There was a nun on the bus this morning, in a full habit and everything. She was young. People kept talking to her. I bet she gets that a lot.
I have been lurking around Etsy in search of business cards--because I keep scrawling my information on the backs of receipts and handing them out, and also because handmade paper products are like catnip--and instead I keep running across "mommy cards." Mom's name, "Mom of _____" (ugh), contact info, kid's allergies/fears. Is this a thing now?
Right now, everybody should be watching Chuck and Friday Night Lights. Chuck (Mondays, 8 p.m., NBC) because it is forty-two minutes of spy-hijink hilarity, and because it continues to get better and better every week; Friday Night Lights (Fridays, 9 p.m., NBC) because it is just perfect, all the time, and because you will fall in love with every single resident of Dillon, TX, even the ones that aren't very nice. You can totally catch up on both of these shows before they end for the season; the entire series of FNL is even streamable (legally!) on Hulu, which means you are officially out of excuses.
Also, last week's episode of 30 Rock was a small miracle.
I am thinking about making a professional website for myself--something to put on the cards, with links to my various web presences--but I'm pretty sure I don't really know what that means.
The National Cathedral is the new Lake Merritt: I try to run around the grounds and gardens three days a week, and have scoped out a variety of benches and shady places to stretch out with a book once it's warm enough. I recently went inside for the first time, and learned that they have evensong every day at 5:30. I'm never home from work by then, but if I hurry and then get off the bus one stop early, I think I could catch the second half.
"Orientated" is not a word. "Oriented" is a word. World, please learn this.
Wednesday, March 25, 2009
Friday, March 20, 2009
Tragedy strikes!
I am so sad, you guys. One of my favorite places in Oakland--one of my favorite places in the whole world--closes on Sunday, and I won't even be there to say goodbye.
I first went to the Parkway Theater before I even lived in Oakland, and I think it was part of why I decided to move there later: any town where the theaters have ergonomic Ikea armchairs and serve food and wine and show old movies on the weekends must be close to heaven, I thought. I later moved just up the street, and went there all the time--with friends, for the late show, or by myself in the afternoon, or sometimes with my crew teammates on a stormy evening. My friend Helen described the Parkway as one of her first friends in California, and I knew just what she meant.
I'd always see people I knew at the Parkway, even before I knew a lot of people in the neighborhood. It was that kind of place. They showed second-run and almost-second-run movies, plus The Rocky Horror Picture Show every weekend night at midnight, and then they had this whole other schedule of events: benefits for local charities and Fright Night double features and weird film festivals and an ongoing series called African Diaspora Cinema. They made their own preview reels, with two of the owners sitting on the couch, talking trash and occasionally including lists of upcoming events. The owners knew everybody.
Also, the nachos were really good.
A few years back, the Parkway's owners opened a second (dare I say nicer?) theater called the Cerrito (conveniently located in El Cerrito, off the Central Ave. exit!); it appears that one's staying open, which is something. A lot of the Parkway traditions will likely migrate up there. But my old neighborhood--by the lake, just where pretty, safe Glenwood starts to unravel into International Blvd. and all that's implied therein--will miss that place. Huge, empty Art Deco theater space aside, the Parkway was an anchor of the community, a gathering place. Now they'll have to go across the street for 24-hour chicken and waffles at Merritt Bakery, or try to cram into the coffee shop that's never open, or maybe we'll hear about a major upsurge in business at the ancient family-owned Mexican restaurant in the next block. But it won't be the same. Those places don't even have raffles!
So, goodbye, Parkway. I loved you well, and I hope to see your spirit somewhere else, someday.
I first went to the Parkway Theater before I even lived in Oakland, and I think it was part of why I decided to move there later: any town where the theaters have ergonomic Ikea armchairs and serve food and wine and show old movies on the weekends must be close to heaven, I thought. I later moved just up the street, and went there all the time--with friends, for the late show, or by myself in the afternoon, or sometimes with my crew teammates on a stormy evening. My friend Helen described the Parkway as one of her first friends in California, and I knew just what she meant.
I'd always see people I knew at the Parkway, even before I knew a lot of people in the neighborhood. It was that kind of place. They showed second-run and almost-second-run movies, plus The Rocky Horror Picture Show every weekend night at midnight, and then they had this whole other schedule of events: benefits for local charities and Fright Night double features and weird film festivals and an ongoing series called African Diaspora Cinema. They made their own preview reels, with two of the owners sitting on the couch, talking trash and occasionally including lists of upcoming events. The owners knew everybody.
Also, the nachos were really good.
A few years back, the Parkway's owners opened a second (dare I say nicer?) theater called the Cerrito (conveniently located in El Cerrito, off the Central Ave. exit!); it appears that one's staying open, which is something. A lot of the Parkway traditions will likely migrate up there. But my old neighborhood--by the lake, just where pretty, safe Glenwood starts to unravel into International Blvd. and all that's implied therein--will miss that place. Huge, empty Art Deco theater space aside, the Parkway was an anchor of the community, a gathering place. Now they'll have to go across the street for 24-hour chicken and waffles at Merritt Bakery, or try to cram into the coffee shop that's never open, or maybe we'll hear about a major upsurge in business at the ancient family-owned Mexican restaurant in the next block. But it won't be the same. Those places don't even have raffles!
So, goodbye, Parkway. I loved you well, and I hope to see your spirit somewhere else, someday.
Thursday, March 12, 2009
12 of 12: March
Welcome to 12 of 12; for more 12-ish hijinks or more information, see Chad Darnell's blog.
