professora w.

i just heard a piece of news that could solve all of my advisor orphandom problems....

the prof i really missed out on at nu now has personal reasons for wanting to be in dc.
and there is a lovely spot (really 2) open for her here. assuming we could convince both parties the marriage would work.

oh man, i could be living the cholas y pishtacos lifestyle!

better not get my hopes up yet.

el cinismo y la apatía

I've been feeling pretty cynical about politics lately.

I recently wrote this to a conservative friend who asked what I thought of Michelle Obama's speech Monday night:

***

Quite frankly, I've been pretty jaded about politics in general lately. I've basically been feeling like the world is such a screwed up place at this point that it doesn't really matter what happens politically. The one miraculous candidate that can put an end to poverty, and provide health care for everyone, and distribute resources, and keep people safe, and make the Palestinians, Israelis, Iranians, Sunnis, Shiites, Catholics, Mormons, Capitalists, Socialists, and Creationists all join hands and get along just doesn't exist. Can't exist. And maybe that's too much to ask, but I'm beginning to feel pretty apathetic.

I thought Ms. Obama was a fine and articulate, perhaps even exceptional speaker, but the words dripped with the rhetoric of a neoliberal american dream to an extent that the speech seemed both meaningless and sickeningly sweet for me. Wow, I sound so very bitter.

I think this is maybe all stemming from Evo's recent confirmation in the recall election. Which should be uplifting, one would think. But really the whole drama likely exists so that the Bolivian right can keep the Bolivian left too distracted to concentrate on changing the constitution in any significant way. And while I do tend to lean towards the sentiments of those on Bolivia's left, its not really any specific change that would put me to ease. The whole situation just makes so painfully clear that there is never an easy answer, and its always so much easier to slip further down the slope of economic and political disparity, that even a seemingly perfect candidate (and I am in no way implying that Evo is perfect) has little power to create real change. And that coupled with the recent violent outbreaks (or should I say the continuation of violent outbreaks?) is just depressing.

***

so today, as i drove through the rain to school, i was listening to Ralph Nader on democracy now. He had a number of good points, but one really struck me. He said something along the lines of "when people become cynical, feel they can do nothing, and take a step back, that's when they lose the country."

so, while I'm not necessarily inspired to go out and vote for Nader, or Obama, or McCain, i do feel more compelled (is that grammatically correct? can one be more compelled? most compelled?) to snap out of this cynical and apathetic mood i've been in lately.

el olor

i'm starting to be able to smell again.

its been almost 2 weeks since i could last really smell something. and forget about tasting food. its funny how things i usually love (saffron rice, black beans, feta, sun dried tomatoes, curry) just become bland blobs with offending textures. this has lead me to primarily rely on yogurt, bread, and colby cheese for nutrients.

but smelling again is a rather magical process. its like the world is coming alive. i wash my hands and the soap tickles my nose. the kitchen is brimming with tastiness. and the outdoors are overwhelming. not having the sense for two weeks has made me really notice odors now. smells that would be mundane under normal circumstances are noteworthy. now, lets make some curry!

problemas grandes en un pueblo pequeno

i was talking to my mother this evening, when i could hear in the background my dad burst in and say "there are 20 police cars up the block." this coming from a man who lives in a town that only has one police car. and at most 2 officers on duty at a time. this is a town where i once unlawfully entered the library at 2am, knowing that the police officers were changing shifts at that moment and i wouldn't be caught.

my mom said she was going outside to put some meat on the grill, and go "crook-hunting." I told her to take a big knife. she said the sawzall might be better.

an hour later i called back to get the report of what was going on.

the neighborhood was abuzz, 8 different neighbors had stopped by, all the kids were riding their bikes around checking out the scene. the traffic from 136 was rerouted on cole street, making the front porch prime viewing real estate, and the k's had come over to watch. kerkid heard a plane overhead, and thought it was a helicopter, at which point kathkid said she knew there had been helicopters on the scene earlier because she thought she had seen one.

Denny, the neighbor who you can hear from 5 blocks away, any summer night yelling "Hans" (his son's name), came over to give his version of the report. Which presumably would let the whole east side of town know, given his town crier skills. Some guy named Cletus beat up his girlfriend last night. Kerkid asked if it was Cletus Newton, the high school football defense, shotput and discus coach.

