In Rod We Trust

b.i.n.g.NO: part 1

2008-08-27T21:26:00.000-07:00

This happened last summer but i've been writing and avoiding writing this for a while, yet it's still ironically very much a first draft...part 1:

I almost purposely overlooked the B-10 the announcer just called; I wanted to throw my game, my bingo game. I was heart-racing-nervous-twitchingly-intimidated by my bingo competitors. Over sixty senior citizens all in varying shades of pastel polyester blends. Many of them were armed: canes of various solid, strong materials, impact resistant walkers and the occasional skull crushing oxygen tank. Of course many of them couldn’t lift the objects but their sheer seriousness in the game and determination to succeed was enough to send the most optimistic bingo player running to the handicap accessible exit.
It was to be one of the more exciting, and certainly the most spontaneous, of my sisters’ and I activities while visiting my grandparents down in their retirement village in Southern Florida. We conveniently arrived at the apex of the summer “love-bug” season and the hurricane season, so outdoor activity was neither welcomed nor a realistic possibility. Even without the insects or horizontal rainfall, the town’s vast quantities of tattoo parlors and chain restaurants didn’t quite satisfy my tourist thirst. After ninety some years on earth my Grandpa had little desire to do much more than obtain “the usual” at the community restaurant and watch Larry King Live with an almost army like dedication. Unfortunately his body agreed with him, and being confined to the Jazzy motorized scooter makes a good argument against having vacation adventures. Luckily our Grandma agreed to accompany us to the weekly Bingo game despite her much vocalized disappointment in the removal of cookies and birthday refreshments from the Bingo games of the past. We agreed to each play a board for our Grandpa.
The retirement village was set up like an all-inclusive town for the “citizens.” A barbershop, café, bank, pool and fitness center, and other small shops and centers were located in between the residence buildings. Bingo was held every Saturday night in the Town Hall, a room that resembles its name, complete with “cowgirl” and “cowboy” nameplates on the restroom doors.
Like most of our ventures out of their fifth floor apartment it moved at a glacial pace. Since my last visit, nearly ten years ago, my Grandma has required the assistance of a walker if moving more than five feet. While never the speed demon, the walker and her bum foot moved her at a degree of slow I was not previously aware of. Normally a fast walker, often viewing getting anywhere as a sort of Olympic race, I was having an especially hard time matching my pace to hers. The first few days of our trip my sisters and I were much better at making the effort to restrain ourselves but it was now the last night of our trip and our patience was growing as thin as the hair of the retirees. One of us would frequently “suddenly” think of a pressing matter that we could address while we were all in transit that allowed us to break from the slow motion pack and meet at the final destination. Even though we’d still eventually have to wait while the rest of the group arrived, there was some satisfaction in knowing you got there at a rapid pace. I sensed that my sisters weren’t going to cash in an excuse during our voyage four floors to the Town Hall. After rounding a hallway corner on the first floor I said I had to go to the bathroom and would meet them inside the hall. Like a closeted smoker, I slyly ran off to satisfy my fast-walking craving. I moved swiftly to the bathrooms on the far edge of the village complex. Upon exiting the bathroom I inadvertently got stuck behind a woman in a motorized scooter, much like my Grandpa’s. Not practicing normal roadway courtesy this maniac was driving in the middle of the sidewalk path blocking my potential pass. Clearly as punishment for my abuse of the bathroom excuse I was forced to walk at an awkwardly close pace behind the woman who most likely considered me a purse-snatching hoodlum after I followed her across the complex and straight into the town hall. I held the door open for her, trying to appease my unintentional stalking but I’m sure she spread her mistrust of me to her bingo-enthusiast friends. The handicap woman put my bingo game at a handicap.
Outside the town hall poorly parked scooters and scattered walkers resembled the haphazardly parked cars outside a suburban house party. Inside the feeling was slightly less rowdy although everyone could have benefited from a keg or two. Three large tables spanned the length of the town hall; the first two of the tables were filled with determined bingo participates. The third table had a few clumps of players near the front and middle of the table and then my sisters and grandma at the furthest end. The standard amount of boards was four except first time players (Saturday night bingo virgins!) were allowed a fifth board free of charge. My sisters and I each had five; my grandma had two. Despite being somewhat secluded in the corner I tried to size up the competition. I titled the group closest to us (about five chairs down) as “the Elite”. The Elite consisted of a couple, in matching cornflower blue polos, and two women. As far as I could see they all had the standard four boards except for one of the women on my side of the table that had an unthinkable six boards. Although the group (besides the couple) didn’t have matching boards or uniforms, they did all have special magnetic wands that scooped up special game pieces they brought for the game. While we fished out quasi-round, dull, red game pieces from empty “I Can’t Believe It’s Not Butter” containers with the rest of the players, the Elite dropped their magical purple coins onto their boards. And when a game was over, their cleanup simply required a swift pass of their magical bingo wand giving them ample time to look around in disgust at the plebeians and their standard issue playing pieces.
It was like third grade all over again except this time I wasn’t feeling intimidated and inferior to the crowd sporting the latest Nike sneakers, it was the Bingo elitists who eyed us not as loving, young, adults but as greedy, young, competition. Thoughts were quickly silenced once the emcee took the mic.
“The pot is hot tonight ladies and gentleman, first game is regular bingo and four-corners” His festive tropical shirt and relocation south did nothing to diminish his thick New York accent.
“No attempt to explain the rules to the newbies or Alzheimer’s patients?” I thought to myself as I grabbed a handful of the little red playing dots. I scooted up in my seat, on the alert.
“I – 42, that’s I…4, 2,” New York shouted.
The set up in the Town Hall was more legitimate than I thought; the numbers appeared at the push of a button from a vortex like chamber and then as New York read the numbers loud they illuminated on a large board in the front of the room. All the numbers that had been called during the game were lit up and remained illuminated; it was nearly impossible to not know what had been called. Needless to say I was sure one or two senior citizens were happily marking numbers arbitrarily; part of me hoped for an old jokester to scream out “BINGO,” right before bursting into laughter. It would help take the ever-increasing edge off. But the jokesters never called out, in fact with every silent round I was growing more and more tense. I wished to be my blissfully unaware Grandma, six numbers behind, two measly boards down and one pair of questionably effective reading glasses. For some reason I felt compelled to keep accurate account of my game boards even though each successful number literally made my hands shake and palms sweat. The last thing I wanted was to draw more attention to myself. I felt as if I was the only driver in the room that could see over their Oldsmobile dashboard, all too aware of which direction I was headed. As I laid down more and more tiny discs of doom I realized my fate was laid out diagonally, B-10 to O-shit.

