical beauty -- lose some weight, be taller, have nicer hair, etc. And that’s all well and good, but in all honesty I can lose some weight if I tried. I can dye my hair and buy some fancy shampoo. I can put on heels or break out my trusty step stool. The one thing I cannot change, that is not in my power to change, is my eyesight. So my one wish? 20/20 vision.
A lot of people have themes that repeat in their dreams and mine is always the inability to see. Whatever strange scenario is being played out as I sleep, there is almost always an issue with my sight: I’m straining to see something in the distance but it’s blurry or I’m trying to focus on one thing and it keeps evading my eyes. It’s both frustrating and frightening in that dream state, but the real scare is when I wake up into my normal world of terrible, awful, no good sight. My biggest fear is getting to a state where my sight can no longer be corrected by contact or glasses. In short, I fear blindness.
Some might stop here and ruminate on the beauty of the world and how it would be missed, or reflect on their loved ones faces and how not seeing them again would be a tragedy. Sure, sure, that’s all terrible, but that’s not why I fear what I do. It’s the complete and total loss of independence that terrifies me, the vulnerable position I’d be in that I desperately want to avoid. Without sight we are without our true free will. Were I not able to see, I could not live completely on my own or travel at will or escape other people and have any kind of isolated experience. There is an immediate dependence that comes with the loss of a sense, a knowledge that you are at the mercy of others that just terrifies me.
Women (and maybe men?) have a habit of discussing things they’d like to change about themselves, mostly to do with their physical beauty -- lose some weight, be taller, have nicer hair, etc. And that’s all well and good, but in all honesty I can lose some weight if I tried. I can dye my hair and buy some fancy shampoo. I can put on heels or break out my trusty step stool. The one thing I cannot change, that is not in my power to change, is my eyesight. So my one wish? 20/20 vision.
Tuesday, August 7, 2012
Nostalgia as Condemnation
Amazing author and extraordinary speaker Laurie Halse Anderson has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.
I recently attended a panel discussion on children and technology, and had the unfortunate luck to sit next to an overbearing grandmother who spent most of the talk rocking violently in her seat, bursting with the need to expound on how SHE certainly didn’t grow up with technology, nor did her children, oh no no no, and they all had a perfectly lovely childhood so why do we need to RUIN childhood for children with all this confounded technology? I spent the panel being very angry with her, though I couldn’t quite pin down why. Why did it matter to me what this woman, whose name I didn’t even know, thought and felt about technology? Why did it affect me at all?
This same feeling has plagued me during any conversation where reminiscing turns into condemning the present. I’m not talking about the “Oh, remember how we used to slide down the stairs in a sleeping bag?” or “I loved that one show, Dungeons and Dragons!” conversations, but rather the “Pfft, you’re too young to remember the good old days” and “Man, cartoons today suck! They were way better when I was a kid!” conversations. (FYI: no, they weren’t better. We loved them because we were 5. Watch them now. They’re weird as hell.)
But why do these conversations make me grumpy? What is it about people talking about the past as a perfect time that drives me crazy and prompts me to defend the present like it’s my homeland or something? This is a question I’ve been grappling with for awhile now, and I think I’ve finally figured it out.
The attitude of Then vs Now is so troubling because it assumes that everyone’s childhood is not only the same, but also wonderfully idyllic. It implies that by not doing it as people did Back Then, that my generation is Doing It All Wrong (tm Chow.com). It assumes that anything that deviates from their version of childhood isn’t valid. That anything other is also less than. And I find that disturbing for many reasons, but mostly because it narrows down what childhood can mean, and what it can encompass.
Nostalgia as condemnation does not add to the conversation, and almost immediately negates any valid points the speaker might have. Not all things were better in that rosy past and they certainly weren’t better for everyone. Not all children grew up in a safe upper middle class suburb, and to act as though they did is to dismiss an entire population who might very well have benefited from those reviled changes. As John Green likes to say “The truth resists simplicity.” In fact, I’d argue that a fair amount of people in that past might wish they were living now, happily taking the annoying texting and bad-mannered cell phone use to also get the medical and household advances. Washing machines for everyone!
I recently attended a panel discussion on children and technology, and had the unfortunate luck to sit next to an overbearing grandmother who spent most of the talk rocking violently in her seat, bursting with the need to expound on how SHE certainly didn’t grow up with technology, nor did her children, oh no no no, and they all had a perfectly lovely childhood so why do we need to RUIN childhood for children with all this confounded technology? I spent the panel being very angry with her, though I couldn’t quite pin down why. Why did it matter to me what this woman, whose name I didn’t even know, thought and felt about technology? Why did it affect me at all?
This same feeling has plagued me during any conversation where reminiscing turns into condemning the present. I’m not talking about the “Oh, remember how we used to slide down the stairs in a sleeping bag?” or “I loved that one show, Dungeons and Dragons!” conversations, but rather the “Pfft, you’re too young to remember the good old days” and “Man, cartoons today suck! They were way better when I was a kid!” conversations. (FYI: no, they weren’t better. We loved them because we were 5. Watch them now. They’re weird as hell.)
But why do these conversations make me grumpy? What is it about people talking about the past as a perfect time that drives me crazy and prompts me to defend the present like it’s my homeland or something? This is a question I’ve been grappling with for awhile now, and I think I’ve finally figured it out.
The attitude of Then vs Now is so troubling because it assumes that everyone’s childhood is not only the same, but also wonderfully idyllic. It implies that by not doing it as people did Back Then, that my generation is Doing It All Wrong (tm Chow.com). It assumes that anything that deviates from their version of childhood isn’t valid. That anything other is also less than. And I find that disturbing for many reasons, but mostly because it narrows down what childhood can mean, and what it can encompass.
Nostalgia as condemnation does not add to the conversation, and almost immediately negates any valid points the speaker might have. Not all things were better in that rosy past and they certainly weren’t better for everyone. Not all children grew up in a safe upper middle class suburb, and to act as though they did is to dismiss an entire population who might very well have benefited from those reviled changes. As John Green likes to say “The truth resists simplicity.” In fact, I’d argue that a fair amount of people in that past might wish they were living now, happily taking the annoying texting and bad-mannered cell phone use to also get the medical and household advances. Washing machines for everyone!
Monday, August 6, 2012
Where I Read
Amazing author and extraordinary speaker Laurie Halse Anderson has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.
A series of mostly free verse poems about where I read, done for a project at work:
Most books during childhood:
Very late at night
Under covers
Just one more chapter
Hoping I don't get caught.
Wrinkle in Time:
Old plaid chair
In a corner,
In my room.
Sort of smelly,
But all mine.
Covered in a blanket,
While my mother vacuums
Outside my door.
Order of the Phoenix:
Reading in a bed-nest
Surrounded by down on all sides
With water and chocolate close at hand
Preferably rainy
Preferably cold
Preferably mid-morning
Half Blood Prince:
On a burning summer day
Wilting with heat
Sneaking Harry Potter
While Dan falls asleep
Deathly Hallows:
A bit out loud,
A bit on the subway,
The rest in an air-conditioned cocoon
With rainbow cookies
Now:
I read on the subway.
Wait, was that my stop?