On with the show:
6:50 - Up. In the dark. Ugh.
7:04 - Sherlock = Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.
7:41 - Not running for the bus, which is always a good sign.
10:30 - I worry that I'm getting into Rachael Ray territory when I say that homemade waffles reheat perfectly in the toaster. Before you know it, I'll be washing and cutting up my veggies right when I buy them, and then coating them in some EVOO and whipping up some sammies. Oy. (They do, though. Toast well, I mean.)
11:17 - Entering (my own) edits on a book of American idioms, while also re-writing the depressing and/or tawdry sentences included by the author.
5:15 - What is this "spring" of which you speak?
5:40 - Riding the escalator out of Dupont Circle metro. The quotation inscribed on the wall is (apparently) from the Walt Whitman poem "The Wound Dresser": "Thus in silence in dreams' projections....Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,..."
6:37 - Out for a run at the National Cathedral.
6:39 - The gate to the gardens at the cathedral, which I hereby adopt as my extended backyard, for all of my running, walking, basking, contemplating, nature-admiring, and reading needs.
7:40 - Chickpea and pasta soup, my current simple dinner of choice. The key here, as with basically everything else in life, is extra olive oil and double the garlic.
8:05 - Happy times: Hot soup, cuddly cat, Jon Stewart on my TV.
8:47 - Writing about 80's live-action Disney movies for Cinema Hype. I love me some Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson--who doesn't?--but Race to Witch Mountain, I cannot support.
See you next month.
On with the show:
6:50 - Up. In the dark. Ugh.
7:04 - Sherlock = Jimmy Stewart in Rear Window.
7:41 - Not running for the bus, which is always a good sign.
10:30 - I worry that I'm getting into Rachael Ray territory when I say that homemade waffles reheat perfectly in the toaster. Before you know it, I'll be washing and cutting up my veggies right when I buy them, and then coating them in some EVOO and whipping up some sammies. Oy. (They do, though. Toast well, I mean.)
11:17 - Entering (my own) edits on a book of American idioms, while also re-writing the depressing and/or tawdry sentences included by the author.
5:15 - What is this "spring" of which you speak?
5:40 - Riding the escalator out of Dupont Circle metro. The quotation inscribed on the wall is (apparently) from the Walt Whitman poem "The Wound Dresser": "Thus in silence in dreams' projections....Some suffer so much, I recall the experience sweet and sad,..."
6:37 - Out for a run at the National Cathedral.
6:39 - The gate to the gardens at the cathedral, which I hereby adopt as my extended backyard, for all of my running, walking, basking, contemplating, nature-admiring, and reading needs.
7:40 - Chickpea and pasta soup, my current simple dinner of choice. The key here, as with basically everything else in life, is extra olive oil and double the garlic.
8:05 - Happy times: Hot soup, cuddly cat, Jon Stewart on my TV.
8:47 - Writing about 80's live-action Disney movies for Cinema Hype. I love me some Dwayne "The Rock" Johnson--who doesn't?--but Race to Witch Mountain, I cannot support.
See you next month.
Monday, March 09, 2009
I love it when this happens
Part of my script just opened up. I was at work, entering edits and listening to Dark Was the Night, not really thinking about writing very much at all, and it spoke to me.
"Start with death," it said. "And a potluck."
UM, OBVIOUSLY.
"Start with death," it said. "And a potluck."
UM, OBVIOUSLY.
Sunday, March 08, 2009
Getting started
It's (pretending to be) spring here--I just walked to the store in flip-flops and I still have all my toes--and so I guess it's sort of right that I'm starting things all over the place.
I'm writing a lot these days, and by "writing" I mean "staring into space with occasional frenzied bursts of typing." I'm working on an original television pilot--original pilots being what get young writers in the door these days, plus the story just had to come out--and coming up with a new TV show is, wouldn't you just know, a tremendous amount of work in terms of creating a universe and then paring down and parsing out what fits into a 42-minute episode. This project is the kind of thing that makes writers write, and also the kind that stops them from writing: the world of my show just comes to me, floods into my brain at the most inopportune times (at work, at the grocery store, anytime actual typing is not possible), and then just looks at me, all coy, when I sit down to wrangle it into five acts and three storylines. "Don't you just want to tell me all at once?" it says, and I do. I love it, and I believe in it, and I can't wait to see it all grown up and heading out into the world. It could give me a little help in this all-important outlining phase, but hey. We're not going to talk about that. It'll come.
So in the midst of my writerly highs and lows, it's a good thing I decided to do something really straightforward, right? Riiiiiight. This purplish thing is my fetal Lace Ribbon Scarf, which is really just a jumble of stitches on US-4 needles. All knitting projects start this way, like working blind, with the future hope of something pretty and springy to wear while I wait for the bus (...which will likely be finished just in time for, say, Halloween, but purple alpaca is timeless and seasonless, right?). But it's like the script: you just have to keep going, believe that the pattern's going to be there (the difference being that somebody else made up the scarf design; I have to make up the script). But, you know. I'm glad I picked that activity to break up the uncertainty of writing.
Welcome to March. Time to make something, don't you think?
Saturday, March 07, 2009
Thursday, February 26, 2009
What Was That?
So, when it comes to music, I'm a lyrics girl. I mean, obviously, there has to be a beat and some kind of melody, and all that; I'm not really up for grooving to spoken-word on the bus, or whatever. But I've never gotten people who say they don't listen to, or never learn, the words of the music they listen to. The lyrics may not come first, but sooner or later...right?
