Ich war noch nie der Achterbahn-Typ. Ich bin eher das Karusselkind.
Umso ärgerlicher ist die Erkenntnis, dass dieser Job nen Achterbahnführerschein verlangt.
Nimm vier Kinder aus reichem Haus, schon die Anwesenheit von dreien lässt dich aus der Bahn fliegen. Während zwei dieser “Waggons” noch oben fahren, ahnst du unten schon, dass sie dir gleich in den Rücken fallen werden. Sekundenschnell geht das. Du hast gerade überlegt, wann es Zeit wird, selber mal nach oben gezogen zu werden. Jetzt wirst du von ihnen hochgeschubst. Ohne zu fragen verändern sie deinen Zustand, deine Umgebung, dein Inneres. Falls das “Innere” in Achterbahnen zu schnell von A nach B geschubst wird, kommt es raus.
Wenn ich mein Inneres hier rauslassen würde, wärs vorbei mit dem Job. Es hat sich nämlich schon einigermaßen was angesammelt. Und mit jeder weiteren Frechheit, die sich diese Gören erlauben, schwappt es weiter nach oben. Es ist der Negativ-Abzug von bis-zum-Hals-in-der-Scheiße-stecken. Diese Alltäglichkeit ist nichts für mich. Karussels stehen ja auch jede Woche woanders, oder?

Achja, eins noch. Kinder brauchen einen Fernseher. Nicht in ihrem Zimmer, nicht um den ganzen Tag lang reinzuglotzen. Sie brauchen ihn, um nicht vorm Computer zu verblöden, bei dem Versuch, Bildungs-DVDs in überhöhter Lautstärke mit pseudo-intelligenten Kommentaren zu verzieren. Fernseher für alle! Keine Macht den PCs im Raum des AuPairs.

Today I made a very very exciting purchase; possibly one my most favourite purchases I’ve bought since I left home…. An “I Love Tea” mug!   Oh god how I love tea.  It makes me happy when I’m down, it heals my illness, it calms me, and it makes me feel safe and warm and cuddly.  Tea is a conversationalist, a confidante, a friend.  …Are you still with me?

On the box of Twinings English breakfast I also bought today there was a lovely quote from a guy called Noel Coward (yeh, I didn’t know who he was either until I Wikipedia-ed it) “Wouldn’t it be dreadful to live in a country where they didn’t drink tea?”

Hell yes, Noel, it would be dreadful.

But thankfully, England is definitely NOT one of those countries. Yes, it cannot be denied that Londoners LOVE their Starbucks and Costa Coffee outlets – more than I would have believed actually – but the good ol’ fashioned cup’o’tea still has a strong following here.  There are people in London who understand and identify with the way I talk about tea.  But I guess that comes as no surprise, as British people have long been associated with the drinking of tea.

Why?  A quick history of tea in the UK if you will permit – it’s actually a bit racy!  Tea originated in China and was first imported to England in the 1660s.  After a little PR campaign from the East India Company, It took off – and the Chinese government had England bent over a barrel as demand rose.  So the English government, rather than having to pay for tea in silver, started producing opium to trade with instead.  Hmmm…. What the!?!  Anyway, eventually they changed tactics and simply stole and smuggled the plant to India where they could grow it themselves.

Anyway, it’s this colonial growing of tea that really connected tea with the British Character.  And contrary to what I first thought, they are not snobs about their tea either.  They seem to understand and respect that people take their tea differently and refrain from criticism.  I like my tea from a tea bag, weak, with milk and sugar and always, always in the biggest mug I can find – cups and saucers just don’t do it for me.   I’ve had many a raised eyebrow back home from tea snobs in the past, so this is a nice surprise.

So back to my ode to tea… I found a great website with a list of tea-related quotes so I’ll just give you a couple of my favs:

“Strange how a teapot can represent at the same time the comforts of solitude and the pleasures of company.” ~ Author unknown

“I always fear that creation will expire before teatime.”  ~Sydney Smith (a man obviously after my own heart)

“If man has no tea in him, he is incapable of understanding truth and beauty.”  ~Japanese Proverb (hehe, suckers to you coffee drinkers)

“The perfect temperature for tea is two degrees hotter than just right.”  ~The Quote Garden (obviously from an expert tea drinker… so true!)

OK, OK, I better stop – this could go on and on; may need another tea post in the future…

I’m an “Orange Countyian” — I know that’s probably not a word, but it’s what I am. There’s no denying it. And boy, have I tried to deny it.

I didn’t set out to love or hate Orange County. I didn’t think it was in my DNA. My dad went off to greener girlfriends when I was a kid and he lived in L.A. so I spent many an alternate weekend on the highways and byways (read 5 freeway) into the not so great, greater parts of Los Angeles.

I’ve seen the west side of this and the south side of that. My uncle had a factory in the garment district when I was a kid, so I spent a few Friday mornings wandering among the Mexican (now known as Latina) women sewing their little hearts out, smiling at the 7 year-old (with a Hispanic last name, so don’t berate me) abandoned in the warehouse and feeding me crackers from their opened plastic sleeve.

I remember the Covinas and the Hollywoods and a whole lot of 7-11s and Denny’s restaurants (what’s a single dad supposed to do, I guess), but it didn’t seem all that different from the Gemco or JC Penney at home. Fast forward lots of years and I still drive to L.A. for a movie at The Grove, lunch in the Farmers Market or a show at the Pantages. I thought of myself as a Southern Californian. To me that meant Los Angeles and Orange County, as if we were suburbia south because L.A. had too much business in its own county to actually house people.

Of course my skewed vision of So Cal was actually some kind of ghostly vision — a shimmering figment of my childhood imagination. I realized that in black bold print on yellow plastic today… with a directional arrow. I went to find myself a location shoot. Today’s possibilities were for Criminal Minds, Heroes and Lie to Me. I found lots of placards and eventually saw a bit of a scene from Heroes, but what I found far more easily was my own squinting eye at the downtown neighborhood I was in. L.A. is a pit. That’s it.