Camera Shy

2008-07-22T01:43:00.000-07:00

I don't usually post picture entries but I also don't usually find a picture of myself that so clearly captures my internal expression. The following picture (regardless of the actual environment I was in) truely is worth a 1000 words in my opinion (and thus one of my longest posts!):

Wake Up, Subconscious!

2008-07-22T01:39:00.000-07:00

There have been multiple times this summer where I have fallen asleep while reading personal ads I know I’d never respond to. Tonight I transitioned right into a dream where I was walking around an unlit room where sad, lonely, horned-up people where sitting around waiting. I woke up without really realizing I had fallen asleep. I need to start falling asleep to cuteoverload.com or maybe to the literature found on the backs of cookie and cereal boxes; even if the dreams were still depressing. I’d wake up to a box of cookies.

There is always a sense of disappointment when you remember your dreams, but remember them for being so completely literal to your waking life. I’ll be worrying about an exam all week and then the nights before the exam I’ll dream I’m taking the test, finish, and then freak out over the impending grade. When I wake up I roll my eyes and say, “come onnnn” to my lazy sub-conscious. “I’ve been worrying about this all day, do I really not even get a break when I’m passed out?!” This is the same brain that could create years of extravagant superhero battles and adventures with a few Mattel figures and the slightly disfigured tree in my front yard; now it can’t even piece together a good unconscious episode. No cooking frogs, no bizarre person from my past, no wild celebrity romance, not even a cliché alien abduction. The only positive thing about having a predictable dream-life is the sense of relief that I’m not in therapy. If I was in therapy I’d be too embarrassed to have them ask me about my dreams, which in my naïve view of therapy is a standard question. Regardless of how accurate this portrayal is I’d like to keep myself blissfully unaware for in my mind this all occurs in an office disgustingly tasteful, where you are brought to tears just at the sight of the Eames chair. Hopefully most of my emotional breakthroughs in life will not be furniture induced but I’m not saying I’d be too disappointed or surprised if they were. Sitting in whatever chair provided I’d be worried that my mental musings would be so transparent the psychiatrist would later ask her colleagues if they sent me in as some sort of practical joke. Simply remembering my dreams is analyzing them. I’ve literally had dreams in which I’m going about my daily routine: eating breakfast, watching tv, running errands. Nothing out of the ordinary, and possibly what I was planning on doing that Sunday afternoon.

The worst part is I know I can do better; I’ve had dreams where I was sampling the different quality of paper…orally, for God’s sake! For a while I even kept a dream journal and when I’d recount some of the dreams to pseudo interested friends they’d actually have a genuinely shocked reaction. So as 4:30 a.m. slips away from me I question if my subconscious has finally given up on me. It’s worn out the auto-pilot feature on my brain and thus without even banal things to dream about I slip back into insomnia. I can only hope that when I finally do go to sleep I wake up next to a box of cookies.

Candyland

2008-07-06T19:01:00.000-07:00

There is a candy jar at work that may as well be my glove seeing as my hand is constantly seeking shelter in its sweet contents. It's cleverly labeled "eat me" and when you have directions that simple you feel bound to oblige. Instead of counting down the time till work ends I'm usually contemplating how much time should pass before it's socially acceptable to get more candy. When the downstairs jar is down to the bottom, filled with the relegated, reject candy (ambiguous hard candies, stray sugar packets, an encrusted skittles or two), I often shamefully sneak upstairs to the office jar. Just doing my part to keep management lean and cavity-free I tell myself.

At this point I'm really just waiting for the diabetes diagnosis.

Making the Cut

2008-06-20T20:25:00.000-07:00

I worry about my hair a lot; then I worry that this worrying will cause my hair to fall out. The masochistic, endless cycle of hair stress is only temporarily relieved on the sporadic moments I get a good haircut. My head has been shag-city for a good six months. I broke down in May and decided to give myself a big birthday haircut but was too charmed by my hairdresser and the constant supply of mimosas to achieve any sort of drastic change. It was the kind of haircut you had to announce to people. Realizing they hadn’t noticed I’d have to think of ways to casually integrate it into the conversation. “I’m so sorry to hear about your Grandmother. . .maybe you should treat yourself to a great trim like I did…today.”

While British rock bands and California surfers kept subliminally telling me to stick with it, it’s hard to ignore evidence to the contrary when it’s literally in front of your eyes. An experiment with a straighter let me know that my hair had the ability to reach to the tip of my nose but sans iron my hair curled up after a few inches, as if altering its natural route and reaching for the heavens. I resembled less of the rock bands I pretended to like and more of a slightly disheveled Florence Henderson.