But sometimes, I have to say, the lyrics ruin it all--I was listening to a song the other day, and it's a song of which I've recently become quite fond. It's cute, and funny, and it plays like a sweet little romantic comedy in my head. And then I heard this one line clearly for the first time and was all, "Wait, what did you just say? See, now, you are not nearly as cute as you were ten seconds ago."
(Notice that I'm not telling you which song by which band, so as to not spoil your own enjoyment. I am nice.)
This may happen to me a lot because I listen to a lot of bands fronted by mumbly boys, so that actually learning the words is a kind of continual journey of discovery. Apparently, bad diction covers a multitude of sins; this is, I guess, why we have "Inna Gadda da Vida" and "Louie, Louie." And maybe it's for the best--for all I know, all the cute boppy indie bands I like are singing about kicking puppies and stealing candy from small children, and all I can think is, "Awww, he really loves his girlfriend!"
Go back to your mumbling, boys.
But sometimes, I have to say, the lyrics ruin it all--I was listening to a song the other day, and it's a song of which I've recently become quite fond. It's cute, and funny, and it plays like a sweet little romantic comedy in my head. And then I heard this one line clearly for the first time and was all, "Wait, what did you just say? See, now, you are not nearly as cute as you were ten seconds ago."
(Notice that I'm not telling you which song by which band, so as to not spoil your own enjoyment. I am nice.)
This may happen to me a lot because I listen to a lot of bands fronted by mumbly boys, so that actually learning the words is a kind of continual journey of discovery. Apparently, bad diction covers a multitude of sins; this is, I guess, why we have "Inna Gadda da Vida" and "Louie, Louie." And maybe it's for the best--for all I know, all the cute boppy indie bands I like are singing about kicking puppies and stealing candy from small children, and all I can think is, "Awww, he really loves his girlfriend!"
Go back to your mumbling, boys.
Sunday, February 22, 2009
Weekend in
I spent most of this weekend at home. I mean, I did go out--I saw The Reader with a friend; I went for a run; I grocery shopped; I went to church--but mostly I've been indulging my inner homebody and hanging out with the cat. (Don't worry: Glenna visited last weekend to make me get out. Proof here and here!) Let's just say there's something to be said for the joys of a little at-home time, as follows:
This is not a cooking blog. I'm an avid consumer of other people's writing about food (Orangette and Smitten Kitchen keep me in recipes), but...trust me. From a girl who eats either sausage/onion/apple stir-fry or boiled kale as weekly standbys, you don't really need to know what I'm eating all the time.
But then there's this recipe, one I've been using forever, one which never lets me down. This is the kind of recipe you could make when, say, the entire population of a small country is coming to your home, or when you simply own more Tupperware than any normal human should. It's a little time-consuming--brown rice! From scratch!--but it's worth it, especially if you want to have lunch taken care of for the next two weeks, at least.
Curried Brown Rice with Chicken and Apples
1 TBS oil
2 lb. chicken, chopped
3 medium granny smith apples, chopped
2 onions, chopped
6 cloves garlic, minced
2 TBS curry powder
1 1/2 tsp cumin
1/2 c raisins
5 c chicken broth
2 c brown rice
salt and pepper
In a large (no, really, LARGE) pan, heat oil. Salt and pepper chicken, and brown in oil. Remove from pan. Add apples, onions, garlic, curry, and cumin; saute five minutes. Add broth and raisins. Bring to a boil; add rice and chicken. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer until rice is tender, about 60 minutes.
Eat. FOREVER.
I started a new sweater, the February Lady Sweater, a couple of weeks ago, but I've been cruising through it this weekend with the help of Friday Night Lights, Dollhouse, season four of Doctor Who, and (and now for something completely different) Harvey. It turns out that this kind of bulky lace is really fun to knit, and zooms past--all those holes! I despair of the time when it will actually be warm enough to wear this, but others have assured me that the day will, in fact, come.
The victory here is that the in-progress version actually fits; this whole "trying things on" concept is the joy of the top-down sweater. I am not sure that my spatial brain really gets how top-down raglan sweaters work (starting with a single row and ending up with the three-dimensional shoulders of a sweater is clearly magic and has no basis in rational geometry), but I am all for it.
So...there's that. Health food and handknits.
And, in conclusion, a gratuitous shot of the cat:
He has no shame. Ah, well.
This is not a cooking blog. I'm an avid consumer of other people's writing about food (Orangette and Smitten Kitchen keep me in recipes), but...trust me. From a girl who eats either sausage/onion/apple stir-fry or boiled kale as weekly standbys, you don't really need to know what I'm eating all the time.
But then there's this recipe, one I've been using forever, one which never lets me down. This is the kind of recipe you could make when, say, the entire population of a small country is coming to your home, or when you simply own more Tupperware than any normal human should. It's a little time-consuming--brown rice! From scratch!--but it's worth it, especially if you want to have lunch taken care of for the next two weeks, at least.
Curried Brown Rice with Chicken and Apples
1 TBS oil
2 lb. chicken, chopped
3 medium granny smith apples, chopped
2 onions, chopped
6 cloves garlic, minced
2 TBS curry powder
1 1/2 tsp cumin
1/2 c raisins
5 c chicken broth
2 c brown rice
salt and pepper
In a large (no, really, LARGE) pan, heat oil. Salt and pepper chicken, and brown in oil. Remove from pan. Add apples, onions, garlic, curry, and cumin; saute five minutes. Add broth and raisins. Bring to a boil; add rice and chicken. Cover, reduce heat, and simmer until rice is tender, about 60 minutes.
