Smells like happiness

The funniest thing happened the other day. I became deathly ill, in a whoa-what-is-wrong-with-me-does-dengue-recur-or-maybe-that-was-malaria-after-all kind of way. It was great because I don’t have health insurance? And I live in the US? Specifically New York City, she of the imploding economy and the glut of young, over-educated, high-self-regarding types, and the obscene cost of living, and (I’m sure I mentioned) I am without steady employment! You think I’m complaining but you’re wrong!

It reminds me of how I feel about hummus lately. To be sure, hummus is one of the best foods, and a dominant staple of my diet. But part of my freak illness is a sickly sweet taste in my mouth, which means the last time I ate hummus it was DISGUSTING. So now I gag at the thought of delicious, tahini-rich garbanzo puree, despite my love for it. It's the cruel irony of desiring what makes you sick (OR VERY ANGRY), like my increasingly feeble laptop, the breeze from the Greenpoint Superfund site, or All My Children.

I can only laugh at the new threats to my personal solvency and well-being. What else is there to do? On fait ce qu’on peut, as Arthur used to say.

Liveblogging CLT

My plane landed an hour ago and now I'm waiting for the fam to arrive here in Charlotte. CLT is a pretty great airport - free WiFi, rocking chairs, live culture frozen yogurt. I'm not actually doing anything worthy of a liveblog, but I like to take advantage of free internet when it's available, out of principle. So let's catch up.

I went to the Game with Sam and Dan last weekend. We lost. Again. And the air was as cold as a Cantab's Puritan heart. I thought I was going to lose some toes.

I met up with two long-time neglected old friends in Chinatown. After 4 years of zero contact and a few recent facebook exchanges the reconnection still managed to feel impulsive. It was good, though. Things change and don't change, you know?

Coming up after Thanksgiving is an "official" reunion of my mother's mother's family, the Alexandres.

Oh, and they're here. I have to go.

My iPod is trying to tell me something

Soon after wiping out spectacularly on the pavement outside the NYU Near East Studies Center this morning, after a late night of cover letters and personal statement procrastination, the following songs came up on my shuffle function:

Don't Let it Bring You Down
You Can Have it All
What Else is There?
Requiem
Not if You Were the Last Junkie on Earth
Sleep
Demon Days
The Boss
I Don't Blame You

A warning? Not subtle, iPod.

Love

I burst into tears watching this video today.



That is all.

It's cool, we can still be friends

Alright, yes I am being silly. We have a black president-elect! Suck it, cynics! The long national nightmare that was the Sarah Palin news cycle is over. America - fuck yeah! I will not be unemployed forever, and in the meantime I have time to do things like walk across the Brooklyn Bridge with out of town guests. And search Little Italy for pig candy. And drink wine with my grandmother at her ladies' club. And take in an Abstract Expressionist show at a gallery called Haunch of Venison. All free!

Also, come on, this is Brooklyn! Molly runs into Timothy Busfield all the time. The friend's birthday party I attended on Monday featured a concert with members of Beirut and The Arcade Fire and Zach Condon was there! We love our neighbors and Fall is lasting forever and I run into Darnell on the subway. What I was saying in July about anticipatory household joy, and Xin and Molly being good for mental stability and whatnot - all true! So I've got that going for me, which is nice.

No need to call, folks, I'm cool.

Election hangover

I have this post-partum thing going on. I was so ready for cathartic joy on Election Night. Instead I was too physically exhausted to even cry, much less celebrate. I really wanted to cry. And celebrate the whole victory of hope and the future and history. It's great we won and all, and I suppose in the future I will feel pride for having spent four days in Philly getting out the vote, doing my part for a renewed America, but the overall experience was a little underwhelming.

All of it is underwhelming somehow. You'd think I was a McCain supporter with the ennui I'm working right now. Part of it is the continued joblessness, mild loneliness, boredom, therapy-withdrawal, but there is a greater disconnect. Like the instant we won my blind optimism was replaced with circa 2007 baseline cynicism. What to do with that? What about Hope?

Feh, it's there. No worries.

I'm crying a little

I drank the kool-aid, this is not a secret. I watched the Obama-mercial tonight and even though it's not particularly sophisticated or appealing to my demographic, or relevant even, because I've been in the tank for a while and this hasn't been in question, but still. Still. I have such heart-swelling. Such ache. Such pride. Because maybe, maybe there will be a national leadership I can claim as my own, as representing me and my friends and our values and the things that are important to me. Maybe soon Canadians will sew American flags onto their backpacks when they travel in Europe so that they will be associated with our astonishing return to grace, with the overwhelming joy that is imminent. God, I hope it is imminent. I believe. I hope. I must not count chickens.

My tutee told me about his mother's friend, who last time around in 2004 said he would bring Canadian immigration papers with him to the election night party. This year he is bringing a hand gun because there is no consolation prize. There is nothing to turn to. We must win.

Now, personally, emigrating North is no longer an option. Please, American electorate, do not defy the polls, do not fail me now. I tear up a little because I love. Because I am not lost. Because I am so cynical and too cool for school and smarter than idealism and still I love. Still, I want. I hope. Jesus, I am the last person to buy what they're selling and yet I have. I do. I hope.