**Coach Clete was beloved by many of us back in the glory days of track where we spent more time hanging out at the IGA than running the circuit. He was the type of guy who weighed 300 pounds, but didn't let that keep him from riding his harley and being an athletic coach. Plus, since he wasn't actually "our" coach (except for mary, jessie, and marcy) we didn't have any ill feeling toward him for making us do intervals or dots or boxes or bunny hops. he was just pure fun on the track bus.**

well, kerkid heard this news and wondered aloud why they didn't just send his best friend, mike law (former hey high interim principal, athletic director, and sexist phys ed teacher) over to talk to him. taking it upon himself mr. k called mr. law and asked why he didn't just go over and talk to him. apparently, mr. law then informed mr. k that it was not Cletus Newton, but some other Cletus that lived on the same block (what are the chances?) that had beaten up his girlfriend. and apparently had a large arsenal of hunting riffles. hence the swat team being called in. oh, and by the way, coach Clete apparently doesn't even have a girlfriend (shocking!)

so, now as of 10:20 pm cst, they heytown, county, and state cops are using sirens, airhorns, and bullhorns to try to coax this other clete out of his house.

so, no doubt thanks to kerkid's assumptions and denny's loud mouth, half the town will be calling for Clete's resignation as school starts tomorrow. I'm a little sad I wasn't there for all the commotion. Not since the escaped convict ran through town 10 years ago has so much action taken place!

mis amigos

it just occurred to me that my last 2 posts made me sound pretty bitter and elitist with my superior attitude toward all my friends.

but the truth is, though lately i've noticed what annoys me about people, i also have been noticing the things i value. ms. burns's utter good-heartedness. stevie's sense of humor. gordo's & brewski's protective natures. otto's snarky remarks about the state of the world. the jag's undiscriminating conversational skills, the way ee banters, and the r______'s desire to change the world.

i'm not sure why i've been so negative. really i'm quite happy lately, and though they're not my dearest friends, these people are all wonderful components of my life. so, enough negativity. let's be happy! at least until school starts.

la boda gorda

I walked into the church foyer with papa H, and saw stevie and ms. burns in line. We slid in with them, and were seated on the groom’s side about half way down the aisle. Not long after gina and jen joined our row, and eventually, mr. BS came and sat on the end. The music started playing and my mustached first grade crush (who will be a father in 2 weeks) walked in with a bridesmaid.

Now, I’ve been to a number of weddings in the last few years, but this was my first wedding as a single adult. And I thought that would make me less sappy. Maybe bring out my bitter cynical side. But the truth is, when brewski walked down the aisle to join gordo as his best man, my eyes got teary. There is something about seeing us all together in the same room that really got to me. Just feeling the presence of these people who I rarely speak to made me so happy and at home.

I guess there’s something about the people that you’ve known since the age of 4 that really allows you to be yourself. Suddenly, I could do anything. All self consciousness subsided. You can’t get away with an ounce of pretension with the people you used to take swim lessons with. At the reception I sang along because they’ve all witnessed me in years of painful chorus classes and karaoke nights before I developed my staunch aversion. I danced wildly without fear because we’ve been forced to line dance, swing, and perform the hand jive together, and quite honestly, I’m sure I looked far more awkward on the jr. high basketball team than I ever could on the dance floor. I said whatever came to my drunken mind, because they’ve all heard my most embarrassing statements (about Lincoln’s election) and one night of eloquence would never be enough to convince any of them I’ve become “educated” or “refined.” And though we might not have a lot in common any more, though we might be in different places both physically and figuratively, our mutual history counts for more than I’d realized. They are like family. Some of them annoy me, some piss me off, others I just disagree with entirely, but I love them all.

home part iii

i just thought i should counter the previous post with some later summer thoughts on "home"

I woke up at 5:30 this morning, when lou was leaving for work. my clothes were still in the washer from the night before, so i took them out to the clothesline. then i watered mom's garden for her. by that time it was fully light out, and the newspaper had arrived so i read it on the front porch watching the pickups go by on the morning routes.