Eat. FOREVER.
I started a new sweater, the February Lady Sweater, a couple of weeks ago, but I've been cruising through it this weekend with the help of Friday Night Lights, Dollhouse, season four of Doctor Who, and (and now for something completely different) Harvey. It turns out that this kind of bulky lace is really fun to knit, and zooms past--all those holes! I despair of the time when it will actually be warm enough to wear this, but others have assured me that the day will, in fact, come.
The victory here is that the in-progress version actually fits; this whole "trying things on" concept is the joy of the top-down sweater. I am not sure that my spatial brain really gets how top-down raglan sweaters work (starting with a single row and ending up with the three-dimensional shoulders of a sweater is clearly magic and has no basis in rational geometry), but I am all for it.
So...there's that. Health food and handknits.
And, in conclusion, a gratuitous shot of the cat:
He has no shame. Ah, well.
Saturday, February 14, 2009
Why didn't I think of that?
Things Dove Chocolate thinks I should do or know about love, gathered from the wrappers in one bag of milk chocolate hearts:
- Believe in those I love
- Celebrate family and friends
- Be a little mysterious
- Sleep under the stars tonight
- Listen with my heart
- A gentle touch speaks volumes
- Hold hands firmly, hearts gently
- Discover how much my heart can hold
- Remember my first crush
- Laugh until my heart overflows
- Share a sunset
And one thing I can't really dispute:
- Chocolate. Always my valentine.
Happy St. Valentine's Day to all. (See how I appreciated you just there? This TOTALLY WORKS.)
- Believe in those I love
- Celebrate family and friends
- Be a little mysterious
- Sleep under the stars tonight
- Listen with my heart
- A gentle touch speaks volumes
- Hold hands firmly, hearts gently
- Discover how much my heart can hold
- Remember my first crush
- Laugh until my heart overflows
- Share a sunset
And one thing I can't really dispute:
- Chocolate. Always my valentine.
Happy St. Valentine's Day to all. (See how I appreciated you just there? This TOTALLY WORKS.)
Thursday, February 12, 2009
12 of 12: February
February 12 of 12, wherein I post 12 pictures of my February 12, and lots of other people do the same. For more, see Chad Darnell's blog--it's his baby.
On with the photos!
6:51 - How I feel waking up in the morning when I know I'm off to work.
6:53 - How Sherlock feels waking up in the morning when he knows he's going back to sleep for 18 hours.
7:07 - Taking a minute with Hebrews and my trusty cinnamon-spice oatmeal. Sherlock supervises.
7:48 - I never get tired of the National Cathedral. It's always there, and it never gets any smaller, and that is amazing to me.
7:50 - A sunny morning on the N4. I like my bus commute.
12:15 - Yes, my cup of chocolate pudding is basically bigger than my cup of soup, which is...the proper order of the universe, right?
1:05 - Who has two thumbs, speaks limited French, and hasn't been rained on, snowed on, or frozen to the core once this week? (This girl!)
6:08 - Walking home from the bus in the last moments of daylight.
7:00 - Sherlock takes out the pink feather monster, which is probably very satisfying but also leaves him picking pink fuzz out of his teeth for like a week.
7:19 - Staring blankly at my Confessions of a Shopaholic review for Cinemahype.com.
7:45 - Assembling leftovers of my favorite winter dinner. It's a good thing this stuff's healthy, because I eat it constantly on account of its being totally delicious.
7:55 - For an upcoming writing project, I'm collecting all the jerk things Alex Trebek says to his Jeopardy! contestants. Part of me thinks the Trebek thing's been covered by SNL; the rest of me thinks his supply of smarmy condescension is simply endless. Oy, Trebek. OY.
That's it; thanks for stopping in. Next month: same bat time, same bat channel!
On with the photos!
6:51 - How I feel waking up in the morning when I know I'm off to work.
6:53 - How Sherlock feels waking up in the morning when he knows he's going back to sleep for 18 hours.
7:07 - Taking a minute with Hebrews and my trusty cinnamon-spice oatmeal. Sherlock supervises.
7:48 - I never get tired of the National Cathedral. It's always there, and it never gets any smaller, and that is amazing to me.
7:50 - A sunny morning on the N4. I like my bus commute.
12:15 - Yes, my cup of chocolate pudding is basically bigger than my cup of soup, which is...the proper order of the universe, right?
1:05 - Who has two thumbs, speaks limited French, and hasn't been rained on, snowed on, or frozen to the core once this week? (This girl!)
6:08 - Walking home from the bus in the last moments of daylight.
7:00 - Sherlock takes out the pink feather monster, which is probably very satisfying but also leaves him picking pink fuzz out of his teeth for like a week.
7:19 - Staring blankly at my Confessions of a Shopaholic review for Cinemahype.com.
7:45 - Assembling leftovers of my favorite winter dinner. It's a good thing this stuff's healthy, because I eat it constantly on account of its being totally delicious.
7:55 - For an upcoming writing project, I'm collecting all the jerk things Alex Trebek says to his Jeopardy! contestants. Part of me thinks the Trebek thing's been covered by SNL; the rest of me thinks his supply of smarmy condescension is simply endless. Oy, Trebek. OY.
That's it; thanks for stopping in. Next month: same bat time, same bat channel!
Today on This American Life...
No, I haven't been kidnapped, taken to the Caribbean, and used as bait at a shark-themed amusement park. I haven't run away with the circus as the world's least flexible contortionist. I haven't disappeared from Rock Creek Park, assumed a secret identity, or joined a cult.