My promise to me

Let's make something clear. I am not talking about dates, not in the last post nor any others. I will not talk about dates. I may express some thoughts and observations re: boys generally, but I will not talk about (current) romances. The reasons are two-fold. One, I want to minimize internet evidence of feelings or relationships that will most likely change, and two, it's just lame. Lamer even than the concept of blogging in the first place. My narcissism does not extend to blogging about my love life like it's entertaining on its own merits. That's what Slut Machine is (was) for. So maybe feelings are fair game, but narration is not, is what I'm saying. Also, less exploitation.

I'm really going to try.

Today, as I rode down the elevator in the United Federation of Teachers' building where the Obama office is, I encountered an interesting scene. On the third floor an Orthodox Jewish family got on, followed by a young woman wearing a keffiyeh (not the fashiony kind) and escorting a deaf kid. I thought at first that they were together and coming from some sort of peace and coexistence meeting. But I think it was just an odd confluence of costume-identified minorities in an unlikely place that resulted in something close to situational irony.

So, keep the scandalizing to a minimum, that's the idea. And prepare for sister time at Davidson this weekend. I think this photo illustrates both.

When a door is closed, God opens a window, however, our old radiators cannot compensate for the heat loss

Boy, it's drafty. While one nightmare slowly comes to an end (construction is done, fixtures don't quite work), another begins. Reader, I am sick. Obviously, I blame the dengue. I would like to stay on the couch and recuperate, but there's still a lot of dust in the air and home is not so comfortable for vegging.

I am also sick at heart, or more accurately, sick at professional ambition. It seems likely that the financial crisis will make finding a real job much more difficult. It feels like everyone is on a hiring freeze. Or maybe they just don't like me and that's why I'm not hearing back. When does the personal panic kick in, by Christmas maybe? I certainly intended to be employed by Thanksgiving, but, I don't know, man, I don't know.

In other news, I went out on Saturday night with an old, old friend - middle school vintage - who I hadn't seen in at least 5 years. We reminisced about the good times (our Barbie soap opera video for 9th grade bio, Larry the Mole), the bad times (8th grade love triangles, French trip heartbreak) and discovered all the things we have in common today, like Brooklyn, remarried moms, and a love of Toronto. I also spent half an hour monologuing about what makes The Wire so sophisticated and unique and upsetting and intimidating for someone ostensibly "writing" a "screenplay."

Finally, as we have less than 2 weeks until the election for President, I urge you, dear Reader, to go to a phone bank. Make some calls to your fellow Americans in Colorado, Nevada, Ohio, Pennsylvania, Virginia, or North Carolina. Put your mouth where your heart is and tell the country why they should support Senators Barack Obama and Joe Biden. If we give them 2 weeks of focussed effort they will give us 8 years of something better.

It's a freakin' nightmare

Our home is covered in a thick patina of grime and white dust. It is choking, horrific, overwhelming. What the hell, man?

Also, what is with the awkwardness in the debates, this grimace-smile of McCain's? Punch him in the face, facts! He must be put to pasture! I am so ready for this all to be over, for the ultimate, cathartic, orgasmic finality of election night. Finally finally finally.

Uhoh

The men came today to take our shower away. Then they put the sink and toilet in the kitchen. They put the toilet "back" at the end of the day but right now 257 out of the 800 square feet of our apartment is shower-related wreckage. Debate night this week might take place entirely at the bar. And we'll shower downstairs?

Barack is playing at my house, my house!

The CormanYu Commune has been hosting the debates lately, enjoying the candidates in high-def with neighbors and friends. Tuesday night was a Nixon-Kennedy redux, what with the handsomest, presidentialy-est of presidential candidates and some old, waxen-faced crank side by side, don't you think?

The VP debate last week has been my favorite thus far, as it reminded me how good I feel about not being a member of the Republican base (when Palin opened with the "I learn about the economy by attending children's SOCCER GAMES" bit I nearly hurled). She is the fucking Antichrist. And we are winning the culture war.

Also, thanks to the special crazy they brew at MSNBC, this adorable moment of sibling silliness was inspired:


Molly is the wolverine attacking the pantleg of a passerby (Ben), just like the Governor of Alaska. Props on the metaphor, Howard Fineman.

I've been trying to work "Halaby" into "CormanYu Commune," but it's not happening. CormanYu rolls off the tongue so nicely. I take comfort that I am represented by the mere fact that I invented it. The name and the Commune.

I love you, world, now hire me!

"I didn't know I was a hippy til you started drumming!"

Finally, a post deserving of the "religious experiences on a farm" tag. It's been a whole year since my time with the kibbutzniks at CADP, and I guess I never really explained what was so holy about it. Something about the greenery and children in a rural setting, and wine with ex-military multinationals, and motorbike lessons and putting hands in the dirt with Ariel, and mosquito netting. Last weekend's farm was very, very different. There was scenery and community and beer and a rope bed to sleep on. Contradancing (different from line dancing!) til my feet went numb and my calves gave out. THEN the drumming circle started. My legs could carry me no more but I stayed awake long enough to watch Paige dance over to the table where the potluck had been spread earlier in the evening, fetch a large cauldron-type thing and a wooden spoon and proceed to bang the shit out of it in time with the fellows on bongos, etc, well into the wee hours. She is truly la señora de la hacienda.