Look, I know how it sounds. Uptight snob visits the city and is shocked when icky stuff appears because people live in the city. It’s not that…exactly. I know L.A. has it’s nicer neighborhoods and that ones that some tend to avoid, but I like visiting cities. New York, Hong Kong, Chicago, and Rome — all of these are a kick to visit. Seattle and Vancouver, I could even see myself living there, so what happened in L.A.? I think South County Stepford has rotted my brain.

My expectations have gotten out of whack with the reality that is…and let’s be real, probably always has been Los Angeles. Parking. Today’s foray just sent me into a mind mush on the idea of paying for parking. I found what I was looking for, a location shoot (that’s were the yellow plastic signs come in) and then proceeded to hunt for parking. Now, downtown L.A. has tons of parking from what I saw, just not tons of parking for me. Slimy guys in tiny lots with huge prices and why can’t I just park over there in that nice large lot, oh no you can’t because only the regulars get to park there and now I’m fifteen blocks from where I want to be, and yes over here the street is only one-way and no you can just make right turns to end up at square one because there’s a hill and a freeway and streets that run into buildings and tunnels and WTF?

I recently went to a movie theater that is pretty new in North County (what I refer to as the sane non-Stepford part of the county where I live) and they have card machines to pay for parking. This concept is so foreign to those of us behind the Orange curtain that I find myself explaining the concept of “pre-pay” before you go to your car at every single foray to the theater. I don’t mind. It makes me feel like I’m a cultured city girl among the simpletons. Today I realized that I am a simpleton. I am a Stepford gal in Orange County. And no, you can’t tell by my shoes, still from JC Penney thank you very much, but by my squint. I didn’t bother to get out of the car in L.A. I drove slowly past the location shoot four, maybe five times (that was easy, they were a crowd at a hotel entrance with signs like they were protesters) and thought, eeww, why would I want to get out of my car here where the air is just a visible representation of air and the bums spend more time with their pets than the rich wives of Newport Beach (and those gems take the yips everywhere).

So off I went to my next location and got bored driving past cheesy stores hawking wedding bands and shoes (two for $20) and determined I was not going to stay. I hit the freeway and jaunted another ten miles to the land of Rose Parades and the last location I had note of. The parking was reserved, no trucks yet. By then it was mid-afternoon (I got a late start – unemployment will do that to you) and I found this was my third trek to Pasadena in four weeks. And I liked it. The streets are clean. There are lots of interesting shops, there’s parking (pay and free) and I drove both directions down a street when I turned around to park near a burger joint for my late lunch.

So why did I like Pasadena and not L.A.? Because, Pasadena is suburbia. My kind of suburbia. Close enough to the crazy busy city for the good stuff and far away enough to avoid fire engines every 10 minutes and the smell of stale cigar smoke and poverty in the air. Ahhh, well there’s the nail and didn’t I just miss it all day long.

My love for Los Angeles waned because I am now identifying with a much less cash-equipped group of residents…nay, inhabitants than I did before. Now that I can’t afford a trip to The Grove for a movie and some lunch at the Farmers Market, I don’t want to see them-the pretty people with average money. Nor do I want to see who I could afford to have lunch with. I shocked myself. I am a snob because of fear. And my fear (unending unemployment) makes me want to hold on to that Stepford suburban life I swore I hated not twelve months ago. I am an “Orange Countyian” darn it! So please God, let me find a job and stay that way…so I can love L.A. again.

Midlife Crisis

One leather sneakered Converse step after the other I forge my way through the pedway to the city centre and find myself standing in line at Starbucks. In front of me a pinched nose twit blathering to her friend, who looks much the same but with an uninterested expression, beside me a growing line of less than enthused patrons waiting for their lattes, soy milk beverages and the occasional coffee. I was of the last variety I need a good shot of caffeine or else I am doomed to an afternoon of withdrawal soon to lead to crashing out early. Self induced hyperactivity brought on by sugar concoctions is a commonality amongst the university crowd. There are other ways to keep awake as well but I’m really not up for exploring any of those options.

Patton is singing to me and I wait with a smirk on my face as I see the Twit’s mouth forming words with the excitement of a five year old and her friend barely paying any attention. What are the odds that someone who looks so polished like that of a Martha Stewart or Cosmopolitan ad could bring about such disinterest from her friend? Then I remember that I don’t care and look about. Oh … wait. That same disinterest … is on every other face in this closet. What a fine social scene. I keep my earbuds in and pretend not to notice that the volume is a notch higher than it should be and that the suits behind me can hear every swear word Patton is yelling. I smirk again.

It’s my turn and I yank out one of the buds and order.

Yes. Just a venti mild. No nothing special. Kind of like me I think sardonically. I get an eye roll from the clerk … an eye roll … really. I think

“You should be happy I’m not a half and half, a sprinkle of that, non fat skim milk kind of person so that you’re line gets shorter a lot quicker than it is you snotty green apron wearing … ” and then I realise that I once again don’t care and pay with my debit card. Just to be a complete jerkpants. I take my time at the cream and sugar station.

Popping my earbud back in I walk away and pay too much attention to the clerk sneering at me since he notices that I dump half the container of sugar in my cup. I smirk again … what is wrong with me? I’m a jerk. With this notion I find myself going up the escalator and heading towards the bookstore. Reprieve.

I nod to my friend who works the kiosk and thank my own lucky stars that I’m not the one directing all the patrons to their shopping needs but do secretly admire her tenacity to flirt with the good looking suits who forget that they’re still wearing their wedding bands. Maybe they’re the jerks. I don’t care.

A sales lady approaches me and points to my bag. I smile and nod.

“Yes I do have a bag…it’s for holding things like books, pens, phones … you know the everyday life of a student … or someone trying to keep everything semi organized while not looking like a complete disorganized mess.” I wonder if I say this too sarcastically.

Another eye roll. I think I am a pro at pissing people off today why stop now? I zip my bag shut so the employees, who are donning the same uniform clearly stating their position within commercial industry, don’t automatically assume that me, being a poor university student would try to put one of their books in my already overflowing duffel bag.