I've just been busy. Busy and boring: the supervillains of the blogging world. Did you really want to hear about how my new faux-Aveeno CVS-brand hand lotion smells oaty and yet kind of like barbecued snack foods? Or how I've decided that my true love is a Roomba (Happy Valentine's Day to you, too)? I didn't think so. Also, I've been struggling over my next What I'm Watching post for an embarrassing amount of time. You can blame that, if you want to.
I did go to Borders last night to hear Ira Glass speak. If you're not hip to Ira--and I do mean hip; the audience at this thing was hilarious--you clearly aren't listening to enough public radio. He's the host of This American Life on NPR: a reporter, a storyteller, and a hero to radio fiends with nerdy glasses everywhere.**
The strangest thing was hearing Ira and seeing him at the same time. You have to understand: I spend a lot of time with this guy's voice. I listen to his show all the time--at work, on my commute, in airports, in the car, sometimes when I'm cooking. It's a distinctive voice, a reedy voice, and not really what you'd expect to hear on professional radio in the first place, but it sort of sinks into your consciousness after awhile. And so there I was last night, and the man on the dais opened his mouth, and he sounded just like Ira Glass! I felt like he was lip-synching, and like I should shut my eyes.
It was great, though. This American Life is first and foremost a radio show, but Ira was there to promote the second season of the their recent foray into TV (also called This American Life). He talked about radio and television, and his genuine surprise at the usefulness of visual storytelling. He took questions and told crazy stories--his forte and his livelihood, after all--about the making of the show(s) and about the relationships he forms with his interviewees and about what it's like to look like Rachel Maddow and be a guy. The best thing was his obvious passion for what he’s doing; he clearly loves the stories and the people of This American Life, which is awesome, because I do, too. He was nice, and funny, and I like him even better now than I did before.
I am charmed.
I think I'll go listen to the radio now.
**If you're not familiar with This American Life, let me introduce you to its glory. TAL is an hour-long weekly radio show on NPR (find your local station here), and it tells stories about people. That's it. Crazy stories, funny stories, sad stories, everything stories. Each episode has a theme, and a varying number of stories on that theme--sometimes it's just one long story, if it's a really good one; usually they're in the range of three or four, though one episode is called "Twenty Acts in Sixty Minutes," for obvious reasons. If you've never heard TAL, check it out: you can download it for free on iTunes, stream it for free from the TAL website, or try to find it on the radio. AND! The most recent podcast (the podcast version runs a week behind the live version) is a rerun of one of my all-time favorite episodes, "The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar," which is one of those stories I will never forget. One warning: if you do listen, you may become one of those people who starts every other sentence with, "I was listening to NPR the other day, and..." but it'll be worth every pretentious second.
I've just been busy. Busy and boring: the supervillains of the blogging world. Did you really want to hear about how my new faux-Aveeno CVS-brand hand lotion smells oaty and yet kind of like barbecued snack foods? Or how I've decided that my true love is a Roomba (Happy Valentine's Day to you, too)? I didn't think so. Also, I've been struggling over my next What I'm Watching post for an embarrassing amount of time. You can blame that, if you want to.
I did go to Borders last night to hear Ira Glass speak. If you're not hip to Ira--and I do mean hip; the audience at this thing was hilarious--you clearly aren't listening to enough public radio. He's the host of This American Life on NPR: a reporter, a storyteller, and a hero to radio fiends with nerdy glasses everywhere.**
The strangest thing was hearing Ira and seeing him at the same time. You have to understand: I spend a lot of time with this guy's voice. I listen to his show all the time--at work, on my commute, in airports, in the car, sometimes when I'm cooking. It's a distinctive voice, a reedy voice, and not really what you'd expect to hear on professional radio in the first place, but it sort of sinks into your consciousness after awhile. And so there I was last night, and the man on the dais opened his mouth, and he sounded just like Ira Glass! I felt like he was lip-synching, and like I should shut my eyes.
It was great, though. This American Life is first and foremost a radio show, but Ira was there to promote the second season of the their recent foray into TV (also called This American Life). He talked about radio and television, and his genuine surprise at the usefulness of visual storytelling. He took questions and told crazy stories--his forte and his livelihood, after all--about the making of the show(s) and about the relationships he forms with his interviewees and about what it's like to look like Rachel Maddow and be a guy. The best thing was his obvious passion for what he’s doing; he clearly loves the stories and the people of This American Life, which is awesome, because I do, too. He was nice, and funny, and I like him even better now than I did before.
I am charmed.
I think I'll go listen to the radio now.
**If you're not familiar with This American Life, let me introduce you to its glory. TAL is an hour-long weekly radio show on NPR (find your local station here), and it tells stories about people. That's it. Crazy stories, funny stories, sad stories, everything stories. Each episode has a theme, and a varying number of stories on that theme--sometimes it's just one long story, if it's a really good one; usually they're in the range of three or four, though one episode is called "Twenty Acts in Sixty Minutes," for obvious reasons. If you've never heard TAL, check it out: you can download it for free on iTunes, stream it for free from the TAL website, or try to find it on the radio. AND! The most recent podcast (the podcast version runs a week behind the live version) is a rerun of one of my all-time favorite episodes, "The Ghost of Bobby Dunbar," which is one of those stories I will never forget. One warning: if you do listen, you may become one of those people who starts every other sentence with, "I was listening to NPR the other day, and..." but it'll be worth every pretentious second.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Are you ready for some football (and social wrangling)?