Friday, August 3, 2012
Oreo the Cat
Amazing author and extraordinary speaker Laurie Halse Anderson has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.
My cat Oreo once licked tears off my face, about 4 years before we had to put her to sleep.
In middle school I had an intense crush on a boy named Sam. He was loud and funny and had a mop of brown hair on his head and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. He was cute in a pretty conventional way, but it was really the confidence and humor that got me. We knew each other casually, had some classes together, and probably had all of 5 conversations throughout 8th grade. But still, when the year ended and he announced he was moving 250 miles away to Houston, I was crushed. Crushed by a crush.
Despite the fact that we clearly didn’t have a close relationship nor were we destined to be together, I woke up on the first day of summer feeling incredibly melancholy. Oreo, at that time a fully grown cat in full possession of her sight, jumped up on my bed as she did every morning, sniffing around my head. On mornings that I was not awake when she arrived, she saw fit to nip at my forehead, right below my hair line. Not real bites, just tiny alarm clock bites. On this morning, she found me fully awake, laying on my side with my face snuggled into my pillow, crying quietly. While a sad girl might deny her siblings the pleasure of seeing her teary eyes, there is no way to ignore a purring, furry cat sniffing so closely that you can feel her whiskers against your cheek.
Sliding my hand along her spine, I told Oreo my tale of woe: a boy I barely knew was moving away, and for some reason that reduced me to weeping. She didn’t judge, just listened and stared into my eyes as though she fully understood my middle school pain. Then she stood up, leaned in, sniffed some more, and whisked her scratchy velcro-y tongue against my face. One, two, three more times, little licks against the apples of my cheeks, which tickled me just enough to break me out of my sadness but not enough to make me fully laugh.
So when, four years later, I held a blind Oreo in my arms wrapped in my baby blanket, and passed her over to a vet for the last time, it’s no surprise that the tears flowed freely, nor did it escape my attention that she could no longer reach in, sniff my face, and lick them away. The realization, of course, only caused more of them to fall.
My cat Oreo once licked tears off my face, about 4 years before we had to put her to sleep.
In middle school I had an intense crush on a boy named Sam. He was loud and funny and had a mop of brown hair on his head and a sprinkle of freckles across his nose. He was cute in a pretty conventional way, but it was really the confidence and humor that got me. We knew each other casually, had some classes together, and probably had all of 5 conversations throughout 8th grade. But still, when the year ended and he announced he was moving 250 miles away to Houston, I was crushed. Crushed by a crush.
Despite the fact that we clearly didn’t have a close relationship nor were we destined to be together, I woke up on the first day of summer feeling incredibly melancholy. Oreo, at that time a fully grown cat in full possession of her sight, jumped up on my bed as she did every morning, sniffing around my head. On mornings that I was not awake when she arrived, she saw fit to nip at my forehead, right below my hair line. Not real bites, just tiny alarm clock bites. On this morning, she found me fully awake, laying on my side with my face snuggled into my pillow, crying quietly. While a sad girl might deny her siblings the pleasure of seeing her teary eyes, there is no way to ignore a purring, furry cat sniffing so closely that you can feel her whiskers against your cheek.
Sliding my hand along her spine, I told Oreo my tale of woe: a boy I barely knew was moving away, and for some reason that reduced me to weeping. She didn’t judge, just listened and stared into my eyes as though she fully understood my middle school pain. Then she stood up, leaned in, sniffed some more, and whisked her scratchy velcro-y tongue against my face. One, two, three more times, little licks against the apples of my cheeks, which tickled me just enough to break me out of my sadness but not enough to make me fully laugh.
So when, four years later, I held a blind Oreo in my arms wrapped in my baby blanket, and passed her over to a vet for the last time, it’s no surprise that the tears flowed freely, nor did it escape my attention that she could no longer reach in, sniff my face, and lick them away. The realization, of course, only caused more of them to fall.
Thursday, August 2, 2012
WFMAD: Blinded by my desk
Amazing author and extraordinary speaker Laurie Halse Anderson has challenged her readers to write 15 minutes a day for the entirety of August. Not sure if I'll actually accomplish it, but I intend to try, and post the results here.
In a world where having a work space near a window is a sought after thing, a status symbol, I find it slightly ironic that I have to keep the blinds closed most of the time to be able to see my computer screen. I was assigned this seat next to the tall windows as a marker of my status in the department (window worthy, but not large cubicle worth or office worthy). Being able to look outside while I am ruminating on a particular problem or theorizing why it is that Elmo needs to find more songs to sing is certainly a nice perk.
The downside of working in New York City, however, is that you are often surrounded by buildings made of glass. And if you are lucky enough to be free from glass towers, you are probably surrounded by apartment buildings with a multitude of windows that are just as reflective. Reflecting the sun into those tall, tall windows of which I have the privilege of being near. Reflecting the sun right onto my bright white desk which, while certainly solid, does an amazing job acting as a mirror to direct the sun back into my eyes. And that white desk, while looking clean and sleek when we first arrived in our new offices, but looking much shabbier now that it is covered in coffee rings and streaks of nail polish that has rubbed off my nails as I sort paper, still manages to have enough clean surface to reflect enough sun to effectively blind me.
So, after all the pomp and circumstance of achieving this desk position, this window-adjacent work area, this status-symbol-cubicle, I must stand on top of that nice white desk, grip the bottom of the nice white blinds, and pull them down to cover the entirety of those tall, tall windows. There goes the sun, there goes the view, here comes my ability to see my computer.
If this isn’t a first world problem (a NYC-centric problem) then I don’t know what is.
In a world where having a work space near a window is a sought after thing, a status symbol, I find it slightly ironic that I have to keep the blinds closed most of the time to be able to see my computer screen. I was assigned this seat next to the tall windows as a marker of my status in the department (window worthy, but not large cubicle worth or office worthy). Being able to look outside while I am ruminating on a particular problem or theorizing why it is that Elmo needs to find more songs to sing is certainly a nice perk.
The downside of working in New York City, however, is that you are often surrounded by buildings made of glass. And if you are lucky enough to be free from glass towers, you are probably surrounded by apartment buildings with a multitude of windows that are just as reflective. Reflecting the sun into those tall, tall windows of which I have the privilege of being near. Reflecting the sun right onto my bright white desk which, while certainly solid, does an amazing job acting as a mirror to direct the sun back into my eyes. And that white desk, while looking clean and sleek when we first arrived in our new offices, but looking much shabbier now that it is covered in coffee rings and streaks of nail polish that has rubbed off my nails as I sort paper, still manages to have enough clean surface to reflect enough sun to effectively blind me.
So, after all the pomp and circumstance of achieving this desk position, this window-adjacent work area, this status-symbol-cubicle, I must stand on top of that nice white desk, grip the bottom of the nice white blinds, and pull them down to cover the entirety of those tall, tall windows. There goes the sun, there goes the view, here comes my ability to see my computer.
If this isn’t a first world problem (a NYC-centric problem) then I don’t know what is.