I smile sweetly at the employee and she lets me pass. I take a sip of my coffee and automatically burn the roof of my mouth. I would like to think the action is ironic and unfortunately I think it’s just Karma.

One leathered sneakered Converse step after another I find myself … in the self help section.

“What? There’s nothing wrong with you Fidge. Nothing but a bad day. Move on. Who cares what Dr. Phil and Oprah are promoting. Look at them…they’re shiny Americans on a glossy book cover. Half of the stuff in their books aren’t even from their mouths … their words are really their editor’s words. Hell you could write a better book than that…”

I pick up a book from a different author altogether. He looks nice and professional and all doctory I think.

“7 Habits of Highly Successful People” I turn to the middle of the page and see boxes lined out with cartoons coinciding. I immediately put it back. Cartoon effigies of dogs talking to their therapists isn’t what I am looking for.

I stand there in a stupor for what seems an hour. Why am I standing here in the self help aisle? I like journals, pens, over priced folders and sticky notes. Not books with weird shiny doctor self help guru type people staring at me mocking my confusion for 21.99 Can. So the price tag taunts.

Looking to my right I notice a suit dangerously close to me staring at the same book. I shake my head at him silently declaring that the book is bunk. Because being a complete loser I would know. He smiles thankfully. I move down the aisle a bit because the good looking suit makes me nervous and … this aisle goes on for what seems forever providing a good amount of space between bodies.

I ruefully glance over the covers and immediately I can feel a dull glaze forming over my corneas. What a bunch of hype … and yet I still stand there reading the titles hoping secretly I’ll read something that can immediately tell me why I feel the need to be in this aisle in the first place.

The suit approaches me with a book in his hand.

“I don’t work here” I immediately stutter.

“Have you read this one?”

I think “have I read this one?” I look down at myself … do I look like a person who spends her time reading volumes of self help books? I raise an eyebrow and give him a half smile.

“No…I don’t even know why I’m in this section.” It was the truth. I figured I would try it on for a minute.

“I’m trying to figure myself out” the suit says with a shrug of his shoulders. I look at his carry on and shiny patents. Money. They’re always bored and too cheap to pay for a therapist. Isn’t that why their companies pay them so much? Aren’t their sessions paid for by their prospective businesses? Who irons their shirts and pants because this gentleman has a fantastic crease in his pant legs…

He’s talking again and I stand there silent since I don’t really hear what’s he’s saying. He notices I am oblivious.

“I’m just … a university student still” I mutter as I start to walk away my heart pounding in my chest me feeling more nauseated than when I found myself in the aisle to begin with.

“Oh…” I don’t give him time to finish and I walk further down giving him ample notice that his time is up. I feel a twingle of guilt as I put my earplugs back in. Snob.

Tap on the shoulder … I look back and he’s holding out another book.

“Get Out Of Your Mind and Into Your Life”

21.99 Can. So the price tag says.

I wonder out loud if coffee is cheaper … he points out that I already have one and walks away.

Gofigs. Maybe 21.99 is exactly what I owe the world today.

This is a magazine article posted in my lovely University’s magazine called Miami Quarterly.  It’s an anonymous letter written from a waitress who I assume works at one of the restaurants uptown.  Sums up the image of Miami in a nutshell I think.  Brilliant as the love Cassie says .  I still like my school despite our snooty image, complaining won’t change anything.

By the way, check out some of the other articles on their internet version of the magazine, especially our haunted history.

Clearly You Can’t See That… So, here’s what she had to say:

Oh how I love thee. You and your Karisma bags filled with size -3 pants that cost $900 each walk into my restaurant. I smile enthusiastically as I come to your table, eager to serve no one but you. I’ve been waiting

all day just for you two, my only customers. I count the hours until you walk through that door and then my heart jumps for joy, as you look over the menu, in your Ralph Lauren outfits with a confused look on your faces. 

I admire your devotion to the brand and the fact that if it were a religion, you (and the credit card your parents pay for) would be the most devout followers of

Ralph Lauren-ism.

As I cheerily state my name, one of you cuts me off with your request for a cup of soup and a water. A grand total of $10 for you and your friend combined. Don’t worry about knowing my name, just cut me off and tell me exactly what you want. I am your humble, lowly slave. In fact, please just snap your fingers in the air and no matter how busy I am or how far away I am, I’ll know that you need me for something minuscule. Like the saying goes, “every time a bell rings an angel gets its wings,” every time you snap at a waitress, her self-worth goes up a whole half of a point. It’s just what she lives for … to be snapped at by spoiled, rude people.

I work quickly to get the items to you and savor all

the time you spend speaking with your friend about important things like celebrity gossip, how many times you’ve been tanning today and how you need to go to cvs to get some more platinum Miami blonde hair dye while gazing at your expensive fake nails to see if they look just right. Oh, I know I was supposed to go home at 2 p.m., but having you come in at one and sit around until four is just fine. I love to spend extra hours working when I have a ten-page paper due tomorrow – but

that’s my fault for having to work so much and put myself through school. At least I’ll have the privilege of making some money for the great job I did serving you. I would just fall to pieces if I didn’t have you, sweetie-pie.

You finally snap your fingers at me as I walk by. You

ask for the check. I have six other tables, but no matter – you, my darling, are the only one I have eyes for at this very moment and I know you know that since that’s how it’s been your whole life. You’re the apple of your daddy’s eye and mine too. I let out a sigh of gratitude as I gingerly hand you your checks and curtsy as I back away and thank you so very much for coming to my restaurant and getting soup and a water. It’s a good thing you didn’t

miamiquarterlyonline.com

go to a coffee shop where there aren’t any waitresses and you can sit for as long as you want and you don’t have

to tip anyone regardless of the total amount of things

you bought. That would be a waste of time, so instead, please, oh please waste my time instead.