I went to a Superbowl party last night.
It's funny, when you're far from home, the things that make you realize that you're alone--I didn't care so much about about the Superbowl itself, and have skipped it altogether in years past, but it was the principle of the thing. I didn't have anybody to watch it with, if I wanted to. Which is how I ended up in my ("my" in the sense that I have been there three times now) church basement at 6:00 Sunday night, surrounded by strangers and snack foods.
I think I'm glad I went--I met some people around my age, and a couple of the girls invited me to their Sunday night "alternative" service and to their Monday-night dinner group in Arlington. And there's something to be said for just going, for getting out of the house and making an effort, just to say I did. But man--there is also something about walking into a room and not knowing a single person, and having to make something of it or just stand there and be awkward, that is horrifying. I'd forgotten what that's like, and if I'd given it any thought beforehand, I frankly might not have gone. Which, of course, is totally the wrong tack to take--it's painful, but it's necessary if I want to get a handle on my life here and actually meet some people (so as to avoid this same situation in future). I am pleased with myself for going. I also left during at the beginning of the fourth quarter to go home and recover from the sheer social exhaustion I'd brought on myself (...and to watch The Office; who am I kidding?).
It'll get easier soon. Right? Right.
It's funny, when you're far from home, the things that make you realize that you're alone--I didn't care so much about about the Superbowl itself, and have skipped it altogether in years past, but it was the principle of the thing. I didn't have anybody to watch it with, if I wanted to. Which is how I ended up in my ("my" in the sense that I have been there three times now) church basement at 6:00 Sunday night, surrounded by strangers and snack foods.
I think I'm glad I went--I met some people around my age, and a couple of the girls invited me to their Sunday night "alternative" service and to their Monday-night dinner group in Arlington. And there's something to be said for just going, for getting out of the house and making an effort, just to say I did. But man--there is also something about walking into a room and not knowing a single person, and having to make something of it or just stand there and be awkward, that is horrifying. I'd forgotten what that's like, and if I'd given it any thought beforehand, I frankly might not have gone. Which, of course, is totally the wrong tack to take--it's painful, but it's necessary if I want to get a handle on my life here and actually meet some people (so as to avoid this same situation in future). I am pleased with myself for going. I also left during at the beginning of the fourth quarter to go home and recover from the sheer social exhaustion I'd brought on myself (...and to watch The Office; who am I kidding?).
It'll get easier soon. Right? Right.
Sunday, January 25, 2009
This is totally going to become a cat blog
Sherlock says,
WAZZAAAAAAAAAAP!
It's only 2001 in kitty years.
WAZZAAAAAAAAAAP!
It's only 2001 in kitty years.
Tuesday, January 20, 2009
Let it be told to the future world that in the depth of winter
So, my motto lately has been, "Sometimes I just don't understand my life." I mean it in a good way--in the best way. I don't understand how I got to be in Washington for this moment in history, but it is (so far) full of surprises and sightings and moments where I just have to laugh at being in the right place at the right time, and that is exactly what I wanted--exactly what I needed?--from this move. I don't even know this city yet, but I am completely excited to be here.
Today was, simultaneously, utterly chaotic and remarkably smooth. My friend Grace and her friend Guy have been crashing in my living room this weekend, and we were up and stepping all over each other for the bathroom before the dawnzerly light (Ramona Quimby? Anybody?) even showed its face. We left the house at 7:00 and hopped on the bus (this after extensive Plan-B/Plan-C/Plan-D-ing, in case my peaceful corner bus stop suddenly turned crazy) and zipped down to Foggy Bottom, where Guy headed for the Metro--he had a standing ticket to the ceremony--and Grace and I followed the throngs towards the Mall. (Incidentally, I kept thinking of that scene in Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray asks some nameless redheaded woman where everybody's going, and she says, like he's a total moron, "To Gobbler's Knob!") There was plenty of space, and we grabbed seated spots on a piece of the WWII Memorial, and waited.
Just so you know: If it is 25 degrees outside and you think that your body heat will eventually warm up a granite wall--after all, it's only your butt-print that needs warming--YOU ARE WRONG. We sat on the wall for nearly five hours, unwilling to give up our spot, and I am not sure I have ever been so cold in my life, hand-warmer packets (in mittens and shoes) or no. Foot pain gave way to numbness, which gave way to the pain again, and I half-expected my toes to have snapped off by the time I took off my socks. But: sitting up high was cool, and ideal for photographing the ridiculous hugeness of the crowd, and we could see the Jumbotron just fine. It was worth every second, even though I was sure my underwear was freezing solid.
It was just as well that we'd missed the We Are One concert on Sunday (though it was a source of some distress at the time); they televised it on the Jumbotrons all morning to keep the earlybirds entertained. And then the San Francisco Boys' and Girls' Choruses sang, and Aretha performed looking fierce in that hat with the bow as big as her face, and Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman and some other people I didn't know performed the special John Williams piece (called, in my head, "What Spring Sounds Like, or People's Hearts Are Beginning to Thaw"), and it was so fabulous that I was totally okay with my blood freezing in my veins. And I continue to want to be BFFs with Michelle, Malia, and Sasha (Michelle = hardcore for her lack of bundling; Malia = Princess Composure; Sasha = hilarious and adorable just for showing up). And then our new President took his oath of office, and I cried a little, and he gave a really wonderful speech. Did you hear the fire in him? It was all on huge screens, of course, but there was this spot towards the middle, right around "all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness," where I thought, "preach it, brother."