Like a crotchety old man I like to blame the weather whenever slightly applicable and in the current crux of a Boston summer I find it’s easy to do just that. Whenever I’d be a particularly shaggy moment in my hair history my styling regime would consist of simply putting on a tight knitted hat post shower. The beanies acted as a sort of cast for my recklessly thick mane. Seeing as New England enjoys 6 month long winters it’s easy to use this method and still look like a sane part of society, but once the hellishly humid summers come wearing a knitted cap in 85 degree weather is less ironic and more idiotic. Not only was my hair corset seasonally unacceptable but with the increase in temperature came the increase in amount of cold, drawn out showers. Plagued with another catch-22 I accepted defeat and made an appointment, determined to rid myself of the hair that was not only attacking my head but attacking my ego as well.

This particular summer I’ve taken up temporary residence in a charming Cambridge apartment with friends. Moving from the sheltered life of on-campus housing to that of a “real-world” apartment I barely noticed anything except the ability to drink whenever possible and a kitchen that included more than a trashcan sized fridge and overused microwave. What I failed to see was that most real apartments don’t include auditorium sized laundry rooms that are hooked up to your campus account. Doing laundry on campus was not only easy, fast and practically free but you could check the availability of the machines via the Internet and get a message delivered to your phone when your load was done. I wasn’t just washing my clothes with Tide, I was washing my clothes with technology. In the real world I discovered my Laundromat was almost five blocks away and held hours that would make the average bank complain. Needless to say I found myself three weeks into dirty clothes and sheets and running out of creative solutions to the growing underwear epidemic.

The day of my haircut my dwindling clean laundry had me wearing pants tight and thin enough to be considered long underwear and an old t-shirt that passed the sniff test, finished off with patent leather dress shoes because the only clean socks I had were dress socks. Immediately after my haircut I purchased a new pair of underwear because it was the only realistic way I was going to have clean underwear the following morning. When I arrived at my appointment with Manny I mortified when his first question was “Do you need a wash?” I didn’t want to respond in sudden Bridget Jones like hysterics “Desperately, myself, my hair and every item of clothing and fabric in my room.” Fortunately he asked this right before he ran his hands through my hair which gave him all the assessment he needed, I wasn’t quite sure because I was in the euphoric stupor of a professional hair wash but he might have triple washed my hair and then triple washed his hands after.

When Manny asked what I wanted done I simply responded, “I’m sick of having long hair.”
He translated what I said into what he assumed I meant, “Okay so you want basically the same thing but shorter,” to which I corrected him by saying “much…much shorter”.

When he was finished I had a clean, almost militarily clean cut. While I was beyond pleased with trading in Florence Henderson for Joan of Arc it was what Manny said in the beginning of my cut that really pleased me. As he began he asked where I normally got my hair cut. I told him I usually wait long enough so that I can get it cut when I’m at home. Manny, dear sweet Manny, responded by asking if I was in a band and tour a lot. I’m not sure if it was the eccentric clothing, the bad hygiene or the uncontrollable shaggy hair but I finally got the comparison to the dirty, indie rock bands that romanticize the look I had stumbled my way upon. The only sound sweeter than Manny’s mistaken assumption was the sound of his scissors making sure it would never happen again.

Classifieds Information

2008-06-02T23:01:00.000-07:00

I’m not above peer pressure. I’m very much not above peer pressure. People begin to say that old adage, “if all your friends jumped off a cliff would you?” to me but stop because my feverous nodding already gives them an image of my flattened body grinning from the bottom of the Sahara. This is not to say positive peer pressure doesn’t affect me just as much as negative; such is the case with Emerson College and the internship panic that spreads throughout spring semester. The respective student body usually migrates to Los Angeles or New York. Once final grades were posted I was determined to avoid standing on Boylston Street holding a shameful retail time card with a single rain cloud of self doubt pouring down on me.

With impending homelessness, fleeting optimism and an empty inbox I made a decision about three weeks ago to stay in Boston, to stay with friends, and to stay employed. I accept not defeat for I’m currently still quasi-pursuing internships in Boston (Central Productions if you’d like to check your voicemail there are approx. 30 new messages from me begging to do menial labor) but I can honestly say I put up a valiant fight. Over the course of the internship battle I came in contact with an unforeseen enemy, an enemy I am forced to deal with and an enemy that will continue to be a presence in my life for an undetermined amount of time; I speak of the dreaded “cover letter”.

I’m not against marketing myself and in certain contexts I’m not against formality, but producing these detestable documents became the bane of my existence. It started to become a problem when I began applying to the—whatever-might-as-well—internships such as: writing intern on “All My Children”, animation podcast intern, and an ambiguous pilot involving Spanish people in a laundromat. Not only would I have to feign interest, but I would have to convince them that my film production background makes me the perfect candidate to write about Tristan’s love affair with her Grandfather’s cyclone business partner. I mastered the art of using one cover letter and simply substituting and cutting certain lines, like those thank you notes you’d write in the 3rd grade to relatives after a bountiful Christmas. “Dear _____ thank you for the _______, it was really great, how’d you know I wanted that!? Hope to see you soon!”. Instead these letters were written in the hopes of acquiring a gift, the gift of a (temporary) professional peace of mind. It goes without saying I place a bit of importance on cover letters. When the weeks would pass without reply I’d fear I’d left in a sentence or two from the previous draft and thus revealing my lazy application work ethic. I had roughly a dozen different drafts of my resume put didn’t want to name them according to the place I was applying to for fear of looking unprofessional and exposing my all-inclusive job hunt, so I devised a system of letters for differentiating. Let it be known I’m no Dewey Decimal, my system was more than confusing. So my fears were only intensified with the thought of sending the resume inflating my fine arts background to the writing.

Who knows the reason behind my lack of an internship: typo-ridden emails, resume goof, “better” applicants, racism…at this point the reason is unimportant. While I’ll be enjoying a relatively carefree summer I thought I’d keep my cover letter writing skills sharp, while using a new “fresh” approach.