The next morning, after what felt like a full night's rest (oddly), I was treated to a farm-fresh breakfast and a tour of the property. Man, the Adirondacks in September are outrageous. There is no other word for the maple trees in full flagrante, mixed in with the still-greens and the rock, and the rolling, low mountains. The 18th century farmhouse and salad plants were pretty too. If it were way easier and less time-consuming to grow food I would ask Paige to teach me how to do it. It is delicious.

Also of note, and this is maybe a little gossipy (sorry!), but I drove up with a mutual friend who happens to be Paige's college bf and they are such good, genuine buds these days. It is awe/jealousy-inspiring. Or affirming of one's faith in humanity. I will call it affirming. That is all.


What else.... so much...tbd

Let's talk about more metaphors

This is a photograph  from the first week of our apartment and this is what it means:

Maybe you can't see, but that's 6 dollar organic peanut butter = we live in Brooklyn near an organic foods store, and far from a reasonably priced supermarket.

The jam is Polish jam = we live in Greenpoint, home to the Poles!

The Red Cow Cheese, whose ad campaigns are targeted to young women who want to be thin = we are young women!

Granny Smith apple = the bittersweet, tangy tastiness of eking out a hip single girl lifestyle while jobless in New York in 2008.

Cups and bowls = presence of IKEA in  our lives.

Peanut butter and jam on toast = I'm unemployed!

Ok, the apple is a stretch, but I forget what I had in mind for the apple when I was documenting lunch.

It's 1am and David Blaine has blessed me with Magic

So hard to keep up when so much and so little is going on! I've been drinking with family for three straight weekends and it's been wonderful. My dad and I had a little come to Jesus session that, so far, has led to better relations. My cousin took me to a dance club in DC where I was the only white girl. I reconnected with my WASP heritage at my great aunt's birthday in Lawrence, NY. I made out in front of my mom. All enriching experiences.

Tonight I met up with another family connection - the friend of my maternal step-cousin whom I met once in a hot tub in Vermont in 2006. Thanks to thefacebook.com and good social skills, now we are buds in Brooklyn and we spent an hour this evening watching David Blaine sort of hang upside down in Central Park. It was entirely unamazing.

I'm beginning to feel nervous about the job hunt. I'm not sure I'm getting anywhere. I don't have much to do each day except scramble (on the Internet) to find jobs to apply for and people to email. So I'm both free and very busy. Still with the contrast of things and feelings about most things. Funny thing, feelings.

More on Nicole and Jake's wedding, Tata's 90th, nesting and loving Brooklyn later. Still on West Coast time and I need SLEEP.

A syzygy

That is what is going on right now, Reader, a syzygy of emotion, contrast, and activity. The home is coming together, the nation may be falling apart, and my unwavering commitment to positivity remains just that. I. Will. Not. Waver. But I sure hope the polls do.

In other news: our apartment building is like Friends, except a fraction of the size of course and the boy girl ratio is more in mine and Molly's favor. We've discovered a special friend scurrying in the kitchen, whom Molly alternately calls "Pappy" or "our white whale" and all I will say is he is too big to squish so Xin has fashioned a bludgeon out of a knife handle and duct tape. However, Pappy remains at large.  

My job search consists of "networking" like the shameless Ivy League grad I am. 

I've got this great photo that illustrates the first few weeks here so perfectly. It's full of symbolism and many layers of meaning as well as Polish foodstuffs and I'll upload it soonish.

I still have some burny feeling in my gut/heart area.

Relocation rigamarole, it's a Friggin' Fiesta! (TM Herrera)

Reader! So much, so very, very much...

New York Cares: So many ironic mustaches, so many finance dorks trying so hard to get laid, so many crazies at the Starbucks, so much odor! Molly goes to H&H, mystifying Tata, and Dan is the welcome committee, obviously, to Thai lunch on the UWS. Aspirational living among the brownstones in the "Burlingame of Brooklyn," Brooklyn Heights, perilous pink ladders to the unsanctioned rooftop in Greenpoint (are you thinking of a PJ Harvey song? me too!). Strange formations of hipsters surrounding our neighborhood park (they're, uh, flocking this way), later revealed to be a line-up for free tickets to Yo La Tengo at the pool (obvs). [Next week it's an outdoor screening of Rushmore (double obvs).] Listening to the YLT concert later, on aforementioned rooftop. Welcome to Williamsburg night = Sex Panthers on the DUMBO waterfront, followed by bar Connect 4 with a dude I'm fairly sure just finished his stint with the IDF. The Israelis, man, they always find me.

Bed shopping, bed hopping around the boroughs until the lease starts. Getting things homey for Xin, waiting til he returns from Burning Man. Online window shopping for "deals" on Danish mid-century pieces. Resting up way out on Lon Gisland, looking forward to a Labor Day weekend in West Egg, all while I blog from my beloved green-trimmed college apartment desk, where I did work on my computer before Facebook existed. Oh, that heady time.