mom and dad got up around 9 and i walked to the iga with dad for eggs & milk. we carried the big canvas bag. as we walked in the door an old man said hello to us very directly. i forget that you have to be ready to respond to salutations at all times here. as we walked back home in the still dewy morning, we discussed possible campaigns for dad's newly formed green initiative.

in the afternoon, i helped mom strip some furniture, and we made a quick run to the fabric store for upholstery fabric. i think these chairs are going to turn out nicely. in the afternoon j.m. drove by and took a look at our handy work. i got dad to saw some of the left over beadboard from the bathroom into good painting sized pieces for me.

as the sun was setting we took turns taking showers, and all quickly made some dinner. then off to the Ks. Jon is home from Iraq and the family is all around for the wedding reception tomorrow. i've said it before, but they really are a second family to me. i ended up talking to ellen in the kitchen for a long long time. in the other room, the college kids played poker, until they moved to the garage for some beer pong. we went home around midnight, but ended up sitting on the porch with a bottle of wine looking at stars and watching a few cars go by. lou eventually came home from some after-work activity and we all went to bed exhausted.

i guess this is what i'm always looking for when i come home. something you can't find in the city. something you can't find in a place where you haven't known everyone since the age of 5.

un otro

another early summer writing about blo/no

Tonight I ate dinner across the street from the coffeehouse. I saw indie looking boys walk by, and yell to their friends, “hey man, I haven’t seen you in a while.”

It made me realize this place doesn’t feel like home anymore. No more sitting at the coffee kup recognizing people that come in. no run ins along the street. No gunshots outside of la bamaba.

Sure places change, and I’ve been away for almost 10 years. But gentrification is a different beast entirely. The cobbler’s been displaced. Along with other ports. You’ll still be the only one I’ll ever love, but this Uptown is bullshit.

I guess I’m feeling a bit disenchanted with this place in general. The small-town bars aren’t what they used to be. The IGA still holds untold wonders, but even my parents, the coolest in the world, are losing their usual luster. Not in a getting in arguments sort of way, but they’re just being a bit boring.

But I also wonder how much this has to do with my current state of affairs. Usually, it seems, there’s something to keep me grounded here. Or rather, keep my feet from totally touching the ground. A friend around. A boy’s calls to keep me occupied. And lou. But this has been just me and the ‘rents. Which is nice, but it lacks that Sweet Home Alabama feeling I always associate with these parts.

And I want to write about this in a Klosterman-esque sort of way. But its not coming to me at the moment. No lofty poetry about the open spaces of the center. Or the way the center centers me. Perhaps I’ve grown out of this. Or perhaps it’s the comparisons I’m making. The last two weekends were filled with former friends and the sort of comfort one expects to find only at home. And not to say that comfort isn’t here, but the camaraderie I’ve had recently is missing. No antics. No late nights, flaming beaches, or wine-drinking roof talks. It is simply home. In a very adult sort of way. And maybe what it comes down to is that I want this place to restore the child in me. To make me feel as young and free as I want to be. But now, my friends here have children and own houses. They’ve all settled into that sub-suburban lifestyle, and aren’t hanging out at the circle anymore. So I’ve just got the Hs and the Ks around. And as much as I adore them all, they don’t have the spark of 20-something life that I’ve enmeshed myself among in recent weeks. By comparison to DC this is the life. By comparison to the nj/ny contingent, this is lame.

But now, I await my train to Chicago, and I hope more antics shall be found there. Of course, the usual suspects are all out of town, but chuckles will be a good time, along with the moyer, and of course my one true love, lou.

I also wonder if the crazy, unrequited things running through my head lately are putting me in a funk that’s not letting me fully enjoy my surroundings. I feel like I spend all year waiting for these moments, and then when they arrive, they are disappointing. And that’s no way to live life. I need to make them worth the wait. So here we go…

upside downtown

i wrote this about 2 months ago while sitting outside at the coffee house. now, the coffeehouse is being sold to the development agency. its like watching my youth disappear one business at a time. i guess i shouldn't feel so privileged to think that i could escape the effects of gentrification. but enough commentary. on to the writing:

I am sitting at a coffee shop I frequented ten years ago. And all around it, things have changed. This is now uptown, and across the street is a bar whose LED sign advertises 80s night.