------------------------------------------
June 2, 2008

Rodney Uhler
64 Pleasant Street Apt. 2
Cambridge, MA 02139

Anonymous Company
1234 Broadway Street
New York, NY 00911

Dear Jane Smith,

I’m currently a panicking senior film production student at Emerson College in Boston. I’m extremely interested in having some fresh additions to my resume in the hopes of it helping me land a non food service job post college, and your company was one of the many I found in a desperate search. Ultimately I’d love to work with film and writing, and as you can see by my bull-shiting abilities within this letter my writing skills are not to be ignored! On that note an opportunity at your company fits right into my ultimate career goals and would provide me with a terrific learning experience.

An internship with your company would be a mutually beneficial experience (I hope that sentence appeals to you because I got it straight from a sample letter!) My strong work ethic would allow me to be a valuable part of your team. Just this past month I’ve applied to countless internships spanning many different genres despite fleeting interest and feigned enthusiasm, but my work ethic, and fear of professional inferiority, drove me forward.

I am currently committed to being on campus until late May, for I’m a Resident Assistant which means I’m not only responsible and good with people but it also shows I’m not above jeopardizing a social life for a job. From June 1st to September 1st I am available any hours or days necessary save for an hour lunch break a day so I can gorge on food and call as many people as I can to complain about my work schedule. Please feel free—seriously I’ll use all caps if it will drive the point across—to contact me via e-mail or phone with any questions or concerns. If interested I will be happy to arrange an interview at a mutually convenient time and place. I have no issues with skipping class, dental appointments or family obligations.

Thank you for your time and I look forward to hearing from you in the future. But I’m not optimistic, I’ll secretly wish today is the day you’ll call but I’ve been burned before and I know the sting of rejection.

Sincerely,

Rodney Uhler

hanson4prez says.... (Desk Sitting Entertainment Continued)

2008-04-01T22:28:00.000-07:00

Okay there is no getting around it, I was watching the Hanson – “Weird” music video tonight, which led to watching their “If Only” music video. Granted we all know that “If Only” pails in comparison to “Weird” both in song and video quality but in terms of youtube user comments, “If Only” packs some SERIOUS heat. I didn’t venture into the pages of comments because I knew I would never leave and homework would suffer, but I really didn’t need to because the first page far exceeded expectations. What follows is an intense Jonas Brothers vs. Hanson debate that was continuing as I copied the text, which meant, hanson4prez and kimthegreatest were also watching this video today, as well as others. The internet continues to baffle me but frequently with beyond amusing results.

Ps. A real blog post will hopefully happen soon.

kimthegreatest (15 minutes ago)
Oh please.
Hanson is the greatest, and the Jo Bros can never even be compared to them!

..It's like trying to compare Miley Cyrus to Brittany Spears (pre K-Fed days). (:

Hanson lives on! <3 style="font-weight: bold;">

AceEliot (3 hours ago)
ooo. Burn!

socorevsfan2 (3 hours ago)
you were obviously a pitifully small child when Hanson was huge. does the song MMMBop mean anything? honestly. they still have a huge fanbase, but ignorant imbeciles like you are just to slow to actually consider things like that before you flame an excellent band

coldpinkflame (7 hours ago)
Haha. Are they gay.? Omg they can't even be compared with the Jonas Brothers. Not them or their fame. Hanson was never as famouse and JB is a fairly new band.

If anyone responds to this im nt replying. I dont care what you say most of the population agrees with me. HANSON ARE FAGSSSSSS.... and at that ugly fags.!!!

jaxtrent (9 hours ago)
exactly, as far as I am concerned the Jonas Brothers are Hanson wannabes, sorry but they will NEVER be what Hanson is and that is ONE OF THE GREATEST BANDS GODS HAS EVER CREATED!

hanson4prez (1 day ago)
NO DONT EVER COMPARE THE JONAS BROTHERS TO THIS GREATNESS OF HANSON!! And plus you can clearly tell they and men/boys!!
♥Hanson♥Ifonly♥Hanson♥

daughterxxnature (1 day ago)
true dat

XxcherrypoprocksxX (1 day ago)
I love Zac!

Sigh. you said it XxcherrypoprocksxX, you said it.

Desk Sitting Entertainment: Yelp.com

2008-03-07T22:21:00.000-08:00

The job of desk sitting is so boring the entire job description is encapsulated in the two-word title. The fact that I am even taking the time to describe it is like labling sleeping as an extreme sport. Babysitting an inanimate object is as exciting as it sounds, with the absence of my computer it would be akin to torture. Such statements don’t even fall under the category of exaggerations, boredom induced suicide attempts have been sweeping desk sitters in University Campuses across the nation. While I’m clearly not claiming one can have a load of fun during these periods of imprisonment I will admit that it opens up one’s opportunity to explore creative entertainment via the Internet.

User reviews and comments on websites travel, city, fashion and gossip websites have become my new poetry. People can get seriously creative with these, much to my amusement. It has proved to be a most glorious of desk sitting hobbies and I thank those faceless Yelp users for providing me with the latest batch of linked literature…

Here is what I consider the “Best of”… and categorized to meticulous and scientific degree…
(Store in question is the thrift store Urban Renewals in Allston, MA)

File Under: Second Hand Egos.
- “I am pretty much the Queen of Thrift in my hometown (Houston, TX), so I feel like I have a huge bank of various thrift store to compare Urban Renewals to.”

-“Everyone who knows me knows I love thrift stores, records, being thrifty. I am Scottish after all.”

-“Too many hipsters writing reviews, not enough serious thrifters.”

File Under: Sensory Explorations
-“I have a lot of qualms about U.R as much as favor.
-I found a centipede while rummaging through records
-It smells bad often”

-“Expecting an awful rushed squack, instead, over the loudspeaker comes "Our specials today are (a laundry list of items)" announced by a man with the most soothing, lovely, accented, almost resigned voice."