You rise from your seats, Vera Bradley / Coach casecovered Blackberries in hand and turn to leave the restaurant, Karisma goodies in tow. I wave goodbye and thank you for coming in and you gracefully ignore me while your friend murmurs something that sounded like “thanks” … or maybe she just sneezed. Nevermind. I watch you leave and count the minutes until you return.

I turn to clear your table and the whole 30 cents that lie there are like a beacon of hope – to me, my wallet and my Miami bill for going here. Now I can buy a whole bag of penny candy at the old fashioned candy shop down the street or perhaps a slingshot. Don’t worry bad tipper, I won’t spend my 30 cents all in one place. Who tips at least 20 percent anymore, anyway? Not you.

You have no concept of that idea because you’ve never waited tables, but that’s okay. I can only hope to see you soon and that the tip you leave next time will be a modest 10 percent. Perhaps even 20 percent if you have your wits about you.

The Waitress

]]> http://garychapelhill.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/joe-solmonese-joins-the-chorus/ Wed, 14 Oct 2009 14:39:05 +0000 garychapelhill http://garychapelhill.wordpress.com/2009/10/14/joe-solmonese-joins-the-chorus/

I said when this whole Harwood thing started that this was all part of some Rovian scheme to demonize and discredit any criticism Obama got for his pathetic performance at the HRC dinner.  Since then the smear campaign has been in full swing.  We’ve heard from the obotosphere, the Washington Post, and commenters galore in the progressive blogosphere parroting the meme that most gay people are politically naive and selfish (and of course, racist).  We just don’t know how the corridors of power work and are targeting the wrong person (Obama) for not keeping his promises.  We can’t seem to grasp the notion that Obama is a fierce advocate for us based solely on the fact that he gave a speech telling us so.   We, the great unwashed masses, are ungrateful slobs who should be ashamed of ourselves.

Now the HRC’s Joe Solmonese is jumping on board, telling reporters that the crowd at the HRC dinner is just more sophisticated than all of us field homos out here in the sticks.

On Sunday, HRC head Joe Solmonese told CNN that the membership of the HRC was diverse and “absolutely representative of the LBGT community,” and not a group of white elites as many have charged.

We’re the largest LBGT organization in the country with nearly a million members. Most of them are small donors and supporters all over the country. And so, I think we absolutely represent the LBGT community. But I think that — as Hilary mentioned last night on the show — perhaps the crowd at the dinner last night was a little bit more politically aware and had a better sense of maybe, you know, what’s at stake and what needs to be done. Because at the end of the day, what all these fights come down to — and this is where we are in this movement…

Joe was probably just so flustered that anyone might think HE is racist that he let a little of what he really thinks slip through the filter.  And what he thinks is exactly what the Obama administration tells him to think.  It’s not that hard to convince an elitist snob like Joe that he and his buddies are better than everyone else out there.  And yes, that does include LGBT people who are not white men who absolutely WERE NOT represented at the dinner.  They, like the rest of us, are just trying to live their lives.  Something that would be much easier if we had the same civil rights as everyone else in this country.  It doesn’t take a rocket scientist (or a rich DC insider) to understand that.  So when we get shit on like we have been so many other times over the past 40 years, a lot of us are going to make some noise.  I’m glad there wasn’t somebody like Joe at Stonewall telling everyone to calm down and let the politicians take care of things.  I’m glad Joe wasn’t around in the 80’s and 90’s to try to discredit ACT UP activists who screamed at the top of their lungs about AIDS until the rest of America just couldn’t ignore it any more.  Used to be we stood beside one another to fight for our rights, now our so called “advocates” want to wait in line for a pat on the head at the expense of the rest of us.

Plainly put, those people do not at all have a grasp of what’s at stake here.  If they did, they’d be just as angry as the rest of us.   They for the most part, however, are so comfortable in their positions of wealth and power that they are numbed to the effects of second class citizenship.  They would rather keep what they have then fight so that all of us can live more equally.  It is shameful and wrong, and Joe Solmonese needs to be told so by as many of us as possible.  The HRC no longer serves any purpose in our civil rights movement.  What good is it to have an “advocacy group” that works as hard as it can to maintain the status quo?  It needs to go.  The time has come in this movement to take a stand, and there is no way we can do that when our “leaders” are stabbing us in the back.

Boy, now that’s what we need!  A homeless doll! 

Mattel has just introduced their newest addition to the American Girl series — Gwen, the homeless kid.  Gwen is the latest addition to the American Girl doll series which features dolls with detailed backstories & varied lives.  You can learn more about the dolls here. 

So I guess I have a lot of questions about how a toy company decided to it was a good idea to market a homeless doll.  Gwen has a good story, though (a compassionate champion of the underdog/bullied).  Maybe kids will learn from Gwen.  Maybe Gwen will become a moral teacher. 

Or maybe Gwen will just teach the rich bitches and Mean Girls how to be snobs a little early…

For some reason, I’m morally outraged by this doll, and I can’t quite put my finger on why.  Perhaps some answers to the following questions would help me out:

1) WHY is she wearing a white dress?  Isn’t that the worst outfit you could possibly give a homeless person? 

2) Is she chubby because of her food stamp diet & its overload of starches?  Please tell me that’s coincidence.  Please.

3) Won’t having a doll that uses an armrest for a pillow completely freak out kids who live in financially-stressed homes?  (Granted, those families probably won’t be buying the doll, but that doesn’t mean kids won’t be exposed to her elsewhere.) 

4) To what organization will Mattel be donating a portion of the profits they get by charging $100 for a doll depicting a member of the homeless community?

There have been several incidents in my life that have led me to believe I will end up old and alone with cats.

Why I Will End Up Old and Alone: Three Explanations 

1. I am highly cynical. I view the world through the eyes of a grumpy old man. I even judge babies: “That one’s going to end up in prison. He looks like a drug dealer.” 
2. My parents ruined me by telling me that I’m so smart and beautiful, I’m obviously going to find someone else who is also a 10.  Sigh… if only God made other human beings as amazing as myself… And how am I going to find him in this bargain basement of sevens? 
3. A fortune teller told me so. I was sitting with a friend while she received her fortune (setting: strip mall in Orange County, so it’s obviously legit). In the middle of her little ritual, the fortune teller paused, looked at me, and told me that I was too stuck up and would end up old and alone. For serious. Apparently I look like a lost cause.