Frakkin-a, Reader, I haven't even moved in yet! Best. Life. Ever.*


*Yes, I'm slightly nauseated at myself, too.

Please don't do shots at frat parties

Fuuuuuuuck! It's actually here. My sister is leaving for college tomorrow! Is it weird that I feel a mixture of sadness, vicarious excitement, and jealousy? I want so much for her, and want so much that she be spared the mishaps/tragedies I went through. I can't enunciate it - the right advice - to protect her and embolden her and pass down whatever wisdom I have acquired. I think there's a part of me that sees her life as an opportunity for a do-over of my own.

I remember this night for me. My closest friends came over to watch me pack into the wee hours. The last one to leave lingered in the front hall, but I wanted him out so I could run back to my room and cry. I felt lonely instantly. 36 hours later I was on the train to New Haven, in the same car as Xin, who, 8 years later, is soon to be my roommate. That's a lovely little continuity arc, eh?

Now all that's left is to burn the ubiquitous farewell mix CD (which started as a woe-is-me mix and is heavy on The Magnetic Fields) before Mom and Caroline head to the airport. Then back to packing up boxes for my own imminent departure. It's just like I'm going off to school, too! Except instead of picking classes I'll be job-hunting in a recession! And instead of battling over dorm suite space with a sullen Turk and an artsy Texan, I'll be negotiating the placement of mid-century furniture with a librarian and a lawyer in a "cozy" apartment in Greenpoint. Sheeeeeeeeyit!

Honorable Mention

Also, because he is yet another hot swimmer and also Arabi, I must add Ous Mellouli, winner of Tunisia's first ever swimming gold medal (1500m free).

Given that Kristin has facebook friended mini man-gymnast Jon Horton, who are my Olympic ogling objects?

Unsurprisingly, my little sister thinks monkey-face swim champ Michael Phelps is hot. I get that the swimmer body can make any average dude hotter. But still, the ears, the bad teeth? Eh. There's better.

My Olympic crushes are as follows:

1. Ryan Lochte, who is no longer a secret I must admit, is a stone fox. Look at how happy he is next to Monkey Face!
Need more proof?

Now that's a hot torso.

2. My girl crush, Chinese diving megastar Guo Jing Jing. She's so pretty! She's so friggin' dominant! Apparently the government gave her a hard time for her "commercial activity," and she had to stop lending her face to ad campaigns or risk getting kicked out of practice. Imagine if American athletes were made to tone down the endorsements. How would NBC sell all that ad space to Visa?


3. And, of course, because I am the very epitome of a female sports fan, I LOVE Nastia Liukin.


I joined in her teariness during the All-Around medal ceremony. Also, she looks a whole lot like my girl Kristen Bell:


Alright, Phelps finally broke. He cried for NBC after wrapping up the hunt for 8 gold medals. He's a little adorable. Still very simian.

Your busted heart will be fine

I'm still trying to work out the true story of my last relationship, to explain definitively the how and why, like there is a logic game in there I can solve. Many times over many months (years? since the beginning?) I've come up with theories that were later abandoned, had faith that was proven naïve, or despaired over angst I can't even remember. The one thing I know for sure is that my feelings are mixed. That's where I am with all the therapy, folks, "my feelings are mixed." Marvel at the mastery of personal insight.

And I'm right on schedule, according to the strategy I developed circa 1995. My adolescent plan for a lifetime free of divorce (with my parents as cautionary tale) called for the failure of a serious relationship in my early 20s. I figured if I did away with romantic naïveté before getting married, and then I'd never leave my husband for greener grass, or because things were hard. Check and check. At 13, it sounded simple enough.

Then there is the glass-half-full analysis, supplied by Molly, which says if you can love somebody, then you can do it again. Let the truth be about potential and growth, not loss or failure.

Better to go with that then obsess over all my asshole behavior. I am exhausted.

There's something in the air in Hollywood

I think Nicole had a pretty good time.

As did I.

Highlights of bachelorette debauchery:

1. Quizzing Hollywood horsetop cops on the differences between horses and cruisers, arresting the drunk & disorderly v. prostitutes, and the reality of their lives v. The Wire.
2. The guys who approached us at the Mondrian to ask if we'd like to accompany them on their party bus to the "best karaoke bar in Santa Monica." They tried to sweeten the pot by name-dropping LeBeef and insisting there were "many kegs" on board. I 'm almost sad we missed out on The Shia LeBeouf Memorial Bus Tour of 08. Get well soon!
3. Molly recognizing the bad guy from 10 Things I Hate About You (Andrew Keegan). He was short and wearing a manheadband.
4. The love, the laughs, the togetherness. The whole Sisterhood of the Traveling Pants thing.

The Lost Year

We've passed the one year anniversary here at HiC, which means... clip show!

When we started out we felt a little silly, but then we got comfortable complaining. There was Cambodia story time and kibbutzim. There was more complaining and nostalgia. Then, DENGUE. We got a little judgy, and tried to make the weirdness funny, and succumbed to dramatics. Which infamously led to quitting, followed by planning!