File Under: Masochistic Purchases.
-“ROSIE O'DONNELL DOLL?!

I seriously almost bought this for...whatever reason. It repulsed me and seemed like a good enough gift for a friend to destroy.”

-“bought the UGLIEST winter coat. Seriously, it looks like a shag carpet but it was so cheap (5 bucks) and is warm. I can manage looking like a complete fool.”

File Under: Novella
“THIS REVIEW IS FOR 3.5 STARS:
(what follows is seriously 4 full paragraphs)
So you're probably still wondering why it's a half star and not a whole star, well it's 'cause they're not bad and kind of fall into the mediocre territory meaning 3 stars, but they get an extra half star for being so damn organized, having such great prices, and having some of those new stuff with tags still on it.”

We actually weren’t wondering but thanks for the grading system explaination…

File Under: T.M.I.
“Officially my happy place.

It's a great place to go after eating or before eating.
No bathroom however.. had to run over to Hess. I asked a worker if there was a bathroom and she simple said "huhhhuhhblehbleh". Seriously she mubbled something no human can hear or interpret.

So I thanked her and off I went to Hess.

Shopping there is super fun.”

File Under: In need of post retail therapy
“Please, tell me if I missed something, otherwise gouge my eyes out with a rusty spoon and label me permanently blind. I wouldn't trust my dog to find a good place to take a crap here, he'd be too confused on where to start.”

File Under: Thrifting OD
“You can find me in Urban Renewals almost every single day, checking the newest items.”

There exists this whole subculture of people who rate and review these places with astonishing fervor. On Yelp (and I’m sure other sites as well) the reviews are…reviewed. Not only are they reviewed but it’s on a superlative level (I found this funny/informative/expressive/etc.) Needless to say I think I’ll be going to Urban Renewals somtime during spring break…if I happen to find a centipede among my loot so be it; I’m sure a soothing announcer will ease my anxiety.

Musical Interlude

2008-02-18T19:36:00.000-08:00

Most people who know me or are subjected to my music recommendations know that I have very intense, but very brief love affairs with songs/artists/albums. I’ll hear something once and then watch the itunes play count rise with no end in sight…until I hear something else. I half expect my .mp3 to start skipping from overuse, which of course sometimes it does but only because my computer is now prehistoric in technological terms. First I hate when engaging in small talk people ask “what kind of music do you listen to?” which is a somewhat unjustified hatred because it’s a perfectly appropriate question I just feel it always comes with some sort of judgment and need to agree. And while the answer “oh I like almost everything really…except country!!!!” seems like such a cop-out, it is my answer and I feel lame saying it but I also feel truthful because my taste in music is erratic and eclectic to say the least. This is not to say it’s good at all, far from it. I’ve stopped using the term “guilty pleasure” because it was getting tired and slowly the guilty part left the phrase. To illustrate the points I’ve just made and to illuminate you further onto my musical taste (which I just bashed) I will post the youtube videos of three songs I’ve been obsessed with (since sat.)…ask me again in a week and I’ll probably have forgotten I had these songs but the play count will still be in the high double digits.

The Crystals – “He’s A Rebel”

I would give a lot to go back in time and attend a dance during the 50’s (albeit segregation) because the music was just so fun and danceable. *granted this isn’t the music video but can you really complain??

MGMT – “Electric Feel”

This band sometimes channels the New Radicals which I’m totally okay with, but with more edge, more danceability, and more fluorescent short shorts. My mirror was subjected to a lot of me dancing in front of it thanks to this song.

Dusty Springfield – “You Don’t Have to Say You Love Me”

Despite talent shows and reality shows ruining the song, I still love this song. The Caucasian race has few in the true “soul singers” category but I feel like Dusty fits this pretty well. Not only that but I on my itunes it always follows up with “Son of a Preacher Man” which is also, always great.

Kanye West – “Flashing Lights”

Okay I despise Kanye West for reasons so obvious they don’t need to be explained. But I can’t help liking this song, and I do like a lot of his songs, which I justify to myself by realizing that he samples so much he barely has a part in them. Also this video helps a lot because it features the fiercest creature that channels Naomi Cambell mixed with Beyonce and Tyra. Also it was directed by Spike Jonze and is simple yet original, I would use a better description but I don’t want to ruin it.

://www.youtube.com/watch?v=mEccxPPwXmI

Okay so I do like my taste in music, obviously, but I will admit I’m always behind on musical trends or the “new song” so if this everyone has already seen this video for Flashing Lights pardon my tardiness and, yes, I know most everyone has been into MGMT enough to now consider them passé. This post just got strangely aggressive!

YOUTUBE > HOMEWORK. = my thesis for the semester. I can prove it too.

RERUNS: The Capriciously Career Minded

2008-02-12T08:06:00.000-08:00

*(special future freak out edition!)

hello hello,

so I've decided to post an essay I wrote almost exactly one year ago about my life-long obsession with figuring out what I want to do; it was my first official creative writing essay. I've decided to post it not only because I want you guys to benefit from fantastic literature and a glimpse into my neurosis but because it is now approaching the "freaking out about my future" time in regards to this summer and everything beyond. I've come to realize my very specific and detail orriented plan for the future may not work out as possible, that my bank account maybe a major determining factor (the closest bourrogh of nyc i can afford is Allentown, PA) and that with an amazing time abroad I realized I don't want to end my experience in europe just yet....sigh, first-world problems.

--------------------------

The Capriciously Career Minded
feb. 2007.