But honestly, it’s not just me. At least I have a handful of friends who will also be headed down the old-and-alone path with me. And you know what? It’s for good reason too.

Why No One Should Even Consider Dating Us: Three Reasons

1. We are selfish. Our careers come first. Even if we hate our careers. And really, our uber-rationality leads us to a short-only investment strategy. We think: why spend so much time and energy on someone with marginal returns right now? I know someone who described an ex fondly, saying, “Cost-benefit wise, it just wasn’t worth it.” 
2. We’re huge snobs. We sincerely believe that 90% of people in this world have at least one of three damning characteristics: too lazy, too stupid, or too asymmetric. I have one friend who will only date Ivy Leaguers (excluding Brown and Cornell)… because obviously, all graduates from the Ivory Tower are hard-working, smart, and enormously attractive. 
3. There’s an icebox where our hearts used to be. In response to a friend’s semi-breakup, another highly sympathetic friend (the one who will only date Ivy Leaguers) wrote, “it’s use and abuse. that’s how we roll. on with the next.”

Maybe one day we’ll change (see standards graph below).  But honestly, ending up old and alone is likely just a foregone conclusion. The question now is: with or without cats?

This week there’s an article about inarticulate writers in the New York Times. I was pleased to see it, having struggled consistently to voice my opinions in groups, and because it reveals a very marked difference in how differently we assess intelligence today. Once it was fine to make a few, if not a lot of conversational fumbles. If you could write clearly and beautifully, all the better. Now, what is considered to be intelligent conversation is a blanc mange of overly mannered, dispassionate, and often chilly “discourse” that likes to claim moral high ground by disclaiming itself into a corner.

This situation is exacerbated by the university setting, a place where people are introduced at even social gatherings with their fields attached to them like gravy bibs — comp-lit, urban planning, art history. What you say or do later will most likely make no difference, you’re ranked before you say hello. It reminds me of Harold Brodkey’s New York where it’s agreed that a few clues, regarded with sophistication render “everything about one another’s lives knowable.”

When we first came here, I had a hard time with this. I deliberately avoided social functions. I was used to the instant and intense connections I’d had abroad, my strong friendships with people who were opposites, and who are still close. Here being open is a liability, and everyone assumes a cold veneer of abstraction that takes precedence over any enthusiasm they might harbor for their subject area. This situation is captured perfectly in the opening scene in Merrie Haskell’s Almanac for Alien Invaders, wherein a group of drunken academics, discussing a world crisis about which they too know nothing, slam a faculty spouse for daring to add to the conversation. Chock one up for genre, again.

At any rate, here are a few things I took away from my experience here

1.If it’s something important, don’t dilute your meaning with awful grad school euphemisms such as problematic. Call a spade a spade. This tendency to speak in watered down, abstracted terms is partially at fault for neutering social progress in this country. No one, no matter how many degrees he or she has, has the right to cut you out of the conversation for not playing to an ultimately class-based and isolated conceit.

2.Don’t ever let what others think, particularly those terrified of what others think of them – and there is nowhere that this is more rampant than academe – keep you from speaking your mind.

3. There’s no need to disclaim every thought, sometimes you need to make a point. If you want you can go back and reevaluate, but it’s your character that is at stake here. This doesn’t mean don’t question yourself, but let your thoughts follow to their logical conclusions before stepping back. Some people have defined intelligence as halting mid-thought before coming to any meaningful end. This is not thought: it is a nimble form of gibberish.

4. When forced to attend one of these stilted gatherings, just remember that no matter how awkward you may seem, it is your conversation partner who should be pitied for not being able to handle a conversation with someone outside of his or her narrow field of study. Besides, they could probably use a little of your humanity.

5. Theory isn’t a bad thing, but nor is it a moral or intellectual high ground taking priority over literature and art. Paul de Man was a Nazi, and the great Derrida equivocated on his behalf until he was blue in the face. Furthermore, a professor here who often uses feminist and queer theory in his work, just laughed about the murder of a woman on campus, claiming that California custody laws drove her ex-husband to kill her. Theory did not make this misogynist a progressive or even a decent human being.

6. A lot of that studied nonchalance comes from money. Be happy that you’ll never take your books or travels for granted.

7. And if you hear anyone referring to those outside of graduate school as “common readers,” go ahead and toss a drink in that person’s face. Just make sure it isn’t a good one.

…DIESES LAND HAT DEFINITIV ZU VIELE EGOMANE IDIOTEN!!!!!

…und leidet im Kollektiv an Alzheimer und dem Scheuklappen-Syndrom…

Wie war das…”Jedes Volk bekommt die Regierung, die es verdient!” – in UNSEREM Falle stimmt das wohl….

It’s a little off the topic, but getting a coffee this morning I passed a couple who live in the next street. I know they live in the next street because I’ve seen them around, and I’m a stickybeak – it comes with being a journo. They were at their front gate after taking their dog for a walk. I smiled at them, being neighbourly, and they looked at me then looked away. Now, I don’t live in a cold, high-rise suburb. I live in the inner west, in a suburb previously known for its freaks, but now filled with prams. And yes, I do know the names of my immediate neighbours, but not that of the scary woman two doors down who glares at everyone, especially me after a late night hula hooping incident.

Anyway, a few weeks ago a Brazilian friend (as in someone from Brazil, not someone I wax with, that would be weird) was talking about how hard it is to make friends in Sydney. Another friend, from Melbourne, agreed, saying that even alcohol doesn’t help because if you start talking to someone in a pub they think you’re trying to pick them up. Or steal their wallet. I’ve spent a bit of time in fabulous Melbourne because Man Friend’s sister lives there and it is easier to start up a conversation with people you don’t know. I was there for a conference in March and even in the city, people smiled when you made eye contact. When’s the last time that happened in the Sydney CBD?