Before the end of Asia, we learned something about evil, and loved Vietnam, and maybe felt some regret. We knew we'd miss Lara and the cats, Bri, Fi, Al, Suz, Luke and dearest Rabia.

Once home, we retreated into The Cave, flirted with career angst, sports (by the way, fuck you Baron) and politics, went off the deep end, and then: radio silence.

Six months and many untold stories later, we checked in and things were not so cheery. In the midst of the brain scramble we were disappointed, and a little pissed. Maybe we overshared, and tried to explain depression without sounding like some sad teenager's livejournal. Magically, thrillingly, life became good again, despite tragedy, and we felt joy. The sad-sackery receded and we looked forward.

So much of the last year has felt like passing through fire, a chemical peel of the soul, if you will. What's the right metaphor for this experience - a test, a rebirth, an excavation? I feel new. Once again, all the clichés are true!

There are so many mistakes I'll never make again. So much I didn't know, but now have proven. Pain and shittiness that is so crushing, once it recedes, feels a weird kind of good. Relief is euphoric, the best feeling, as regret is the worst. I said in Cambodia that I had jumped off a bridge, and maybe I jumped off the wrong one. But of course now I know that failure is freeing, and the leap is not scary.

Keep Tahoe Blue

This is the blue, blue water of Lake Tahoe, California's greatest vacation destination.

And this is Molly imitating Maisie (RIP), her Springer Spaniel.

Music is my boyfriend

I have been toying with the idea of doing a little writing exercise/experiment wherein I post in the style of my favorite blogs. I could do a Go Fug Yourself homage, recap a show à la TWoP, or impersonate a pretentious music critic using a Pitchfork thesaurus. Maybe it will be a once in a while thing, just to stretch and for god's sake talk about something other than my own goddamned life. Or! I could experiment with style and tone while talking about my own goddamned life!

I thought I'd start out with a concert review, but there really isn't much to say about the

Coldplay concert. They played against backing tracks. Can anything more be said? I am as big a fan of indie electronica/dance/new new wave whathaveyou as the next hipster-lite but when every performer on stage is waiting for the string solo that is coming out of the speakers to be over before playing their instruments again then I have a problem. If you are going to write sweeping, romantic über-anthems, Mr Gwyneth, then you need to tour with a couple violinists, yea?

That said, when the crowd swelled with the "waaaaooooo oh oh" on "Viva La Vida" I was definitely singing along. Indeed, I sang along with all the songs I knew. And when Chris introduced "The Scientist" with a little self-effacement ("Thanks for coming out to see an aging British pop rock band when there's lots of good TV on and strip clubs to go to. This is what we call, ahem, a ballad.") I could somewhat forgive the use of Liberty Leading the People (projected on an enormous screen) as their backdrop. What does that even mean??

In my fantasy future life in New York I'm going to see live music all the time. I'm getting out of the house every night, at least until Winter gets into full swing. I'm going to trivia nights, and laptop wars-type stuff, and obscure film festivals, and free nights at the museum, and good and weird theatre of all kinds. I'm also going to cook more and join a team (it will not involve frisbee or kickball) and really nest and plug in and have my whole life in one place.

All this happy excitement starts with the household. Wish Xin luck with the apartment-hunting this weekend!

Can I embed?

Liveblogging the Land of Enchantment

I'm here in lovely Taos, NM with the fam plus Emma, still catching up on my lost hours of sleep from last week. The mesa silence and world's most comfortable bed help.

We hiked to Williams Lake yesterday. I am sad to report that, despite all the aerobicizing and muscle-building I've been doing lately, the 2 mile uphill climb had me pretty winded. I'm comfortable blaming the altitude, however.

The days ahead promise chile rellenos, Never Have I Ever with 18 year olds, rolling black outs, Rio Grande swims, and bighorn sheep sightings. What I'd really like to do is head North.

Stay tuned for a Coldplay run-down once I get home. I wouldn't say they rocked, but boy does Chris Martin put on the charm. I would even call him winning.

I want to live in a wooden house

I guess I'm embarrassed to admit this, but I'm also blogging it so I must not actually be embarrassed. I'm going to a Coldplay concert tonight. This makes me somewhere between standard level and advanced level white. I did review Parachutes for the Yale Daily News when it came out, so, you know, I am kind of obligated to see them live to have a fully formed critical perspective. (?) Also, ok, yes, "The Scientist" has been soundtrack to some emotional moments. But really it's just that my Dad has tickets. And I'm chaperoning Caroline. That's it.

The pelican poops anyway

If you've spent as much time as I have researching on IMDb then you are probably familiar with a certain gem from Elijiah Wood's oeuvre, The Bumblebee Flies Anyway. If you watch any of the lesser Encore or Starz! channels available on Comcast Premium Movies package then you may even have seen it. Maybe, like me, you encountered the mysteriously-titled film while browsing at a non-virtual Blockbuster store (so 2003, am I right?) and you had to know "who are the ad wizards who came up with this one??" The plot summary asks "what if, like the bumblebee, who flies not knowing its wings are too small to allow flight, the impossible might be possible?" Turns out the "impossible" is surviving terminal cancer, which becomes "possible" when Janeane Garofalo does a Clockwork Orange on Elijiah's brain so that he forgets to die. Hilaarious.