I now view novelty ties with a distaste usually reserved for corrupt foreign dictators. I once, very briefly, wanted to be a teacher solely based on the fact that I would have a reason to form an impressive collection of novelty and seasonal ties. I figured my garishly decorated, or cartooned themed ties would win the hearts of the small children I taught. Thankfully neckwear factors little into my current career plans. Although ties may not currently be in my career planning, just about every other factor and detail is. I have more than once found myself internally debating the New York versus Los Angeles industries when I should be sleeping. I’ve mulled over transportation, real estate, and proximity to family and still haven’t come to a decision on where I will locate after college, often turning in a desperate move to Nyquil to silence my career crazed mind. True the decision of where one will start the job hunt is very important but when I often describe last night’s bedroom brain frenzy to my friends, they tell me to cool it and worry about finishing my intro level courses first. While their advice makes me push aside the Nyquil for a little bit I can’t help but foresee sharing my bed with another internal career planning session. How I long for the days of elementary school when I knew exactly what I wanted to do.
Kindergarten and first grade were some of the most cherished times of my life, not because they marked the start of about two decades of formal education or the roots of social interaction, but because it was the only time in my life where I could be labeled as a badass. I was a kindergarten cocktail of class clown and resident smartass served in a glass of primary colored clothing. I would make jokes in the middle of class, have reign over the playground and open all the windows in the hallway and class whenever the teacher wasn’t looking. The kids ate it up.
During one first grade class the teacher asked us if we could be anyone in the world who would we be? One heavenly suck-up said Jesus. Although typical answers like astronaut, president, and dad/mom came up, one classmate said, “Rodney”; prompting the entire class, and teacher, to look at me. Before I could react another student blurted out “yeah, I want to be Rodney too.” I should have pointed out to the second child the obvious impossibility of two people being me, instead I grinned and gave a shrug and short flick of the wrist; part beloved yet humble peer, part budding homosexual. Although having a handful of seven-year-olds put you in the same realm as the leader of the free world and those that gave them life is pretty substantial the real importance of that day was that it marked the start of my fascination with picking out a career and life plan for myself.
While my mom claims my first aspiration was to be a tree, namely the one in my backyard, the first career I remember picking out for myself was children’s book illustrator. My future and career often changed daily, but the idea of being an illustrator was always somewhere in my mind. My favorite illustrator, not surprisingly, often illustrated my favorite author’s (Roald Dahl) books. Quinten Blake’s illustrations were childlike yet skilled; a combination that I dreamed of emulating. I sent Mr. Blake a thick envelope containing a poorly written, yet heartfelt fan letter and a select few of my finest drawings. I might have even included my home phone number as to give him the speediest method of contacting me to credit my talent and invite me overseas to England to work as his apprentice. Although a phone call never came, a letter arrived and while clearly mass-produced and sent to all his fans, the “Dear Rodney” and his signature were in contrasting blue ink, clearly indicating that he spent at least 10 seconds acknowledging he had received a letter from some boy named Rodney in the United States. This was all I needed to verify my current career goal.
I soon realized that if was serious about this I should pick out a college; this was right before entering middle school. During dinner, I casually brought up the fact that I gave it a lot of thought and proclaimed, “I’m fairly certain that I will attend Carnegie Mellon University after high school, studying Illustration.” As if I had just informed them that after dinner I planned on eating ice cream while watching “Home Improvement.” My parents responded with little surprise or bewilderment; although I remember having a conversation with my Mom as to the merits of Carnegie Mellon later. I was completely satisfied with my choice, and why not? I had seen a few pictures of the school, knew it was somewhere in Pennsylvania and quite thoroughly enjoyed saying the name “Carnegie Mellon:” it combined the respect and prestige that goes along with Andrew Carnegie with the fun and deliciousness of one of my favorite summer treats. While basing your choice of college based on looks and name proved rather unwise (Carnegie Mellon has no illustration major), it has ironically become a personally acceptable form of judging a prospective date.
Much to my surprise, friends and classmates in middle school rarely seemed interested in discussing their prospective undergrad schools and had absolutely no desire to help me decide if it was wiser to start my career as freelance or work with a larger company. It was easy for me to dismiss their lack of interest as a sign of their inevitable slacker status in life. If made fun of, a particularly favorite retort was often glaring at them and snapping, “yeah well see how big of a tip I leave you when you’re pumping my gas in twenty years!” While this rarely had the desired affect (a tearful apology) I was usually quite satisfied, and if not I could spend a few meditative hours filling out online career or personality assessment surveys.
An often captive, yet sometimes unwelcome, audience came in the form of distant or elderly relatives. Almost as standard as the cheek pinching greeting was the “What do you want to be when you grow up?” While I relished the opportunity to discuss my career plans du jour, often with a pace and tone reserved for speed junkies, the response was often an uncomfortable smile usually followed by the relative retreating to my parents. I imagine they would engage in conversation with my parents, silently trying to decide if they were some how responsible for instilling in me such fanatical fervor. Once my adolescence took a turn towards the bitter, sarcastic side, I would often picture these awkward family scenes differently. I now pictured a distant relative fishing for some way to start small talk by asking for the third time, “So what are your plans for the future?”
“I’m looking into cannibalism.” I would say gazing just beyond them, as if peering into a wonderful future, then refocusing to see their repulsed face.
“I’m only kidding!” I would reassure them, “I could never eat anything as fatty as human flesh. I’m actually looking into becoming a lawyer, although I’m worried that’s too similar to cannibalism.” Of course in reality this conversation never took place, but it was in frequent rotation in my head.
In school I took comfort in days when adults would come in and discuss their careers. Although these speakers often had careers that didn’t interest me in the slightest-car salesmen, army commander, nurse, state policeman- I found myself enthralled with the stories of how they professionally progressed to where they were. When the car salesmen discussed how some of the people who work as salesmen on the lot may come to own the dealership and potentially many dealerships, I gasped, unable to contain my excitement. I leaned forward and looked down the rows to see if others were as visibly excited as I. They weren’t. The representative from the army, the nurse and the state policemen, while perfectly interesting, didn’t make a dramatic impact on me because I knew that unlike them I wanted a truly rewarding and respectable career…like one in advertising.
The newfound interest in the world of advertising seems to have begun around the time when, coincidentally, the movie and books I was exposed to seemed to have main characters who were all part of a dynamic, fast paced, creative advertising agency. Usually the advertising executive would have slightly funky glasses and work in a Manhattan office building that had rich hardwood floors and dramatic windows. Mel Gibson’s character in “What Women Want” may have been the polar opposite of me but his job as an advertising executive seemed so understatedly glamorous that I found myself picturing my future employment to be a near replica of his. I might have been identifying with the other lead character, played by Helen Hunt. Despite the cattiness, superficiality and general abhorrence for his job, Augusten Burroughs some how still made the advertising world seem appealing to me. Perhaps his small references to the six digit salary and the designer furniture made me overlook the countless negatives. Although the realization of the media’s sway on my professional influence is a bit off-putting, I’m just thankful I didn’t watch an excessive amount of serial killer movies.
When I arrived at high school my desire to map out my future was now met with admiration and applause rather than the surprised eyebrow-raise and inquisitive head tilt. Although complaining about traveling into the depths of the south for my older sister’s college tour vacation, I secretly adored each tour and would often pretend as if I was at the stage of applying to colleges; keenly observing and listening so that when it actually was my turn I wouldn’t subject the tour guide to the inane questions that only a novice would think to bring up.
The gods issued out an unfortunate punishment for me when it actually was my turn, for after my first college tour I knew I wanted to go to that school and only that school. While I should have instantly hated the city of Boston for it’s mind-boggling roadways making me late to the tour for Emerson College--throwing all that college tour professionalism out the window—I ended up loving it for how un-Pennsylvania it was. There was no ever-expanding construction to create new and bland suburban developments, only ever-expanding construction to preserve old and endearing buildings. There was no junior driver’s curfew of midnight; there was the freedom of public transportation—which shuts down around half past midnight. I loved the exotic erratic-ness. When we finally reached Emerson, I had already done extensive research on the college and knew that personality wise we got along perfectly; we both shared a love of the arts and distaste for math, we both considered ourselves creative yet a little scattered, and we’d both rather spend the afternoon in the shopping mall than the basketball court. Once I saw there was a physical attraction I had the application overnight-ed two weeks before the early acceptance date. Once I found out I could double minor in addition to my major I had the admissions office on speed dial. My friends and teachers advised me to apply to other schools and take other tours but while I perused the website and campus of Boston, New York and Syracuse Universities I couldn’t help but feel as if I was cheating on Emerson. It’s a shame because I had so many more tours in me. I might have kids just so I have a legitimate reason to tour colleges, and I’ll start them off right; if they attend AM kindergarten it will leave us with the entire afternoon to tour prospective schools.
The fate of my obsessive outlook on my future seems to be laced with irony for the closer I get to having to actually make decisions on my career, the less and less I know exactly what I want to do. Although I still have intricate plans and hopeful wishes for what I would enjoy doing, there seem to be too many to focus on. Instead of a career du jour, I’m in line at a career buffet; which makes me nervous because all the buffets I’ve been to before have been populated by loud, overweight families who tend to be oblivious to how much food they’ve taken and how much of it has artfully ended up on the loud floral bed spread they have seemingly passed off as clothing. While there may be nothing scarier than comparing your own future to a strip-mall buffet, I have faith in my somewhat hazy future because my first grade classmates snubbed the president and their own mothers because they believed in me. Even if I don’t end up obtaining my dream job or career, I was more popular than Jesus in first grade, and the Beatles couldn’t even pull that off.