Comme bon nombre d’entre vous, je n’ai pu m’empêcher de jeter un coup d’oeil à la programmation de “V”.

Déjà, “V”…tout simplement une lettre pour nommer une chaîne de télévision, ça donne un mauvais présage à l’imagination et la créativité des propriétaires.

Connaissant ces derniers, on ne peut faire autrement que de faire le lien entre “V” et “Vidange”. Finalement, c’est très similaire à ce qu’on nous offre depuis le début septembre.

Je vais faire un survol vite fait car des vidanges, ce n’est pas agréable pour personne alors on se pince le nez et on y va pour en finir au plus vite.

“Dumont 360″ : Mario Dumont a l’air aussi à l’aise devant les caméras du studio de Télé-Québec que je peux l’être lorsqu’un médecin me fait un test de la prostate, mais bon, laissons une chance au pauvre homme qui doit travailler avec les moyens du bord et affronter le roi des nouvelles, Pierre Bruneau.

La version québécoise de «Wipeout», diffusée à l’heure du souper, a de quoi donner des malaises gastriques à ses téléspectateurs. Le duo Alain Dumas et Réal Béland à l’animation, en compagnie de Valérie Simard, est aussi fatigant et inutile qu’un maringouin. Les personnages des deux Jacques, auquels on a dû, j’imagine, voulu donner l’intelligence d’un pissenlit, est tout simplement ennuyeux et dépourvu d’humour [de bon goût, bien sûr].

Autrement dit, pour regarder des gens foncer dans des boules en mousse et plonger la tête première dans l’eau, en français ou en anglais, ça ne fait aucune différence. Malheureusement, le manque de brio des animateurs du Québec nous donne le goût de passer à la langue de Shakespeare.

Jean-François Baril est la preuve que la mode de faire des humoristes des animateurs de tous genres doit cesser ! Il y a de quoi s’ennuyer de Luc Senay en regardant «La Guerre Des Clans».

On sera sans aucun doute tous emballés de regarder Jacques Villeneuve rénover son château ! De quoi faire chier la population en général pendant que celle-ci fait face à son plus haut taux d’endettement. Ça doit être la définition du divertissement de «V», regarder des snobs se monter un manoir pendant que vous venez de perdre votre travail et votre maison.

La seule bonne nouvelle, c’est la disparition de «Call TV». Cette gang de bandits d’Autriche qui, à l’image de Nathalie Simard, ont dû se pousser dans le Sud avec les profits faits sur le dos de téléspectateurs un peu trop naïfs. Qu’adviendra-t-il des brillantes animatrices du jeu ? Personne le sait et tout le monde s’en calisse ! Bon débarras !

Here I describe the average-case life trajectory of a very average young professional female in Manhattan.

September 21, 2009: Sarah’s 28. She double-majored in biology and history at Brown University, and now has a high five-figure job in advertising. Sex and the City inspired her to come to New York. She came to the city after graduating from college, and has lived here since. She’s attractive, intelligent, and sociable. She has a large number of friends, and she’s never alone on a Friday night. Finding men poses no challenge for her, but the right man seems out of reach. He has to (1) make more money than she does, (2) have a prestigious educational pedigree, (3) have important friends, (4) not be full of himself, (5) not be religious, but not too atheist either, and (6) be exceptional in the sack. Plenty of men are available to Sarah who meet criteria 1-3, but they tend to fail #4. Finance guys are usually boring douchebags. Consultants are never around. Doctors want to get married too soon. Men in real estate? Sarah’s sown a few wild oats, but she’s not that slutty.

Enter Aaron Wright. Mr. Wright is a 32-year-old (Michigan B.A. ‘99, Harvard M.B.A. ‘04) whose career in quantitative finance ended last year with the market crash. Laid off in March 2008, he spent the summer backpacking in Asia, returning in July 2008 to join a venture capital firm where a few of his friends went after B-school. He works only fifty hours per week, and loves his job. Six-foot-two, handsome, and outgoing, he can easily “work a room”. He projects social dominance when he needs it. Yet he never comes off as overbearing or arrogant, as years of traveling have lent him a genuine humility and sensitivity to the needs of others. His politics? Mostly libertarian, but politely liberal, he voted for Bush in 2000, Kerry in 2004, and Obama in 2008. (Although Sarah pretends to hate his decision to vote for Bush in 2000, there’s something about Republican heartlessness that she considers masculine– sexy, even.) Religion? With a Jewish mother and Episcopalian father, he was raised in two religious traditions. He now attends an upscale Episcopalian Church irregularly, but is mostly agnostic. Perfect, Sarah decides.

Sarah and Mr. Wright met through mutual friends, early in May. They became “exclusive” in July. It’s now September 21, and Sarah is pretty sure this man is “the one”. He has the ideal combination of “alpha” social presence and “beta” sensitivity. Only one thing is odd: they’ve grown very close, and Sarah slept in Mr. Wright’s apartment once, but they haven’t had sex yet. This fateful Monday, Sarah decides that it’s time. In the evening, she invites Aaron to her apartment, they drink some wine, and he opens up.

Mr. Wright: “I’d love to sleep with you, Sarah, but I have something to confess.”

Sarah: “What?”

Mr. Wright: “Well, I’ve been working very hard for most of my life, and haven’t always had time for relationships, so I’m not as experienced as you might think.”

Sarah: “You’re a virgin?”

Mr. Wright: “No, but I don’t believe in sex outside of a committed relationship, and I’ve only had two of those. So I haven’t had sex in three years, and I’ve only slept with two women.”

Sarah: “Oh…”

Sarah doesn’t know what to make of this. A 32-year-old with a “number” of two is practically a virgin, from her perspective. This sort of man would have been ideal, in her eyes, when she was 16. But she’s not 16 anymore and, having had casual sex a few times, she’s had to tell herself all the ridiculous lies that casual sexers tell themselves to feel better about their behavior– that chaste women are frigid prudes and that chaste men are socially inept and horrible in bed. Mr. Wright, noticing Sarah’s sudden discomfort, becomes slightly worried.