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
Boys x Girls x Punk Shows
I recently read Lauren Denitzio's article about sexism in punk (via a link posted in Facebook). Lauren is someone I know tangentially, and I've only ever had one or two conversations with her, but I found the article very interesting. She talks frankly about things that make her uncomfortable at shows, and most seem very obvious: rape jokes, questions about whether she is IN the band or WITH the band. One thing she mentioned is something I have been bothered by for years:
So, for those who might not know what I’m talking about: you know what makes me feel unsafe? When you’re the only guy in the pit who doesn’t get the message to not fly full force into someone half your size or strength.
I spent years being annoyed and feeling put upon because I had to hang out in the back if I wanted to watch a band unmolested. I felt affronted that I couldn't see my brother or boyfriend perform because getting closer meant getting pushed around. Why should I have to deal with that? I thought. So when I read Lauren's article, I felt myself nodding in agreement...and then I started really thinking about gender, privilege, alienation and entitlement. And I remembered 2 things.
The first is Ali Carr's TED talk about how we're losing boys in the classroom. She doesn't pander to gender stereotypes, but does acknowledge that there is a difference in the way majority of girls learn vs majority of boys. There has been a lot out there lately about "getting" boys, both in educational terms but also in marketing/sales terms. How to get boys to watch certain shows, read certain books, attend certain colleges. As a girl, it's hard not to bristle at all that -- are girls not worth the same effort? But that bristling stops when we talk about education, because Ali Carr is right. Boys deserve education that works with them, not against them. Has focusing on girls in education left boys out of the conversation? What implications does that have?
The second thing that came to mind was a show I attended years ago at a random AOH hall in upstate New York. It was swarming with young kids, and I spent most of my time at the adjacent bar, happy to be out of the dancing mess. Wanting to watch a specific band, I slipped into the main hall, staying in the back as always, hoping to avoid the moshing and pushing that passed for dancing to teenage boys. As I stood watching them, though, I stopped feeling so put upon and judgmental and started to think about how amazing it must feel to those kids to be so physically liberated, to dance in a way that was socially acceptable to their peers, to move to a beat without having their sexuality called into question. To be un-ironically into dancing.
Fifteen-year-old boys are still very much figuring themselves out, pushing at boundaries, and the ability to be emotional and find their place in an environment tailor-made to them (a mosh pit full of noise and sweat and boy-ness) is nothing to scoff at. I remember thinking, This is why parents should let their sons come to shows...they get to really let go and bond in a way no other situation allows.
So, then, I come back to Lauren's thoughts on being at a show, and I'm suddenly faced with a question: why does my preference on how I want to watch a band take precedent over someone else's? If someone wants to dance, why should they be held back just because I don't want to dance? If a show is made totally comfortable for me, what happens if that alienates someone else, boy or girl? If boys are uncomfortable at a show that caters to girls then is that just a different side of the exact same coin? Is alienating boys a just revenge, or completely missing the point? And if the goal is to make everyone watching a band feel comfortable, what do you do when one group's "comfortable" is another group's "terrible show experience"?
I mentioned the word entitlement* up at the top because it's a concept that I find very frustrating and I am convinced is intimately involved in the discord in this country right now. My normal reaction to being near a mosh pit or violent dancing is simply to remove myself from the situation (this is my reaction to pretty much any situation I don't like). I'd rather hang out at the back, but I know not everyone feels that way. Is anyone entitled to a certain experience at a show? And, again, what happens when those "entitlements" are in direct conflict?
Who needs a thesis topic? Entitlement and Gender at a Punk Show
*In this sense, entitlement refers to a belief that one is deserving of certain privilege. I am not programs such as Medicare, where the term carries slightly different connotations.
So, for those who might not know what I’m talking about: you know what makes me feel unsafe? When you’re the only guy in the pit who doesn’t get the message to not fly full force into someone half your size or strength.
I spent years being annoyed and feeling put upon because I had to hang out in the back if I wanted to watch a band unmolested. I felt affronted that I couldn't see my brother or boyfriend perform because getting closer meant getting pushed around. Why should I have to deal with that? I thought. So when I read Lauren's article, I felt myself nodding in agreement...and then I started really thinking about gender, privilege, alienation and entitlement. And I remembered 2 things.
The first is Ali Carr's TED talk about how we're losing boys in the classroom. She doesn't pander to gender stereotypes, but does acknowledge that there is a difference in the way majority of girls learn vs majority of boys. There has been a lot out there lately about "getting" boys, both in educational terms but also in marketing/sales terms. How to get boys to watch certain shows, read certain books, attend certain colleges. As a girl, it's hard not to bristle at all that -- are girls not worth the same effort? But that bristling stops when we talk about education, because Ali Carr is right. Boys deserve education that works with them, not against them. Has focusing on girls in education left boys out of the conversation? What implications does that have?
The second thing that came to mind was a show I attended years ago at a random AOH hall in upstate New York. It was swarming with young kids, and I spent most of my time at the adjacent bar, happy to be out of the dancing mess. Wanting to watch a specific band, I slipped into the main hall, staying in the back as always, hoping to avoid the moshing and pushing that passed for dancing to teenage boys. As I stood watching them, though, I stopped feeling so put upon and judgmental and started to think about how amazing it must feel to those kids to be so physically liberated, to dance in a way that was socially acceptable to their peers, to move to a beat without having their sexuality called into question. To be un-ironically into dancing.
Fifteen-year-old boys are still very much figuring themselves out, pushing at boundaries, and the ability to be emotional and find their place in an environment tailor-made to them (a mosh pit full of noise and sweat and boy-ness) is nothing to scoff at. I remember thinking, This is why parents should let their sons come to shows...they get to really let go and bond in a way no other situation allows.
So, then, I come back to Lauren's thoughts on being at a show, and I'm suddenly faced with a question: why does my preference on how I want to watch a band take precedent over someone else's? If someone wants to dance, why should they be held back just because I don't want to dance? If a show is made totally comfortable for me, what happens if that alienates someone else, boy or girl? If boys are uncomfortable at a show that caters to girls then is that just a different side of the exact same coin? Is alienating boys a just revenge, or completely missing the point? And if the goal is to make everyone watching a band feel comfortable, what do you do when one group's "comfortable" is another group's "terrible show experience"?
I mentioned the word entitlement* up at the top because it's a concept that I find very frustrating and I am convinced is intimately involved in the discord in this country right now. My normal reaction to being near a mosh pit or violent dancing is simply to remove myself from the situation (this is my reaction to pretty much any situation I don't like). I'd rather hang out at the back, but I know not everyone feels that way. Is anyone entitled to a certain experience at a show? And, again, what happens when those "entitlements" are in direct conflict?
Who needs a thesis topic? Entitlement and Gender at a Punk Show
*In this sense, entitlement refers to a belief that one is deserving of certain privilege. I am not programs such as Medicare, where the term carries slightly different connotations.
Monday, January 24, 2011
The Rules of Ownership
So John Green, a favorite author of mine due to his great writing skills but also his great speaking skills and his great being-someone-you'd-like-to-have-a-beer-with skills, says a lot of really great stuff. One of his strengths as a writer is coming up with wonderfully short sentences that manage to convey infinite amounts of wisdom. Behold:
“...being the person who God made you does not and CANNOT separate you from God's love.”
See? Brilliant—that’s an entire religion in one sentence.