Films Never-made and Soon-to-be-Made

2008-02-05T22:05:00.000-08:00

Thanks to a certain sibling, this will be making it’s way into my book collection; a collection which should just be called “I’m 20 going on 12” and thus this will fit in nicely. Don’t let the trendy retro cover fool you, this isn’t an original but the cover is made to replica the 1940’s original. I feel like this is one of those things that can change a simple over abundance of Roald Dahl books into the start of a “collection”. While die hard Dahl fans might turn there eleven year old noses up at me, I did find out a bit about this lost literature. It was Road Dahl’s first published book, written while he was still a pilot in the RAF (notice the strangely accurate title they give him on the cover). The book was in print for very short period of time and out of print for a long period of time. Walt Disney almost made the Gremlins into a film about creatures who lived in the clouds…but when Walt’s Percocet wore off and he came down from the clouds they realized an animated film centered on WWII was trendy and tired. Well, I’m actually dying for some good old war stories for the 1940s kid so I plan to cherish it like the bastard book it is.

In other news, my Intermediate Film Production class picked my screenplay as its favorite, in an oddly game-show-like manner. A good portion of the class pitched screenplays the first day of class and despite an email a few days before prepping us for such an event I had forgotten and thus had to think of a 5-7 minute film on the spot. That pitched turned into a 1st draft presented at the next class which went over incredibly well, well enough that I barely had to do a re-write. I say this not out of any sort of arrogance or gloating, actually I say it out of shock and surprise. Somehow I feel guilty, the same sort of unwarranted guilt I feel every time I successfully pass through an airport metal detector; as if somehow I cheated or plagiarized without myself knowing. Regardless I made it through the metal detector of my class on top and thus my little elevator story will be made into a short 16mm film. For this I’m extremely excited and grateful for. I will attempt to utilize technology and attach it to this blog entry somehow.

*edit: if someone can tell me how to attached a PDF film to this blog I could accomplish said task.