I think Molly was present for that moment at Blockbuster, though she may have missed out on an 11am showing on Encore Drama a few years later. Hence, the movie (as well as EJ and his gay hobbit sex appeal, which predates being cast as Frodo) has become a running gag between us. 

Last weekend we accidentally drove to Hayward and on our way back over the bridge we noticed a triad of pelicans doing the bird hover, wherein their wing-flapping is equal to the headwind so that they fly in place (brainwave! "Treadmill in the Sky" has just become the first single Obviously Incarcerated will release off their debut LP Objectively Cuter). Molly, in earnest Hollywood copywriter cadence, observed that "the pelican poops, too," an adorable Freudian mash-up of our favorite worst movie title ever and the syntax of Everyone Poops. 

Yea yea, this is a total had-to-be-there story but I nearly died of laughter. If I had been driving we would have crashed. I laughed harder than when Mr Longyear made a "back when submarines had screen doors" joke in 9th grade bio. I convulsed for a solid two minutes. It felt so good.

It's good that Molly is coming with me (yes, I know, it's more like I am following her) to New York. Not only is she an endless source of a specific and priceless form of entertainment - best friend inside jokes - but she's pretty essential to my mental stability. Xin, my other future roommate and sure to feature prominently in many upcoming posts, is also good for that. I am looking forward to my future household with unconditional joy.

You know how I'm saying no to nostalgia? (And it's not even nostalgia when you see the person every day.) Sometimes nostalgia is the greatest thing ever. My 14ish years of friendship with Molly means we have a shared history that is long and deep and irreplaceable. I can't know what my stepmother is going through but I am deeply afraid of it. Losing a long-term best friend is a catastrophe. You can't make a new one. It's worse than divorce. 

Molly, on the serious, you are not allowed to die.

Wall-E Redux

Jesus, I need to stop watching this movie. But Molly hadn't seen it and it's worth another 10 dollars and so I was done in again - what with the robot courting and the triumph of community and connectedness and whatnot. So of course it takes me back to what I have been thinking of not thinking about. All this romantic ritual, the falling in love that looks so familiar, is happening to someone else.

I think the hardest part of the end-for-real is letting go of the version of yourself that you loved when you were loved by that person. Because it's like giving up a real part of you, a part you liked. Letting go of believing you were the kind of person who had found their match - who would only truly love once, who was sacred to one person - sucks. It's stupid and insane and young and largely influenced by all your many friends who are marrying their college boyfriends, but still. It's sad when best friends become people who used to know each other. And this is where Elliott Smith takes over, folks, so I better jump tracks.

I read some blog snark today blaming the generation of self-obsessed faux writers clogging up the internets on a certain female overshare-blogger. But that is bullshit. It's the fault of A Heartbreaking Work of Staggering Genius, obvs.

Blog clog. Log.

What kind of day has it been?

Sometimes it doesn't matter. No matter what the reality, the facts on the ground so to speak, mood is still like surfing a wave. It takes its own shape. I've been trying to find a pattern, but I think there is none.

My Buddhist former boss told me the three essences of being - physical, emotional and mental - balance and influence each other in equal measure. Exercising makes your heart lighter, thinking positive speeds healing, feeling content aids in decision-making, etc. It's the theory behind meditation and probably some kinds of yoga, too. It's almost scary how much it's true. In Cambodia I'd come home from work feeling hot and awkward and lonely and I'd listen to music on my little speakers and not even remember feeling bad 20 minutes later. Even if I was listening to sadbastard music! Thinking about sucking it up, rationalizing the pros and cons of my situation, even trying to think happy thoughts wouldn't improve my mood. But distracting my brain through my ears turned my frown upside down. I'd still be alone and hot, but I wouldn't feel bothered. Of course, there's always a danger of the inverse, which is why Sigur Ros should come with a warning label.

Working around whatever is bugging you by targeting another "essence" is a good strategy, but it's also so frustrating! Why isn't happiness just a little more rational, or based on actual events? Why can't I convince myself to get in a better mood? Why can't the runner's high (from running, or sometimes from social activity) extend to buffer your mood for the day? Why doesn't talking to a friend work? I want to do good things and feel good, feel better when things are better and only feel worse when something goes wrong. That my mood is often beholden to caprice makes me feel crazy, or like a child.

I'm thinking about this now because a few months ago I was at home, without a real job, without much figured out, without much of a social network and feeling bent out of shape about it. Now I'm still at home, unemployed and 3000 miles from most of my friends, but I just don't worry as much. It could be because I'm moving to New York or just, uh, maturing generally, but Big Life Things - dream job, love, future goals - are still unknown and unsatisfied. And I'm OK with that? Weird.

City mouse, country mouse

Is that the story where one of them drowns in a bucket of cream and the other makes butter and escapes, or something? Or is that a different mouse parable altogether? Whatever it is, it's also the beta title for the blog I'm convincing Agronomist Paige (of the Ecuador trip, not to be confused with Aljazeera Paige of the Bangkok trip) to write with me.