One thing he said in his video today really struck me, because it’s something that I have felt and I have said in different ways, but not as eloquently and...you know...not in public. About his debut, Printz-winning novel, he said:
“The Looking for Alaska that you read is not quite like the Looking for Alaska that anyone else reads.”
In essence, the reader makes her own meaning, and, in a way, owns a story. This immediately made me think of a memory from my childhood, one that I feel defines me in a very precise way. The memory is about tornadoes, briefcases, bathrooms, and books. It has multiple endings, as most stories in life do, but the first one, chronologically, is the most applicable here.
Tornadoes are a scary reality for anyone living in Nebraska and North Texas. Those residents know the hard-and-fast rule about where to go when those sirens go off: preferably a basement, but at the least an interior room with no windows. In Nebraska, we had a basement full of toys, so when an alarm would sound, we would gather in the room where my most precious possessions (i.e. the Pony Paradise Estate) already lived. In North Texas, however, basements were scarce and the only room in the house that offered protection from a storm was a small bathroom off the kitchen. Two adults and four children could barely fit in it, so the GI Joes and My Little Ponies had to take a backseat. The rule was: each child could choose one thing, and one thing only, to bring into the bathroom.
It was during this period of my life that I stumbled on a book in the library called Kristy’s Great Idea by Ann M Martin. I quickly fell, be-speckled-eyes first, in love with the Baby-Sitters Club series. I saved up allowance dollars and bought the books at book fairs, garage sales, and used bookstores. They topped my birthday and Christmas lists for years—especially the Super Specials, which were larger and more expensive. There was a four-foot horizontal shelf in my closet specifically reserved for the series, which quickly filled the space with its pastel rainbow. The collection was my pride and joy. I strutted around my room, secure in the knowledge that I could quickly name off the titles of the first thirty or so books. I kept them neat and dust free, always in order. I adored each one and never leant them to any one.
When the sirens sounded, then, there was no doubt in my mind what was coming into that bathroom with me. Luckily, my father had recently traded his old briefcase in for a smaller and sleeker model. The old briefcase, with its tattered leather cover and brass combination locks next to the handle, became mine. In the minute and a half we had to scramble everything together, I could stack 60 books very neatly into that briefcase, snap the locks and haul it across the house. The bulk of the series fit into the main compartment, lined with worn down cream velvet, striped with pen marks. The Super Specials were lined up in the lid where partitions meant for organizing papers and files held them in quite snugly. I would pause for a moment before slamming the lid and admire the covers, the way they lined up in each stack to form a perfect grid of smooth, slick paper.
I am sure my mother had actually meant for us to bring one small item in—a picture album, our baby blankets, or perhaps a small toy. I still maintain, as I did then, that the books were all enclosed in a briefcase, which is one item, and therefore was allowed.
Looking back, I wondered why it never occurred to me that those books were just about the most replaceable items I owned. If a tornado did in fact rip through our house, tear our roof off, and destroy the contents of my closet, the cost to replace the entire series would be under $400.00. Today this seems like a rather paltry sum—less than the deductible on my renter’s insurance. At ten, however, that was more money that I had ever seen.
I don’t think the money was really an issue, though. I doubt it even occurred to me that there was a way to replace the books. In my mind, the books that I owned were the only ones I could own. They were mine, no force of nature had any right to take them away from me. I had marked in the margins, dog-eared the pages with my favorite passages, stamped a “This Book Belongs To” note in the inside cover of every single one. By being in my possession, they had become part of me, each book was not only the means by which I experienced the story, but part of the story itself. The way I read the story was imprinted on them—a little bit of me being left on every book I read. A newer, cleaner edition with whiter pages would not have the same familiarity, would not tell the story in the same way. Those books in the bookstore belonged to someone else, would be read by someone else and interpreted by someone else. I wanted my books, my stories. Those, to me, were truly irreplaceable.
I no longer have those BSC books. They were lost to the attic or to yard sales after I grew out of them and moved on to such rich literary classics as Christopher Pike’s Remember Me and Lois Duncan’s Stranger With My Face (don't worry, my taste in books got better in college). That sense of ownership remained, however, and is probably a contributing factor to my very packed bookshelves. Once I love a book, how can I let it go? It’s mine, after all. All mine.
“...being the person who God made you does not and CANNOT separate you from God's love.”
See? Brilliant—that’s an entire religion in one sentence.
One thing he said in his video today really struck me, because it’s something that I have felt and I have said in different ways, but not as eloquently and...you know...not in public. About his debut, Printz-winning novel, he said:
“The Looking for Alaska that you read is not quite like the Looking for Alaska that anyone else reads.”
In essence, the reader makes her own meaning, and, in a way, owns a story. This immediately made me think of a memory from my childhood, one that I feel defines me in a very precise way. The memory is about tornadoes, briefcases, bathrooms, and books. It has multiple endings, as most stories in life do, but the first one, chronologically, is the most applicable here.
Tornadoes are a scary reality for anyone living in Nebraska and North Texas. Those residents know the hard-and-fast rule about where to go when those sirens go off: preferably a basement, but at the least an interior room with no windows. In Nebraska, we had a basement full of toys, so when an alarm would sound, we would gather in the room where my most precious possessions (i.e. the Pony Paradise Estate) already lived. In North Texas, however, basements were scarce and the only room in the house that offered protection from a storm was a small bathroom off the kitchen. Two adults and four children could barely fit in it, so the GI Joes and My Little Ponies had to take a backseat. The rule was: each child could choose one thing, and one thing only, to bring into the bathroom.
It was during this period of my life that I stumbled on a book in the library called Kristy’s Great Idea by Ann M Martin. I quickly fell, be-speckled-eyes first, in love with the Baby-Sitters Club series. I saved up allowance dollars and bought the books at book fairs, garage sales, and used bookstores. They topped my birthday and Christmas lists for years—especially the Super Specials, which were larger and more expensive. There was a four-foot horizontal shelf in my closet specifically reserved for the series, which quickly filled the space with its pastel rainbow. The collection was my pride and joy. I strutted around my room, secure in the knowledge that I could quickly name off the titles of the first thirty or so books. I kept them neat and dust free, always in order. I adored each one and never leant them to any one.
When the sirens sounded, then, there was no doubt in my mind what was coming into that bathroom with me. Luckily, my father had recently traded his old briefcase in for a smaller and sleeker model. The old briefcase, with its tattered leather cover and brass combination locks next to the handle, became mine. In the minute and a half we had to scramble everything together, I could stack 60 books very neatly into that briefcase, snap the locks and haul it across the house. The bulk of the series fit into the main compartment, lined with worn down cream velvet, striped with pen marks. The Super Specials were lined up in the lid where partitions meant for organizing papers and files held them in quite snugly. I would pause for a moment before slamming the lid and admire the covers, the way they lined up in each stack to form a perfect grid of smooth, slick paper.
I am sure my mother had actually meant for us to bring one small item in—a picture album, our baby blankets, or perhaps a small toy. I still maintain, as I did then, that the books were all enclosed in a briefcase, which is one item, and therefore was allowed.