After, Grace and I had planned to meet up with Guy and his friends, but meeting up with anybody was clearly out of the question--we couldn't walk (five hours straddling the wall, remember), and neither of us could stop shivering (scary!), and the tide of the crowd just bore us along. (What is it Barbara Kingsolver says about the stream of ants in The Poisonwood Bible? Stick out your elbows and raise up your feet? Not a bad philosophy in this situation; you could probably get halfway to Maryland that way.) We went back the way we'd come, stopping in at the Ritz-Carlton to thaw out and use the bathroom and check our phones, and ended up walking all the way home because we couldn't get a cab or a bus. So maybe there was a bit of a Bataan Death March vibe to the end of the day, but it was worth it. I'm so glad I went. I am so, so proud of President Barack Obama, and so, so thrilled for our nation, and now I can't wait to see what he actually does.
Welcome, Mr. President.
Today was, simultaneously, utterly chaotic and remarkably smooth. My friend Grace and her friend Guy have been crashing in my living room this weekend, and we were up and stepping all over each other for the bathroom before the dawnzerly light (Ramona Quimby? Anybody?) even showed its face. We left the house at 7:00 and hopped on the bus (this after extensive Plan-B/Plan-C/Plan-D-ing, in case my peaceful corner bus stop suddenly turned crazy) and zipped down to Foggy Bottom, where Guy headed for the Metro--he had a standing ticket to the ceremony--and Grace and I followed the throngs towards the Mall. (Incidentally, I kept thinking of that scene in Groundhog Day, where Bill Murray asks some nameless redheaded woman where everybody's going, and she says, like he's a total moron, "To Gobbler's Knob!") There was plenty of space, and we grabbed seated spots on a piece of the WWII Memorial, and waited.
Just so you know: If it is 25 degrees outside and you think that your body heat will eventually warm up a granite wall--after all, it's only your butt-print that needs warming--YOU ARE WRONG. We sat on the wall for nearly five hours, unwilling to give up our spot, and I am not sure I have ever been so cold in my life, hand-warmer packets (in mittens and shoes) or no. Foot pain gave way to numbness, which gave way to the pain again, and I half-expected my toes to have snapped off by the time I took off my socks. But: sitting up high was cool, and ideal for photographing the ridiculous hugeness of the crowd, and we could see the Jumbotron just fine. It was worth every second, even though I was sure my underwear was freezing solid.
It was just as well that we'd missed the We Are One concert on Sunday (though it was a source of some distress at the time); they televised it on the Jumbotrons all morning to keep the earlybirds entertained. And then the San Francisco Boys' and Girls' Choruses sang, and Aretha performed looking fierce in that hat with the bow as big as her face, and Yo-Yo Ma and Itzhak Perlman and some other people I didn't know performed the special John Williams piece (called, in my head, "What Spring Sounds Like, or People's Hearts Are Beginning to Thaw"), and it was so fabulous that I was totally okay with my blood freezing in my veins. And I continue to want to be BFFs with Michelle, Malia, and Sasha (Michelle = hardcore for her lack of bundling; Malia = Princess Composure; Sasha = hilarious and adorable just for showing up). And then our new President took his oath of office, and I cried a little, and he gave a really wonderful speech. Did you hear the fire in him? It was all on huge screens, of course, but there was this spot towards the middle, right around "all are equal, all are free, and all deserve a chance to pursue their full measure of happiness," where I thought, "preach it, brother."
After, Grace and I had planned to meet up with Guy and his friends, but meeting up with anybody was clearly out of the question--we couldn't walk (five hours straddling the wall, remember), and neither of us could stop shivering (scary!), and the tide of the crowd just bore us along. (What is it Barbara Kingsolver says about the stream of ants in The Poisonwood Bible? Stick out your elbows and raise up your feet? Not a bad philosophy in this situation; you could probably get halfway to Maryland that way.) We went back the way we'd come, stopping in at the Ritz-Carlton to thaw out and use the bathroom and check our phones, and ended up walking all the way home because we couldn't get a cab or a bus. So maybe there was a bit of a Bataan Death March vibe to the end of the day, but it was worth it. I'm so glad I went. I am so, so proud of President Barack Obama, and so, so thrilled for our nation, and now I can't wait to see what he actually does.
Welcome, Mr. President.
Thursday, January 15, 2009
Why I don't believe in coincidences
Since I moved to DC, I've been looking for a church. I'm spoiled in this area: I've known three churches in 28 years, each unique, but each full of people struggling together, with grace and extreme humanity, to live out the Gospel as they know it. I'm grateful that it's never been that hard, finding the right place to worship.
For awhile, I thought maybe I'd found my place here in DC--National Presbyterian, where the choir is spectacular and the teaching pastor comes from my church in California and I ran into Condi Rice (which I think I forgot to mention)--but it wasn't right. I'm back on the market, so to speak.
This past Sunday, because I had an appointment in Alexandria around midday, I decided to try church in Virginia. The last time I tried this, at a church in Arlington, I got hopelessly lost, missed the service, and decided to go to the mall instead (God knew I needed work pants; He didn't seem to mind). This time, I gave myself plenty of time, printed out detailed directions...and proceeded to get EVEN MORE LOST than the last time. Seriously. It was a nice drive--trees, river, a really interesting program about Sesame Street playing on NPR--but it wasn't church, and I was lost and frustrated and teary anyway over the death of Mr. Hooper. The service had started at 10:30. At 11:05, I arrived (at last) in Alexandria, gave up on actually going to service, and decided to kill a few hours on King Street before my appointment. I was stopped at a red light. Guess what else was at that light? Fairlington Presbyterian Church. Service at 11:00.