Mr. Wright: “How many men have you been with?”

Sarah is well-versed in how a woman “should” discuss her past if a potential husband asks. She subtracts all the one-night stands and regretted relationships from her actual number.

Sarah: “Oh, three or four.”

Mr. Wright: “Four, then? So only in relationships, I assume.”

She’s caught in a lie, and she knows it. (Author’s note: In real life, she might be able to hold the lie for months, or even years. I know that women aren’t actually this dumb.)

Sarah: “Well… okay, more than four.”

Mr. Wright: “How many? I won’t judge you.” (Author’s note: Riiight…)

Sarah’s full sexual history: 3 boyfriends from relationships lasting more than 6 months. Normal. No problem. She’s had flings, one of which was an earnest attempt at a relationship that nevertheless failed early and explosively, and two of which were rebound relationships with no intention of permanence. She broke off all of those flings, each in an extremely rude way. Then there are three one-night stands– her first sexual encounter, at 16, was with an unemployed man then twice her age; one was in college (sophomore year, early winter) with a frat boy; and the third was at age 26 during a grinding dry spell, when she was “too busy for relationships”. She’s never cheated, technically speaking, although her college one-nighter occurred two days after breaking up with a long-term boyfriend, and everyone found out about it. Her total number is 9.

Sarah does not consider herself a slut. Sluts, in her mind, are those actively seek casual sex, those who have it a lot more often than she does, and those who are proud and vocal about having casual sex. Sarah has a clear definition of a slut and, by her definition, she’s not one. (Author’s note: I tend to agree with Sarah: she’s not a slut. She’s a worse-than-average modern woman, but I wouldn’t describe her as a slut. She’s just badly behaved.)

Confronted with the revelation of Sarah’s past, Mr. Wright is taken aback. He has spent 32 years doing the right thing– studying hard, getting good grades, working late, refraining from excessive drug use– in order to achieve his ideal future. Believing his future wife would be displeased by a string of casual encounters, he also abstained from casual sex. At this moment, he remembers the darkest and most trying point of his life. It was in the small hours of January 21, 2000– his twenty-third birthday– when he nearly surrendered his goal of becoming a venture capitalist. He hated New York– a city with frigid winters, where he had no friends. He was less than a year out of college, and he loathed his job– he was an analyst at an investment bank; the work was boring and the hours were brutal. A virgin to this point, he questioned his decision to pursue academic excellence in lieu of college “fun”, i.e. binge drinking and the pursuit of women. This is what I worked my ass off for? THIS? Taking a 3:00 am cab ride out to Brooklyn after a 19-hour work day, he was pretty sure that in five hours, he’d be resigning from Wall Street forever. No more rat-race, no more half-dead cab rides through the black, polluted Manhattan air. The stark, lonely aura of the Financial District at night would become a distant, nostalgic memory. His parents would let him live at home and regain his bearings, so long as he did his share of the housework.

When Aaron arrived at his tiny Brooklyn loft, he felt queasy and weak, as if he had lost a fight. His muscles ached and he could feel his heartbeat, throbbing, on the inside of his left knee. As soon as he sat down on his couch, he crashed. He hadn’t set an alarm clock, but who cares about being on time for a job that one is about to quit? Nonetheless, he arose naturally at 7:20. The winter sun had barely risen, but the sky was the clearest he had ever seen it. Outside, it was certainly very cold, but at least it was beautiful. Aaron, a freshly 23-year-old nobody, brushed his teeth, skipped the shower, suited up and went to work. He felt a bit better, and was determined not to collapse entirely, not to flunk out of his job. He could resign from his analyst position, but implosion was not an option. His only motivation for enduring analyst hell was the two-year track to business school; he could take a less impressive job and a 3- or 4-year track. He decided to resign in a more measured and polite way. He collected his bonus on June 30, and tendered his resignation, effective August 15, the next day. He was let go immediately, but given an excellent reference. He used his bonus to travel for four months, returned to the United States, and took a programming job in Silicon Valley. (Author’s note: sorry for the “Aaron’s career” diversion– ’twas boring– but I can’t have a semi-sympathetic character spend two years in I-banking.)

That night in January, when Aaron nearly lost hope, could have derailed his career. It was the point where he stared into the hibernal abyss, and nothing but a few drifting snowflakes stared back. At the same moment, Sarah was in college. At a party. Getting split open by a beer-breathed fraternity brother.

Part 2

For anyone unsure of the connotations of Ivory Tower it does help along the meaning of this motif.  I am a little worried this phrasing has limited the motifs ability to communicate anything– recently I’ve been told and observed for myself that passersby have stopped to contemplate the work…. that doesn’t mean that they are stopping for reasons other than confusion  & curiosity but I can hope.

Confession : My innitial idea. Not mine.

There is a campaign , OBEY, which I really admire, it describes it’s mission really well for itself so here it is. I wanted to take their concept and make my own face for it. Thus my flop of a box idea. Ironic as the idea was of a fallen box, but the image is in no way positive. ‘Don’t do as directed’- yes maybe that would be communicated by an upturned box which reads ‘this end up’ but if one continues that line of thought by not following orders, by not obeying, you’ve broken something. So magically by trying to reiterate the OBEY concept I’ve created its iconic opposite. Not an accomplishment I really want to put my name to.

SO surfing the web for new inspiration I found a gallery of graffiti art and this one really struck me. I want to go into museum work one day and I’m an art history major currently, (let’s get heavy for a second now) the one thing that I really aim to contribute is to undo some of the alienation which has blossomed between art and people. . . You, me, everyone- we respond to art with such trepidation, to all art, ‘fine’ art, street art- all of it, because we’ve been taught there is a right way and a wrong way about everything and if we don’t ‘get’ the art it must be our fault. Art has been limited by the pedestal it’s been put on, even if the art is magnificent, it doesn’t need to be treated with such revere that we can’t have dialogue about it. If art isn’t explored it doesn’t communicate anything. Not ‘getting’ art, not understanding it, is whats supposed to happen, it’s part of a larger process of communication, forming questions about the world! As art has historically been presented (think of any art museum you’ve ever been to) you get very little to no information and context about the work. When I’m looking at some centuries old portrait how am I supposed to understand anything in that work when I don’t know the cultural context.