Looking back, I wondered why it never occurred to me that those books were just about the most replaceable items I owned. If a tornado did in fact rip through our house, tear our roof off, and destroy the contents of my closet, the cost to replace the entire series would be under $400.00. Today this seems like a rather paltry sum—less than the deductible on my renter’s insurance. At ten, however, that was more money that I had ever seen.
I don’t think the money was really an issue, though. I doubt it even occurred to me that there was a way to replace the books. In my mind, the books that I owned were the only ones I could own. They were mine, no force of nature had any right to take them away from me. I had marked in the margins, dog-eared the pages with my favorite passages, stamped a “This Book Belongs To” note in the inside cover of every single one. By being in my possession, they had become part of me, each book was not only the means by which I experienced the story, but part of the story itself. The way I read the story was imprinted on them—a little bit of me being left on every book I read. A newer, cleaner edition with whiter pages would not have the same familiarity, would not tell the story in the same way. Those books in the bookstore belonged to someone else, would be read by someone else and interpreted by someone else. I wanted my books, my stories. Those, to me, were truly irreplaceable.
I no longer have those BSC books. They were lost to the attic or to yard sales after I grew out of them and moved on to such rich literary classics as Christopher Pike’s Remember Me and Lois Duncan’s Stranger With My Face (don't worry, my taste in books got better in college). That sense of ownership remained, however, and is probably a contributing factor to my very packed bookshelves. Once I love a book, how can I let it go? It’s mine, after all. All mine.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
New Year's Scream
2011 is a weird year, there's no getting around it. All the "00" years seemed kind of cool because we were still in that "It's the new millennium!" excitement. You know: "I can't believe it's 2005!" Then 2010 came along, and it's such a nice number, so round and bouncy. Sure, it's kind of square but even so it seemed like a really partial number, an even keeled one. A number that could see all sides of an issue, wouldn't judge you, and would totally be willing to help you move that couch.
And now it's over and it's...2011. You can't make funny New Year's glasses with it. It's a prime number, which either makes it very cool and exclusive, or the sad loser year that no one wants to hang out with. Either way, it's odd. (Ha ha. Sorry.)
Looking down the barrel of this year from January is kind of intimidating. You know that scene in Home Alone (the first one) (great movie) where Kevin has his hands to his face and is screaming? The scream is actually in response to aftershave and therefore ripe for a metaphore about growing up, but that scene became representative of the whole movie, of Kevin's feelings about two burglars trying to break into his house and ruin his already-terrible Christmas. And it's how I feel right now, like I need a moment of unbridled screaming to calm myself before tackling the bear that is 2011.
Like last year, I'm not doing resolutions this year but rather listing things I'm looking forward to/need to focus on.
1) Women in Children's Media
I'm now the V.P. of an amazing organization, which means it's time to quit making excuses, put my big pants on, and get shit done. Those are all things I'm telling myself while I panic about how little I know about how to host media online.
2) The Work Move
Our offices are shifting around inside our building, and it's going to put a strain on pretty much the entire company. This year will require a lot of patience, flexibility, and some really great noise-cancelling headphones.
3) The Wedding
Anyone who had fun planning their wedding must have had a much bigger buget than we do, as I've spent the last 2 months either overwhelmed by guilt for how much we're spending or in a total panic that no one will have any fun because we aren't spending enough. A lot of deep breaths (and about 10 excel spreadsheets) will help. Also, I need to keep in perspective the best part of all this: marrying Dan.
Also, I guess I should blog more. Or just write more. And start getting to work on time. And stop eating so many bagels. And run more. Train for a half marathon. Talk to my friends more. Clean the apartment more often and dust more than once a year. Call my mother weekly and talk to my siblings more and see my new nephew and be more organized and oh my God the closet shelf needs work and AHHHHHHHHHH. Hands on face!
And now it's over and it's...2011. You can't make funny New Year's glasses with it. It's a prime number, which either makes it very cool and exclusive, or the sad loser year that no one wants to hang out with. Either way, it's odd. (Ha ha. Sorry.)
Looking down the barrel of this year from January is kind of intimidating. You know that scene in Home Alone (the first one) (great movie) where Kevin has his hands to his face and is screaming? The scream is actually in response to aftershave and therefore ripe for a metaphore about growing up, but that scene became representative of the whole movie, of Kevin's feelings about two burglars trying to break into his house and ruin his already-terrible Christmas. And it's how I feel right now, like I need a moment of unbridled screaming to calm myself before tackling the bear that is 2011.
Like last year, I'm not doing resolutions this year but rather listing things I'm looking forward to/need to focus on.
1) Women in Children's Media
I'm now the V.P. of an amazing organization, which means it's time to quit making excuses, put my big pants on, and get shit done. Those are all things I'm telling myself while I panic about how little I know about how to host media online.
2) The Work Move
Our offices are shifting around inside our building, and it's going to put a strain on pretty much the entire company. This year will require a lot of patience, flexibility, and some really great noise-cancelling headphones.
3) The Wedding
Anyone who had fun planning their wedding must have had a much bigger buget than we do, as I've spent the last 2 months either overwhelmed by guilt for how much we're spending or in a total panic that no one will have any fun because we aren't spending enough. A lot of deep breaths (and about 10 excel spreadsheets) will help. Also, I need to keep in perspective the best part of all this: marrying Dan.
Also, I guess I should blog more. Or just write more. And start getting to work on time. And stop eating so many bagels. And run more. Train for a half marathon. Talk to my friends more. Clean the apartment more often and dust more than once a year. Call my mother weekly and talk to my siblings more and see my new nephew and be more organized and oh my God the closet shelf needs work and AHHHHHHHHHH. Hands on face!
Monday, October 4, 2010
Toast and Bananas
It is fall and I am upstate, driving west on Route 17. Mid-afternoon sunlight saturates the car, tumbling unfiltered from a brilliant blue sky that is trimmed at the bottom with riotous leaves: some still green, but most yellow, orange, and the deepest, darkest auburn red. I guide my boyfriend’s car—a very responsible sedan—off the highway and towards 208, checking my speed just as a 30-year-old who is more concerned about car insurance than looking cool should. At the stop sign, the car is silent for a moment as my iPod switches tracks, and in that pause I hover between present and past, between the time I am in now and those years I spent on these roads as my character was shaped and formed. The speakers open up and a pop punk song from high school spills out, filling the car as I make that hazardous left onto one of the most familiar roads I know.
Suddenly, I am 17 and behind the wheel of the boxy, hopelessly dorky white LeBaron that my parents insisted on and that I was both embarrassed by and enamored of. It’s very hard to hate the vehicle that is your means to freedom and possibility, but it’s also very hard to love a practical white car with a thin blue and red stripe running along the length of it. It was just so wholesome.
My shift at the Bugle Boy clothing store—at the bottom of the social hierarchy that is life as an employee at the Woodbury Commons— is over and nothing else matters but getting to my best friend’s house. The night, the world, and my whole life unfurl in front of me as I round a bend and dive into a straightaway, and my entire body pulses with joy. It’s not the actual plans for the night that make my heart sing, but the possibility of what will be. This could be a night where something actually happens, and to a suburban teen girl, the possibility of something is everything.