Ten years ago I sat just a few feet away, and I read a poem of my own aloud for the first time. In those days, this was downtown, and I recognized the faces of the passersby.

I’m back working in the same office where I spent those summer days, and though little has changed there, my attention to detail now thrives.

I used to spend my nights staying awake, roaming the streets, using the cover or darkness to engage in illicit acts in parks and feeding my thin body only on caffeine and free desserts from all night restaurants. In those days there was always someone to see and somewhere to go next. There was always an adventure just around the corner. And many of those adventures began on the corner I’m staring at. But the pizza place is gone along with the import store, and my favorite roach-infested lunch counter. And half the disappeared places I can’t lament because I don’t recall what occupied these brownstones. There was a thrift store somewhere on this block. The comic book store where I once saw Kevin Smith. The drug paraphernalia store that claimed to be a music store. The music store my one-time crush bought after I moved. The candy store in the old train station. The used book store. This place, in many ways reminded me of an early Linklater movie. Now its just Uptown.

And a skinny blonde girl walks past in short shorts and a thrift store t shirt accompanied by a dreaded guy on a skateboard. And for a minute I pause. First because they make a strange pair. But I see myself in her. Second because they just don’t seem to belong here anymore. At least the way I used to belong here. Or the way I felt I did. But it was downtown then. Now its uptown.

all action is performative. all choices are conscious. go read some mauss.

i just want to make one thing perfectly clear

(even though i have done so before)

spellings are results of specific histories. however, language is alive, and using a descriptive approach to it is often more productive than a prescriptive approach. besides, insistence upon correct spelling just feeds the bourgeois neoliberal heteronormative patriarchal universe of discourse to which i do not subscribe.

thus, comments upon my spelling choices are unproductive and will be rejected.

el amor o la amistad

not that anyone cares, but crisis averted.

its all on the up and up.

let's just say that rather than being coached into stepping up to bat, i suggested a move back down to the minors.

this should make the dinner party tonight less awkward.

he is who i thought he was

just a warning: i will now commence using my boys-esque metaphor.

i waited on the train platform for the r______ ready for a friendly slow pitch softball game. and that's how it started out. the walk to the air & space museum was practically whiffle ball. But then at the national gallery he pulled out the 16" softball. Yes, indeed he had broken up with the girl, and the oh, so casual "so, are you still single?" But it didn't stop there. As we walked through NMAI the balls got smaller and harder, the pitches went from underhand to overhand. I tried to ignore the "I thought when I met you, you would be the type of person I'd like to date." But by the time we were marveling at the Lincoln Memorial, there were 100mph fast balls coming straight at my cheek in the form of a kiss.

So why am i so disappointed? I did kinda like this guy 4 months ago. But something changed this summer. I guess most of it is probably that he was the only straight male i saw regularly for quite some time. And then this summer, I realized there's a whole world of men out there. Not that any of them were interested. But at least a little exposure made me feel like there were other teams that might be worth a trade. So, now i've got a date lined up. my first one in a while. But i'm not giddy and excited. I'm not nervous. I'm not really even looking forward to it. I'm already concocting break up lines in my head.

And worst of all is, he's so nice. Charming even. And he wants to have a picnic. and he says my spanish is very good. Hell, he even pulled out the one compliment that really gets to me (for a clue, see Buchlotz, Mary. 1999. “Why be normal?”: Language and identity practices in a community of nerd girls. Language in Society 28: 203-223. ). And not just out of nowhere, but after a somewhat lengthy discussion of my research topic.

Maybe its the fact that he's already trying to convince me I should be studying pain in amazonian indigenous communities of Peru. Maybe its the fact that he mentioned I should try to catch the bouquet at Gordo's wedding. Maybe its that he's already singing to me en espanol. But its so disappointing to spend all summer hoping for some sort of romance, and then when it finally comes along, its well....disappointing.