Let me put my rant in perspective: a classmate, Tom, had an awesome idea for your stencil project, objecting to hypocrisy! The class got it because they know your references, someone a century from now will have no idea about the reference and will have to have it explained to them. Art does not stand on its own – even if it’s pretty- and that exspecially is the lie museums sell us. ‘One can appreciate the piece for its aesthetic value.’ That’s what the museum believes when it puts out a handful of Buddha’s from as many different nations and doesn’t make any effort to explain the nuanced differences between these works even to a whitewashed crowd of americans. Now in contemporary times as artists create works which are deliberately notpretty, in many cases specifically to challenge these public perceptions of how we treat art and are trained to respond to art, confronting this issue is largely unsuccessful because it is SO deeply imbedded in us that art is a high-minded thing that as simpletons we can’t understand. No one likes this feeling so art is marginalized socially and consequently so is our societies ability to communicate.

OK so I care about this subject and it didn’t occur to me until I saw the picture of the graffiti I referenced above that I could use this media for to communicate something about this issue I clearly have something to say about. I guess I hadn’t really started thinking about this. My bad.

Art can’t do what it is supposed to if we socially reinforce the untouchableness of art. So my idea for a stencil/graffiti is to utilize some sort of Ivory Tower motif, which may or may not look like the Illini ‘I’ and very clearly stencil letters down this motif which inscribe a message. Placement for this stencil will be important, because without context it wont make the point I intend it to (which actually connects back to my point), so the graffiti would have to go up at a museum.

The message candidates:

• “You are right”
• “Question”
• “The Tower is Wrong”

I don’t really like any of these I feel like I could phrase this better but I want to keep it succinct of course. Any other ideas anyone? Are these statements communicating anything which I just ranted about?

So I’m an Art History major…  James Elkins is an Art History professor.  The reading we did for class seemed to rub a few of my classmates the wrong way.  I have this to say about Art History majors and professors and generally snobs of all genres, or rather somebody else  said this and I just want to share it with you all.  Enjoy.

Hello, my name is Robert and I’m a movie snob.

I'll be going into more detail about how I distinguish what counts as a "bad movie" as the experiment progresses. Yes, I do have rules and a process for picking "bad movies."

Truth be told, I don’t remember quite how I fell in love with movies. Since I was young, I’ve enjoyed watching movies but at some point in the impressionable years of my youth, I fell head over heels in love with cinema the way most people fall in love with their spouses

Seriously, I have the kind of puppy love for film that might one day find me snuggling up with a DVD case on a bear skin rug as I whisper sweet nothings into the circular shaped hole on its disc.

As much as I love movies, though, I’ve found myself growing more and more elitist about the subject matter. The more films I’ve watched, the more I’ve found myself casting scorn on the flicks I once loved as a kid — finding the characters childish and their plots pedantic.

The very fact that I’m using literary devices such as alliteration and words such as pedantic to talk about movies is proof enough that at some point in the past few years I’ve begun taking film way too seriously.

I’m the movie snob-equivalent of a Lifetime Channel made-for-TV abusive husband — waxing poetic about the use of Hitchcockian camera techniques as I wear a wife beater and slurp suds from a six-pack, casting threatening glares at my DVD collection all the while.

I don’t remember when I fell in love with movies, but I remember why: They taught me a deeper meaning about life.

I learned about morality and love and destiny by watching everything from Disney cartoons to ‘80s slasher films. Movies helped me find and form my faith. They gave me my childhood optimism and filled my heart with dreams of endless possibilities.

Movies made me happy and because of this, I was a happy child.

Nowadays, I’ve unconsciously conditioned myself to treat watching movies as a chore — something akin to popping open a textbook. Instead of watching a movie as a form of educational escapism, I watch a film and am too preoccupied with why a filmmaker chose a certain lighting design or which French New Wave classic is being used as an inspiration for a particular scene.

Movies, I’m sorry. We’ve lost that loving feeling. And I’m all the worse off for it.

My life has become grounded in the mundane. Escapism is harder to grasp and my imagination has become an arid dead sea full of flopping breathless fish gasping for substance from the faith that has all but dried up.

All of this is why I’m undergoing a project that will test my love for movies — hopefully breaking me of my elitist attitude about films.

For the next year, I will watch 365 movies that have been critically or commercially shunned. I will spend the next 12 months immersing myself in bad movies — forcing myself to rediscover my love for movies like discovering an exotic flower growing in a heap of elephant dung.

I’m not doing this as an experiment in masochism. I’m doing it to become a better person. I will immerse myself in bad acting, overblown plots, shallow storylines and I will force myself to learn from each and every movie. I will rediscover the childhood ideals I once clung to and will realize my potential as both a movie fan and as a man.

I am going to spend the next year watching bad movies. Here’s hoping I learn a thing or two.

So I stopped in a local pub for the first time since I’ve been in town, planning on a quick beer. Since this isn’t a real bike friendly area, there was nowhere to lock up a bike, so I tucked it and my backpack out of sight behind the bushes surrounding the unoccupied patio.

When I came out, I saw my bike had been propped up against the building in the parking lot, in clear view of any one walking by and from the road.

So here’s the thing. I was sitting right there in the bar, if they had simply asked me to move my bike, no problem. Even though where I left my bike was in direct sunlight on a hot day where there were absolutely no people on the unoccupied patio, I’m fine with moving my bike if it’s a problem. But, rather than ask me, they simply moved my bike to somewhere where in most non-tourist towns, it would likely have been stolen if I had been inside for a half hour or more.

It was flagrant disrespect. Same to you.