Paige is an agronomist, which is like being a farmer except it's so much more. Also, it translates into Spanish better so the Ecuadorians we met could understand that Paige is into growing food, and not actually a peasant. She grows healthy food of the plant and animal variety in upstate New York and I especially recommend the carrots. Paige is one of the few young people I know to have some shit really figured out, like what she loves and what she is good at. She didn't learn it in a classroom or have it handed down to her by her parents. She followed her interests, tried things, and found a calling. Wow, do I envy that. So she is the country mouse.

I'm about to move to New York City. I have no job (yet!) and there's no particular opportunity or dream I'm chasing. I've always had a deep ambivalence about New York. I reject the idea that "The City" is the only city worth living in, or that it's somehow the A-Team American city (except for weather! they will never claim superior weather!). But I'm also drawn to the energy, the constant activity and the prospect of running into Conan O'Brien. I used to have a fair amount of trepidation about the A-Team aspect - would I just feel not cool enough all the time? Would my suburban roots belie my hipster affectations? Of course! But I don't care anymore. Everyone will be cooler, prettier and more interesting than me. Except actually I am more interesting. Fuck it. So I'm the city mouse.

What do we have to learn from each other? I plan to join Zip-Car, drive to Essex, NY and find out, hopefully in time for the Harvest. Which is in October-ish? Earlier? When do the lambs get slaughtered? I'll just come before then.

No one should ever question my patriotism

Fourth of July, Santa Cruz, CA with best boarding school buds Amanda and Beth Ann. Thanks to Katie Simpkins for art direction and photography.

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground and tell sad stories

A few weeks ago my stepmother's best friend was killed in a car accident - a freak injury sustained when a Kia ran a red and broadsided her sturdy, German-built station wagon on a bright afternoon - the kind of accident that seems crazy, that makes a joke of the precautions we take to make ourselves safe. Out of nowhere. Dumb luck.

I was scared to get in my car for a few days, and sad for my stepmom, and, predictably, morbidly meditative.

We can comfort ourselves knowing she lived well, made a difference in people's lives, was loved, and went quickly without pain. This kind of death teaches us to cherish each day, settle old arguments, be kind. Everyone's time comes and everyone will lose loved ones. But there is no absolute value as to the how of life or death; all deaths are not equal. So how are they relative?

If we trust Six Feet Under, then "death exists to give life meaning." That's too much a platitude to feel true. What about murder victims? What about friendly fire? What about 7-year-olds with leukemia? What's the difference between a car accident, cancer, and dying of starvation in a prison cell or refugee camp? What if there's no lesson in death? What if there is no one around to appreciate life more deeply now that someone has died?

I worry sometimes that grieving is just a process by which we convince ourselves of life's meaning, despite there being no evidence as such, so that we don't go to each day in fear of our own oblivion. I worry that every adjustment we make to tolerate pain is just a way of acquiring ignorance, to position new blinders to block realities we are too weak to accept. If whatever doesn't kill you doesn't make you stronger, when there are no lessons, then suffering is meaningless, too. And, if that's all true, can you conceive of mortality in a way that is both comforting and authentic?

I am so full of shit.

One is the loneliest robot

Joining my voice to the chorus: WALL-E is awesome. It's incredibly beautiful, poignant, important, and satisfying. The end credits alone are worth the price of admission (even worth watching it in a room full of restless children). The animation, the nuance and expression imbued in dialogue-free sequences of robot love, yes it's all you have read and more. And it frickin' killed me.

Earlier in the weekend I made a tour of iconic Bay Area subcultures, flitting from Berkeley hippie party to Dyke March Dolores Park madness to Karaoke Revolution with software engineers. What did I learn? Vegan mint cupcakes taste like toothpaste, Arab lesbians rule SF, and "Fame" is really hard to sing. Also, avoid special cookies in Dolores Park.

After all that exhausting activity, I made it home to start a re-read of Harry Potter 7. It's been a little less than a year since my first read, but I have found Harry to be therapeutic in the past and it beats Degrassi marathons on The N. Oh, who am I kidding? Nothing beats Degrassi marathons! Programming executives at The N who have chosen to make episodes of Degrassi: The Next Generation 40% of all content shown on the channel, thank you. I will never be sated. Teen melodrama will never get old.

And then, this afternoon, despite all the friendliness of the weekend, I told my therapist why WALL-E made me so sad.

"So, you feel like you are the lonely robot," she shrinktalked (which is not quite asking, not quite stating). I nodded, tearing up remembering WALL-E's little robot pincers miming human hand-holding.

Pause. "And we need to stop for today."

"But you should really see the movie," I told her as I shuffled off the couch, "it's really good."

It's all the same oatbag

Here in this "space" I like to call my "blog" there are a couple built-in assumptions. First, here I am the center of the universe (the corollary therefore is it's all about ME and it's not about YOU), and, b) I aim to entertain, in some small way, all of humanity. That means I am occasionally guilty of generalizations for dramatic effect. As always, it's a dish best served with salt.

It's all over now, Susie Q.

This should be surprising to no one, since I have always counseled my friends to maintain periods of distance from exes before trying to be friends, but man, did this one blow up in my face. I tried to do it all the right way, did my best to keep anything awkward or hurtful out of conversation, to preserve the deep friendship at the root of the relationship, but there is no right way.