For a moment, self-awareness takes hold and I am fully alive to how young and fresh I am, how little I have lived and how much time I have ahead of me. My adrenaline spikes and giggles involuntarily escape from my lips and I am simply—and please forgive the cheese—high on life. I crank the volume knob, knowing the music can never be as loud as I need it. I want it to surround me and suffocate me, seeping in until it’s sweeping through my veins and coming out my pores. It should be so loud that I can’t hear myself belting out the words, so loud that my ribs vibrate to the bass line, so loud that the car can’t contain it and the music pours out through the cracks. If I could just make it loud enough, the song will overwhelm me and permanently infuse me with its magic.
In the present, in my 30-year-old body, I wonder at the power music from adolescence has, its ability to transport you. I can feel the youth and naïveté of my younger self, that skin I shed years ago. I can reach out and touch it from enough of a distance that it seems sweet instead of sad. It makes me a little wistful—not enough to actually want to be 17 again, but enough to remind me how powerful music can be and how what you experience when you are young affects you in ways nothing ever will again.
[I think I need to lay off dashes for awhile...]
Suddenly, I am 17 and behind the wheel of the boxy, hopelessly dorky white LeBaron that my parents insisted on and that I was both embarrassed by and enamored of. It’s very hard to hate the vehicle that is your means to freedom and possibility, but it’s also very hard to love a practical white car with a thin blue and red stripe running along the length of it. It was just so wholesome.
My shift at the Bugle Boy clothing store—at the bottom of the social hierarchy that is life as an employee at the Woodbury Commons— is over and nothing else matters but getting to my best friend’s house. The night, the world, and my whole life unfurl in front of me as I round a bend and dive into a straightaway, and my entire body pulses with joy. It’s not the actual plans for the night that make my heart sing, but the possibility of what will be. This could be a night where something actually happens, and to a suburban teen girl, the possibility of something is everything.
For a moment, self-awareness takes hold and I am fully alive to how young and fresh I am, how little I have lived and how much time I have ahead of me. My adrenaline spikes and giggles involuntarily escape from my lips and I am simply—and please forgive the cheese—high on life. I crank the volume knob, knowing the music can never be as loud as I need it. I want it to surround me and suffocate me, seeping in until it’s sweeping through my veins and coming out my pores. It should be so loud that I can’t hear myself belting out the words, so loud that my ribs vibrate to the bass line, so loud that the car can’t contain it and the music pours out through the cracks. If I could just make it loud enough, the song will overwhelm me and permanently infuse me with its magic.
In the present, in my 30-year-old body, I wonder at the power music from adolescence has, its ability to transport you. I can feel the youth and naïveté of my younger self, that skin I shed years ago. I can reach out and touch it from enough of a distance that it seems sweet instead of sad. It makes me a little wistful—not enough to actually want to be 17 again, but enough to remind me how powerful music can be and how what you experience when you are young affects you in ways nothing ever will again.
[I think I need to lay off dashes for awhile...]
Monday, September 27, 2010
Next on the Life List
Life List #...er, I'm not sure because the list is at work and I'm at home: attend a TED conference.
I mean, how amazing does this look??
The price tag is a bit out of my reach, but there appear to be "watch parties" akin to those live broadcasts of the Opera that the Met has been doing lately. Until I have $2,200 burning a hole in my pocket, I'll make do with watching the talks in a movie theater.
As always, thanks to Mighty Girl for the Life List inspiration...
I mean, how amazing does this look??
The price tag is a bit out of my reach, but there appear to be "watch parties" akin to those live broadcasts of the Opera that the Met has been doing lately. Until I have $2,200 burning a hole in my pocket, I'll make do with watching the talks in a movie theater.
As always, thanks to Mighty Girl for the Life List inspiration...
Tuesday, September 14, 2010
Life list: Ride my bike to work? Check!
Five things I learned while biking to work today:
1) Safety before pride.
It really doesn't matter if you slide through that yellow light or beat out that cab if it leads to you getting squashed by a bus. There is no prize for getting to work 3 minutes early.
2) NYC needs to put in some cross town bike paths in Manhattan.
The 20s and the 90s? Really? Nothing in between? That's like 70 blocks of heart-pounding, terror-filled, small margin of error bike riding. Give me just one lane somewhere in the 50s!
3) Streets are safer than sidewalks.
Intimidating though they are, biking in the streets is still more predictable than going up on the sidewalk. Also, pedestrians don't have to roll down a window to yell at you.
4) In NYC, there's even construction on the bike paths on the bridges.
And it requires a large van that forces everyone to dismount and walk their bikes, which always feels alien after having ridden for so long.
5) I love riding my bike.
This sounds much more new-agey than I usually go, but I truly end up feeling at one with my bike while shooting through intersections and navigating around potholes.
I may just make this a regular thing...until the sun starts setting at 5pm. But that means it's boot weather, which is a fair trade to me.
1) Safety before pride.
It really doesn't matter if you slide through that yellow light or beat out that cab if it leads to you getting squashed by a bus. There is no prize for getting to work 3 minutes early.
2) NYC needs to put in some cross town bike paths in Manhattan.
The 20s and the 90s? Really? Nothing in between? That's like 70 blocks of heart-pounding, terror-filled, small margin of error bike riding. Give me just one lane somewhere in the 50s!
3) Streets are safer than sidewalks.
Intimidating though they are, biking in the streets is still more predictable than going up on the sidewalk. Also, pedestrians don't have to roll down a window to yell at you.
4) In NYC, there's even construction on the bike paths on the bridges.
And it requires a large van that forces everyone to dismount and walk their bikes, which always feels alien after having ridden for so long.
5) I love riding my bike.
This sounds much more new-agey than I usually go, but I truly end up feeling at one with my bike while shooting through intersections and navigating around potholes.
I may just make this a regular thing...until the sun starts setting at 5pm. But that means it's boot weather, which is a fair trade to me.
Thursday, August 12, 2010
Leave a Light On...
Last night I had “Leave a Light On” by Belinda Carlisle stuck in my head, and it kept rattling around in my brain while I lay there, trying to sleep.
That song reminds me of a video I saw when I was twelve. I had to endure the unique brand of religious torture that public school children of Catholic parents are subjected to: CCD class. Mine was a class of 10 middle school kids fervently trying to make sure that everyone knew how little we cared about religion, how cool and above it all we were.
We watched a lot of lame videos, but for some reason the ending of this one stuck with me. It was a classically cheesy story in the vein of after school specials: a boy who seemed much older than me at the time—meaning he was probably 17—gets into a fight with his parents and decides to leave home. I remember that he left with just a backpack, and I thought, “That’s not nearly big enough to fit all my stuff.”
At some point he decides that he misses his family and would like to return home. I think there might have been a priest involved, some kind of counseling. The boy calls his parents and ends up leaving a message on their answering machine (the kind with a tape—I miss those).
The gist of his message was this: “I want to come home. I’m going to walk by the house tonight. If you want me to come home, leave the lamp in the living room window on. If it’s not on, I know to keep walking.” Cheesy, right?
So, there he is on the top of his street, backpack slung over his shoulder. It’s dusk, and most houses on the block are dark. Except his—his house is lit up like Christmas, light blazing from every window. He walks to it and stands outside, drinking it in.
And I, straining to remain cool and detached, was horrified to find myself crying.