Yeah.
I went. It may be my church for the future; it may also be my church just for this week. Either way, I had to laugh, and shake my head, and be grateful.
For awhile, I thought maybe I'd found my place here in DC--National Presbyterian, where the choir is spectacular and the teaching pastor comes from my church in California and I ran into Condi Rice (which I think I forgot to mention)--but it wasn't right. I'm back on the market, so to speak.
This past Sunday, because I had an appointment in Alexandria around midday, I decided to try church in Virginia. The last time I tried this, at a church in Arlington, I got hopelessly lost, missed the service, and decided to go to the mall instead (God knew I needed work pants; He didn't seem to mind). This time, I gave myself plenty of time, printed out detailed directions...and proceeded to get EVEN MORE LOST than the last time. Seriously. It was a nice drive--trees, river, a really interesting program about Sesame Street playing on NPR--but it wasn't church, and I was lost and frustrated and teary anyway over the death of Mr. Hooper. The service had started at 10:30. At 11:05, I arrived (at last) in Alexandria, gave up on actually going to service, and decided to kill a few hours on King Street before my appointment. I was stopped at a red light. Guess what else was at that light? Fairlington Presbyterian Church. Service at 11:00.
Yeah.
I went. It may be my church for the future; it may also be my church just for this week. Either way, I had to laugh, and shake my head, and be grateful.
Monday, January 12, 2009
12 of 12: January
Welcome to 12 of 12 (144 of 12 x 12?) 2009! For the method behind the madness, and other people's entries, check out Chad Darnell's blog. Otherwise, here we go.
6:50 - January Monday, pre-dawn. This is my "over the moon" face.
7:03 - I feel that some savvy marketing person could base an ad campaign on oatmeal as the poster food for people who a) don't go through milk fast enough, and therefore have fridge-door cheese factories, or b) can't be bothered to buy fresh things in the first place. "Oatmeal: For the Single Person in You!" or possibly "Oatmeal: Don't Be Such a Slob."
7:48 - I was running late, but so was the N4. Relief all around.
7:58 - This is the Colombian embassy at Dupont Circle, which somehow always makes me feel like I'm at Disneyland. Sorry, Colombia. Your embassy is just too cute.
9:20 - My two main reference books for today. Did I forget to tell you that I moved 3,000 miles to analyze the use of the American vernacular phrase "dreadful sorry" in the folk ditty "Clementine"? Soon--when the funding comes in--I will move on to the nature of redundancy in "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain When She Comes."
9:22 - Who had residual jalapeno oil on her fingers when she tried to put in her contacts this morning? You get three guesses.
11:40 - Brainstorming (male) kitty names. Suggestions welcome.
1:07 - An unsuccessful attempt at a discreet self-portrait taken in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator at work. A total stranger nowknows thinks I am a crazy elevator self-portrait-taker.
4:45 - Leaving a tiny bit early to make a 5:15 movie. Note how it is not pitch-black outside. This gives me hope.
7:30 - Sarah and me on our shared quest to see all of the major award-winners/nominees/hopefuls during their season of actual relevance. Subpoint: More bhangra dancing! I need more moments of Bollywood-inspired musical-kinesthetic unity in my life.
8:28 - I am going to skip "too lazy to cook" and go straight to "look at all that whole-grain/high-calcium goodness," and hope nobody notices.
8:35 - I am exhausted from all that...sitting? This is sad. Perhaps cheese and crackers and Stephen Colbert will cheer me up.
Happy January, folks. Stay warm.
6:50 - January Monday, pre-dawn. This is my "over the moon" face.
7:03 - I feel that some savvy marketing person could base an ad campaign on oatmeal as the poster food for people who a) don't go through milk fast enough, and therefore have fridge-door cheese factories, or b) can't be bothered to buy fresh things in the first place. "Oatmeal: For the Single Person in You!" or possibly "Oatmeal: Don't Be Such a Slob."
7:48 - I was running late, but so was the N4. Relief all around.
7:58 - This is the Colombian embassy at Dupont Circle, which somehow always makes me feel like I'm at Disneyland. Sorry, Colombia. Your embassy is just too cute.
9:20 - My two main reference books for today. Did I forget to tell you that I moved 3,000 miles to analyze the use of the American vernacular phrase "dreadful sorry" in the folk ditty "Clementine"? Soon--when the funding comes in--I will move on to the nature of redundancy in "She'll Be Comin' Round the Mountain When She Comes."
9:22 - Who had residual jalapeno oil on her fingers when she tried to put in her contacts this morning? You get three guesses.
11:40 - Brainstorming (male) kitty names. Suggestions welcome.
1:07 - An unsuccessful attempt at a discreet self-portrait taken in the mirrored ceiling of the elevator at work. A total stranger now
4:45 - Leaving a tiny bit early to make a 5:15 movie. Note how it is not pitch-black outside. This gives me hope.
7:30 - Sarah and me on our shared quest to see all of the major award-winners/nominees/hopefuls during their season of actual relevance. Subpoint: More bhangra dancing! I need more moments of Bollywood-inspired musical-kinesthetic unity in my life.
8:28 - I am going to skip "too lazy to cook" and go straight to "look at all that whole-grain/high-calcium goodness," and hope nobody notices.
8:35 - I am exhausted from all that...sitting? This is sad. Perhaps cheese and crackers and Stephen Colbert will cheer me up.
Happy January, folks. Stay warm.
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