Then again, maybe he's the perfect slump-buster.

mis chicos

i watched the My Boys season finale tonight without seeing any of the rest of the season.

suffice to say, i'm still convinced it is a reflection of my life.

and despite the fact that anyone with with unimpaired hearing can tell the show is total crap, i love it.

noches gigantes

I stood there, among the dispersed listeners at the back of the pitchfork crowd, and the Hold Steady opened with “Massive Nights.” I thought to myself how those kinds of nights had been few and far between lately.

The summer began with two epic weekends; one at the beach, one in the city, but quickly simmered into a quiet small town molasses pace. Even once I was back in a city, the drinking and late nights could hardly be described as massive.

But that song seemed to foreshadow the immediate future. As the Hold Steady finished their set, Animal Collective began setting up for their headline set. I noted the frontman’s red hat—it looked just like mine. A few minutes later, two of the Fleet Foxes band members stood directly in front of me, talking to a woman in white cowboy boots, not nearly as cool as my sister’s. To my right were a collection of three mud people, covered in deep black Midwestern soil, liquefied by earlier rains, then hardening like body paint on clothing, shoes, limbs, and faces alike, dancing with flailing arms, and shaking asses. But when the set ended abruptly, it seemed as if it would all be downhill. The hipsters and hippies spilled onto the street, most waiting for buses or trains, but like us, many people joined an eastward migration on foot. It felt like a protest with the only message being an unwillingness to accept that the music was over.

Fortunately the three of us, all coincidentally clothed in white v neck t shirts, had another destination. MC had heard there would be an after party in our friend Jacob’s basement. With only the bikers traveling faster, we arrived in the first wave and made small talk while sitting on the hood of some old white car parked in the back yard. The yard slowly filled with people who looked more ridiculous than an urban outfitters catalog, surpassing even my experiences in East Williamsburg. Every man wore tight pants, a plaid button up or an ironic t shirt and painfully quirky glasses. Hairstyles varied, but ranged between bed head and alfalfa cowlicks. My favorite women’s look involved turquoise ankle boots, a vintage yellow dress that extended approximately ½” below the ass and white gloved hands which clutched an Old Style can. Even Ida’s converse, plaid pants and fanny pack were no match for this apparel.

As Jacob frenzied to get his drum in the basement, a trio of men dressed distinctively less hip than possibly everyone at the party, excepting the three white v necked t shirt wearers, walked around the side of the house. One wore a red hat just like mine.

Shortly after, we filed into the basement and Jacob’s band, Mung played a quick set, then No Age played before an infinitely more densely packed basement. As their set wore on, filling what had earlier seemed like a very spacious basement with vibrations and reverberations, and a number of people dancing under a thin water pipe seemed to be using it for support. The pipe bent like a spring twig in their hands.

Given my three flooding incidents this summer, I felt a fourth was inevitable. The three v necks decided to move to the back of the crowd. The set ended shortly thereafter and the crowd filed to the backyard. The yard was filled at this point, shoulder to shoulder with people infinitely more “hip” than we were. We checked a phone for the time and concurred maybe it was time to end the night, even without a sound from or conversation with Animal Collective. It took about five minutes to squeeze off the porch, around the side of the house, and onto the sidewalk. We got about halfway down the block when the sky opened up and filled the space between clouds and concrete with rain. It was one of those sudden unexpected torrential downpours that instantaneously created pools where curbs once were and made our raincoats, still in tow after that morning’s rains, totally ineffective.

After waiting a time for the bus, we decided the best plan of action would be walking to the nearest thoroughfare and hoping for a taxi. The plan proved effective, and after dropping MC off at the blue line, we continued to the red line Fullerton stop. We arrived on the Northbound platform, to find it empty; never a hopeful sign late at night. But we sat with our backs resting on a pole with a large F sign, and waited. And waited. And waited. Nearly an hour later, the platform having now filled with riders, an announcement was made apologizing for the delay. A train would be arriving shortly.Once on the train, our car was quite a side show. Next to us, two men bantered barbershop style. At the other end of the car, a group of college age men sang Bohemian Rhapsody. At the door near us, a young man gave unsolicited love advice to a middle aged business man who had just bid farewell to a woman he only first met on Thursday. After another 45 minutes and much hubbub about the train switching to express, we arrived at our stop and finally made it home safely.

(red hat + old style cans = not quite hipster)