I still get a little misty-eyed when I think about the story. All those lights! They really wanted him home!
Wonder if it’s on YouTube…
That song reminds me of a video I saw when I was twelve. I had to endure the unique brand of religious torture that public school children of Catholic parents are subjected to: CCD class. Mine was a class of 10 middle school kids fervently trying to make sure that everyone knew how little we cared about religion, how cool and above it all we were.
We watched a lot of lame videos, but for some reason the ending of this one stuck with me. It was a classically cheesy story in the vein of after school specials: a boy who seemed much older than me at the time—meaning he was probably 17—gets into a fight with his parents and decides to leave home. I remember that he left with just a backpack, and I thought, “That’s not nearly big enough to fit all my stuff.”
At some point he decides that he misses his family and would like to return home. I think there might have been a priest involved, some kind of counseling. The boy calls his parents and ends up leaving a message on their answering machine (the kind with a tape—I miss those).
The gist of his message was this: “I want to come home. I’m going to walk by the house tonight. If you want me to come home, leave the lamp in the living room window on. If it’s not on, I know to keep walking.” Cheesy, right?
So, there he is on the top of his street, backpack slung over his shoulder. It’s dusk, and most houses on the block are dark. Except his—his house is lit up like Christmas, light blazing from every window. He walks to it and stands outside, drinking it in.
And I, straining to remain cool and detached, was horrified to find myself crying.
I still get a little misty-eyed when I think about the story. All those lights! They really wanted him home!
Wonder if it’s on YouTube…
Saturday, July 17, 2010
Chipmunks
On a road trip with the fam, and we stopped the car on the side of the road to Estes Park, Colorado, which sits on the eastern edge of Rocky Mountain National Park. This little pull off is home to the sweetest and most polite chipmunks in the world. They run up to you, stand on their hind legs, place their little paws gently on your hands and take the food you've offered them.
Seriously, I want them as pets. Here's what might just be the best picture ever.
Seriously, I want them as pets. Here's what might just be the best picture ever.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
I think that the ability to publicly compare Obama to Hitler and Lenin without fear of government retribution completely invalidates the point of this billboard.
After all, it wasn't so much their fiscal policy that was the problem. I think it was the mass murders and the wars and the media control and the closing of the borders and the brutally violent repression of opposing ideas...and kind of the overall crazy-pants dictatorships that were the problem.
After all, it wasn't so much their fiscal policy that was the problem. I think it was the mass murders and the wars and the media control and the closing of the borders and the brutally violent repression of opposing ideas...and kind of the overall crazy-pants dictatorships that were the problem.
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
America: College Drop Out of the World?
You know that stereotypical happy jock character in popular culture? This kid, we'll call him Brad, was the king of high school. He was confident and nice and a bit incorrigible, did mediocre in class but amazingly well on the football field.
Teachers always forgave Brad his transgressions because he was just so damn charming and funny. His main goals were playing a sport, dating girls, and getting drunk with his friends. He was all about having fun and enjoying himself. Brad sounds like a pretty cool dude, right?
But then, as high school came to an end, Brad didn't really have much direction. Most of the kids who spent high school working hard and studying went off to great colleges, but Brad's grades left him no choice but a community college.
Perhaps Brad quickly realized that he should put some effort into his education, right? No, he partied too much to actually learn anything, and didn't really get why he needed to take all those "dumb liberal arts" courses. Brad ended up dropping out and getting a low-wage job, maybe as a salesman in a sporting goods store or a similar position that requires charisma but not skill.
Perhaps Brad worked really hard at this job and quickly advanced, right? No, Brad didn't really want any responsibility, and, anyway, he didn't really get how to use the computer system and didn't want to learn. He spent his free time hanging around, watching TV and amassing a pretty amazing empty beer bottle collection. But man, did he have some fun times.
All the nerds coming home from college--and eventually from their high-earning jobs--kind of felt bad for him. All the confidence he had that his charisma would get him by, that he could continue to float on the good feelings people had about him, have finally bitten him in the ass, and he didn't even know it.
Those kids, the ones who worked really hard in high school and college, went on to get jobs creating new software platforms, launching companies that change the way people do business, researching how to cure diseases, or being Steve Jobs.
But what happened to Brad?
Sometimes, I feel like America is Brad, with India and China looking at us with pity as their stringent academic standards allow their citizens to take over all the high-tech jobs. America had such potential after World War II, full of booming factories and a great education system. But in the intervening decades, the country has gone from sweet high school jock to over-confident college drop-out.
Our academic standards are slipping, with some school districts tightening their belts and meeting budgets by shortening the school week. Forget not getting new books, or cramming too many kids in a room. There are schools where kids are losing entire DAYS.
If we truly allow the education of our children to become such a low priority that days begin to fall off the calendar, that we'd rather invest in less taxes than a population that can find their country on a map, we're going to go from that over-confident yet low-paid college dropout to an illiterate migrant worker...working on Chinese and Indian farms.
Teachers always forgave Brad his transgressions because he was just so damn charming and funny. His main goals were playing a sport, dating girls, and getting drunk with his friends. He was all about having fun and enjoying himself. Brad sounds like a pretty cool dude, right?
But then, as high school came to an end, Brad didn't really have much direction. Most of the kids who spent high school working hard and studying went off to great colleges, but Brad's grades left him no choice but a community college.
Perhaps Brad quickly realized that he should put some effort into his education, right? No, he partied too much to actually learn anything, and didn't really get why he needed to take all those "dumb liberal arts" courses. Brad ended up dropping out and getting a low-wage job, maybe as a salesman in a sporting goods store or a similar position that requires charisma but not skill.
Perhaps Brad worked really hard at this job and quickly advanced, right? No, Brad didn't really want any responsibility, and, anyway, he didn't really get how to use the computer system and didn't want to learn. He spent his free time hanging around, watching TV and amassing a pretty amazing empty beer bottle collection. But man, did he have some fun times.
All the nerds coming home from college--and eventually from their high-earning jobs--kind of felt bad for him. All the confidence he had that his charisma would get him by, that he could continue to float on the good feelings people had about him, have finally bitten him in the ass, and he didn't even know it.
Those kids, the ones who worked really hard in high school and college, went on to get jobs creating new software platforms, launching companies that change the way people do business, researching how to cure diseases, or being Steve Jobs.
But what happened to Brad?
Sometimes, I feel like America is Brad, with India and China looking at us with pity as their stringent academic standards allow their citizens to take over all the high-tech jobs. America had such potential after World War II, full of booming factories and a great education system. But in the intervening decades, the country has gone from sweet high school jock to over-confident college drop-out.
Our academic standards are slipping, with some school districts tightening their belts and meeting budgets by shortening the school week. Forget not getting new books, or cramming too many kids in a room. There are schools where kids are losing entire DAYS.
If we truly allow the education of our children to become such a low priority that days begin to fall off the calendar, that we'd rather invest in less taxes than a population that can find their country on a map, we're going to go from that over-confident yet low-paid college dropout to an illiterate migrant worker...working on Chinese and Indian farms.