When the break-up happened, it seemed like there were almost as many reasons for us to stay friends as there were to break up. It was so mutual, so heartfelt. And we stayed friends, close friends, friends that weren't really friends for a while, but then friends that were friends. Friends who knew each other better than most, who cared more than most. That's just as much a dangerous situation. Because you think you're in on a secret, a testament to your shared past, and you think you're looking out for each other just a little bit more than the average person. And that means when the trust - the expectation of that mutual consideration - is let down, it's the most crushing disappointment.

When this kind of friend treats you poorly, it's like losing ten best friends at once. You're disbelieving yet painfully aware of the truth. It's like watching a car accident in slow motion, knowing there will be no survivors.

Suddenly every idea you had about love, the kind that lasts beyond romance, is so naïve. Suddenly there is nothing to show for your 5 years of caring about someone else. You're speechless. The lasting warm feelings about "love justly wagered and lost," of knowing you'll always be there for each other, are replaced with bitterness, with the shock that you don't know him at all, that your situation is not special, that you're walking away with nothing.

Great, now I get to be Fiona Apple!

Boys, you guys. Boys are the WORST. What is with that? If it's not leaving the seat up, or crumbs everywhere, or smelly feet, or, you know, intentional cruelty, then it's just plain thickheadedness and lack-of-clue-itude. They're worthless. I wish sexual orientation were a choice.

So what do we do about boys? Tear our hair out, cry in the shower, listen to music of the dejected/embittered female singer-songwriter genre? Those are the obvious choices. What do we do when they're small, petty, or mean-spirited? What do we do when they disappoint us?

Taking suggestions:

This is outrageous, this is contagious

Lifestyles of the unemployed include:

• ER reruns (currently on season 4), mornings on TNT
• Coffee
  
• Skimming the pool
  
• Email networking
• The Jeannie Tate Show
• Talking to myself while I drive
  
• Debating the likelihood of dying alone
• Walking

Most of the above items are enjoyed in solitude, except when Molly is there.

I throw my arms out in exultation

I've been told (by my sole Gentle Reader) that the picture in the Tuesday post looks like a stock image and that it's not clear that it's actually me in the photo. So, yes, that's me. And that's a stork's nest, which makes the overall effect a bit Willow, if you know what I'm saying.

This is also me (standing).

Sissy!

Who could fear dying alone with this one around?

There are two kinds of people in this world

The kind that drown in nostalgia and the kind that don't. The ones who bump over potholes big and small, and the ones who drive wholly off-road, on switchbacks, in an old Jeep Wrangler with no brakes. The neutrons, tucked in with the protons, all stable and shit in the center of the atom, and the electrons, negative charges swinging around, jumping off, never still.

Jeez, me and the metaphors...

Pete says no to nostalgia. I'm trying.

That is all.

What it's like

Wow, I sound optimistic there below. I was going places! Now I've lost the map. This feels like a Jeff Buckley song, tragic, absurdist even. Job-like, Sisyphusian? Maybe I'm overselling it.  I don't know what happened and I don't know where to start.

Seriously, what the fuck? 

Where did the time go? A year ago I moved out of my apartment, left my job and friends behind, in pursuit of adventure. It didn't work out. OK, I'll forgive myself that one. But the months since I came home long ago started to bleed together into a mass of time I can barely distinguish. There was Ecuador in there. There was NAMM. There were the Build kids, that's something. I think I remember feeling good about things. But what were those things? What were those feelings? It's all alien. 

Where is the joy? That's the question I keep coming back to. It must be in the future, because "you can't go back to somewhere that doesn't exist anymore." All the most tired clichés - they're true!

There's no distraction, not even for a moment. It's the weight on your shoulders every night you fall asleep and every morning as soon as you wake up. It's 100,000 tiny meathooks pulling you apart. It's a flint sparking in your gut that means you never want to eat (so, thanks for that). It's like in The Abyss when the bad guy in the mini-sub that slips off the ledge is crushed, imploded by ocean pressure. It's a million bad metaphors. It's an endless stream of suddenly, terribly meaningful song lyrics. It's shitty.

What's it all about?

Now is the time on HiC when we unpack and reflect, 6 months later. It's time for a new mission statement, a new plan. This thing (me) is going somewhere. If I were 14 I'd probably feel the need to change my hair color. Hm, except I did that at age 24 too, so I'm still a teenager inside.

You all remember the angst of deciding to come home from Cambodia, followed by the euphoria of nest re-entrance. It was a trying time, one I passed through in a daze, so only now do I recognize the tryingness of it. Tryingness is not a word - maybe confusion works as well. 

I often say (complain) that my life has "gotten smaller." I feel overwhelmed with evidence that I don't know as many people as I used to, I make fewer plans, move around in smaller and smaller circles of habit, and explore less. I feel lame. This has been a recurring theme since I moved home, which, HELLO, makes a ton of sense. This shrinking is in direct opposition to the standing atop a waterfall, endless potential before me feeling I had at 18, at 21. That has been elusive for years. 

I am going to reverse this trend, recapture the accelerating expansion sensation, jump.