Friday, June 4, 2010
Fancy Pants and Dress
Dan and I got all dressed up last night for our dinner at Babbo -- he in dress pants and a black and gray striped shirt, me in a dress with heels that aren't really logical for walking (but they have ruffles on them!). First thing I have to say is that they give you a large piece of really incredible Italian bread that they continually replenish throughout your meal. This should be industry-standard as far as I'm concerned.
I did not take any pictures, but I did bring the menu home. Behold:
As you can see, there's a lot of Italian on there. Here's my translation:
COMPLIMENTS OF THE CHEF
(not on the menu)
Chick peas marinated in some kind of balsamic-y vinegar and oil with some herbs, sprinkled on top of tiny toasts.
Verdict: good
FIRST COURSE
Sweet peas whipped into a tiny little cake-looking mold, covered in carrot vinaigrette with slices of duck meat laid next to it. I think this was one of the best examples of flavors melding together to blow your mind.
Verdict: very good
Wine: a light white wine that was very, very good. And I don't even like white wine that much. Looks like I've been buying the wrong kind.
SECOND COURSE
Wide pasta noodles with tiny mushrooms in a garlic, butter, and olive oil sauce with thyme sprinkled on top.
Verdict: OH MY GOD
Wine: bolder white wine that felt like it was a touch carbonated. Good, not my fave.
THIRD COURSE
Duck meat in folded pasta that looks kind of like tortellini, covered in red sauce that has been cooked with pancetta. Very bold sauce that also had a lot of oil in it.
Verdict: very, very good.
Wine: really nice red wine, my favorite of the night.
FOURTH COURSE
Small slices of steak covered in a sweet and sour sauce that actually tasted a bit like A1, sitting on roasted turnips and mushrooms.
Verdict: the steak was a little rarer than I usually like it, but it was all really amazing. Great sauce.
Wine: really bold red, good but not what I would normally go with.
FIFTH COURSE
Cheese! Goat cheese with peppercorns in it, with some fennel honey on the side. I love goat cheese, so this was perfect for me, though I am still kicking myself for not even noticing the little toasts on which to spread some cheese. I just ate it all with a fork.
Verdict: mmmmmm....
Wine: Champagne. I normally don't really like champagne, but this stuff was amazing. Dan left the table for about 3 minutes after this course and I came thiiiiiiiiiis close to finishing his off.
SIXTH COURSE
Dessert! A fig cooked with a wine reduction, served with marscapone cheese. The fig was good, but I was all about that cheese.
Wine: our first dessert wine, a really sweet red. Not my thing.
SEVENTH COURSE
More dessert! Hazelnut gelato covered in very, very good chocolate with a cherry in the center. Apparently this is a very traditional dessert in Italy.
Verdict: Would move to Italy to eat this more.
Wine: white dessert wine, too sweet for me. Sweet wine makes me ill.
EIGHTH COURSE
2 dessert: one from the tasting menu, and one a surprise from the chef.
Chestnut cake with a cherry sauce, some roasted nuts, and some kind of whipped cream on the side. The second was Saffron Panna Cotta with "Tre Agrumi" which is a panna cotta with orange sauce, pieces of grapefruit, and grapefruit sorbet.
Verdict: Both were incredible...but I'm all about the cherry stuff.
Wine: peachy and appley dessert wine. Still not my thing.
COFFEE
Dan got espresso while I got a decaf cappuccino and these came with biscotti and tiny cookies. The coffee was amazing, but I'm not a big fan of biscotti. I ate it all, though.
Final verdict? Great bread (I would go back just for more of that bread), good coffee, amazing food. Worth a month's wait for a reservation? Maybe. It's casual enough that you don't feel pressured to act perfectly, but it's still pretty damn fancy. I look forward to going again, but as far as becoming my "favorite" goes? Nah, I'm a casual girl, so I'd rather go to Vesta.
Sometimes, though, it's nice to get fancy.
I did not take any pictures, but I did bring the menu home. Behold:
As you can see, there's a lot of Italian on there. Here's my translation:
COMPLIMENTS OF THE CHEF
(not on the menu)
Chick peas marinated in some kind of balsamic-y vinegar and oil with some herbs, sprinkled on top of tiny toasts.
Verdict: good
FIRST COURSE
Sweet peas whipped into a tiny little cake-looking mold, covered in carrot vinaigrette with slices of duck meat laid next to it. I think this was one of the best examples of flavors melding together to blow your mind.
Verdict: very good
Wine: a light white wine that was very, very good. And I don't even like white wine that much. Looks like I've been buying the wrong kind.
SECOND COURSE
Wide pasta noodles with tiny mushrooms in a garlic, butter, and olive oil sauce with thyme sprinkled on top.
Verdict: OH MY GOD
Wine: bolder white wine that felt like it was a touch carbonated. Good, not my fave.
THIRD COURSE
Duck meat in folded pasta that looks kind of like tortellini, covered in red sauce that has been cooked with pancetta. Very bold sauce that also had a lot of oil in it.
Verdict: very, very good.
Wine: really nice red wine, my favorite of the night.
FOURTH COURSE
Small slices of steak covered in a sweet and sour sauce that actually tasted a bit like A1, sitting on roasted turnips and mushrooms.
Verdict: the steak was a little rarer than I usually like it, but it was all really amazing. Great sauce.
Wine: really bold red, good but not what I would normally go with.
FIFTH COURSE
Cheese! Goat cheese with peppercorns in it, with some fennel honey on the side. I love goat cheese, so this was perfect for me, though I am still kicking myself for not even noticing the little toasts on which to spread some cheese. I just ate it all with a fork.
Verdict: mmmmmm....
Wine: Champagne. I normally don't really like champagne, but this stuff was amazing. Dan left the table for about 3 minutes after this course and I came thiiiiiiiiiis close to finishing his off.
SIXTH COURSE
Dessert! A fig cooked with a wine reduction, served with marscapone cheese. The fig was good, but I was all about that cheese.
Wine: our first dessert wine, a really sweet red. Not my thing.
SEVENTH COURSE
More dessert! Hazelnut gelato covered in very, very good chocolate with a cherry in the center. Apparently this is a very traditional dessert in Italy.
Verdict: Would move to Italy to eat this more.
Wine: white dessert wine, too sweet for me. Sweet wine makes me ill.
EIGHTH COURSE
2 dessert: one from the tasting menu, and one a surprise from the chef.
Chestnut cake with a cherry sauce, some roasted nuts, and some kind of whipped cream on the side. The second was Saffron Panna Cotta with "Tre Agrumi" which is a panna cotta with orange sauce, pieces of grapefruit, and grapefruit sorbet.
Verdict: Both were incredible...but I'm all about the cherry stuff.
Wine: peachy and appley dessert wine. Still not my thing.
COFFEE
Dan got espresso while I got a decaf cappuccino and these came with biscotti and tiny cookies. The coffee was amazing, but I'm not a big fan of biscotti. I ate it all, though.
Final verdict? Great bread (I would go back just for more of that bread), good coffee, amazing food. Worth a month's wait for a reservation? Maybe. It's casual enough that you don't feel pressured to act perfectly, but it's still pretty damn fancy. I look forward to going again, but as far as becoming my "favorite" goes? Nah, I'm a casual girl, so I'd rather go to Vesta.
Sometimes, though, it's nice to get fancy.
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