Babushka Blues

2008-02-01T20:59:00.000-08:00

Like the sad, drunk girls outside of Gypsy Bar, the sky was bawling erratically. As I'd take down my hood, which limits my hearing and peripheral vision to dangerous degrees, I’d be bitch-slapped by an onslaught of horizontal rain. Okay, I get it, maybe there is a God and he takes things VERY personally. I decided to fully commit myself to a sad single girl’s night in by going to the convenience store and picking up a frozen lasagna and Snapple Lemon Ice-Tea. Normally for ease of words I wouldn’t type out the full name of my beverage but I feel as if the Snapple Lemon Ice-Tea carries with it a certain “Bridget Jones” type quality that I fully embodied at that moment.

While the walk to the convenience store in the Little Building is a mere six buildings past my building it requires I traverse the area outside the Gypsy Bar, which exists solely to put on display the worst in mankind, but I’m sugarcoating it. Looking ahead I grew slightly optimistic at the sign of a clear sidewalk up ahead. Getting closer still I began to hear the shrill voice of a woman deep in an extended shriek. The sidewalk seemed empty because everyone was pushed to the side as to get a clearer view of the three to four person deep entanglement that was growing on the street. I felt as if I was walking across a stage during a play, the only visual recognition I got from the mass crowd was from those whose views I blocked. “Sorry folks, just getting some refreshments, couldn’t wait till intermission.” I gave a brief glance to the fight but couldn’t make one limb from another, the soaking rain made it seem even more primeval.

With lasagna and Bridget Jones approved beverage in tow I exited the Little Building and prepared to make my way past the primate spectacular but with a soaked rabbit-fur hood I wrapped my five foot long scarf around the top of my head and then around my neck, my cold and wet self suppressed any sort of even latent attempt at attractiveness. I was cold, wet, and I was crawling into bed with Stouffers in my stomach, trying to any extent to appear good looking would just be sad. The fight seemed to be exactly how I left it except now the lack of anyone official even attempting to break it up was a bit more alarming. The doorman to the club was standing guard over the still sadly long line. As I just crossed the spectators area a homeless man that is a fixture of the “outside-Gypsy-bar-weekends” scene turned his attention from entertaining the line of Guess clad thritysomethings to address me. Usually the remarks I overhear passing through this part of the sidewalk at these particular times range from “He look gay,” to just a succinct, “Fag,” but I figured the jester like homeless man would say something a little more creative in hopes of some coin. I should never “figure” on anything from homeless men who dress in Skittles colored clothing anymore.
“Watch out for the puddles there ma’am! Don’t slip now.”
One might be prepared to be mistaken for a woman; one MIGHT even be prepared to be mistaken for an old woman, but being mistaken for a klutzy old woman is just shocking. So mark the calendars folks, February 1st, 2008…Rodney Uhler’s life hits a peak. It’s all downhill from here. Watch out for the puddles, it could be a slippery year.

The Adventures of Uhler and Clark: Part 2

2008-01-30T22:03:00.000-08:00

What has become of our heros since we last left them?!
(hastly finished i think but finished.)

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Hannah and I opted not to verbally respond, instead slowly turn towards each other and watch the color drain from our faces; resigning our fate to being stuck atop this mountain and living as human Appalachian Trail markers. Sure I enjoyed organic grocery shopping and the occasional bonfire but I wasn’t ready to fashion a natural diaper out of oak leaves and saplings. Soon I’d be communicating to Hannah is our own strange mountain language, wearing homemade animal pelts and forgetting a time when I would spend five minutes in the grocery store analyzing each individual shaving cream to see which one fit my needs and personality best.

My all too natural nightmares were interrupted by another one of Flannel’s boisterous laughs, “You really don’t have a clue as to where you are do you?” We sort of responded with another nervous rounds of laughter, already possibly slipping into non-verbal mountain communication, but trying to redeem ourselves Hannah half said, half asked, “We were just following the Appalachian Trail. We’re on the Appalachian Trail?” He laughed again while simultaneously shaking his head in soft disbelief. We might as well have approached him with a map of Manhattan asking, “I’m sorry sir, could you help us, we can’t seem to find where we are on this map? Are we near Chelsea?” He gave us two potential paths, one following the electrical line through the mountain (the shortcut), the other taking this trail to a gravel road and then following that to a paved road. Before we thanked him and his crotch-loving dog, he asked hopefully, “Say that green truck with all the Steelers stickers on it isn’t yours is it?” Finally I could respond with some conviction, “No sir, it most definitely is not.”

I opted for us to take the path that lead to the paved road. I was now viewing the wilderness as a plastic bag over my head; as long as I could get out of it I might not die. We reached a gravel road that snaked down the least romantic part of the mountain. Sure enough we passed by an old green pickup truck with Steelers football decals on the windows and a n1STEELERS vanity license plate. We contemplated hotwiring the truck but considered the death of our reputation and dignity not worth the quick escape. The decline we had so hoped for while just a few minutes ago came in a fairly steep, steady rate that made our knees question why they were being punished. I’d turn around every so often somewhat expecting to see an old pickup truck slowly driving towards us, the man in the flannel leaning out the window, his dog leaning out the other. “You kids won’t last another hour, hop in” He’d say and Hannah and I would give each other looks of hesitation but ultimately throw out grade school warnings and hop in. Except flannel man was nowhere to be seen; in fact, no one was around. The end of “Tot’s Lane,” came to a paved road, which we turned right onto, following Flannel’s directions. I was finally walking on the outside perimeter of the forest and mountain but then the signs on the trees made me wonder just what perimeter I was on. White marks were replaced with “US TERRITORY LIMITS.” While I was positive we hadn’t ventured into the excitement graveyard known as Canada, spirits were not lifted with the stern notification.

When at first I assumed the directions he gave us were just vague, upon walking down the paved street I realized the directions weren’t vague, the area was. Unless “unkept house number three” was seen as a monument, nothing stood out among this stretch of Grade-D Americana. The monotony of the landscape only made our trek down the macadam decline more tiresome. The houses we’d pass all contained porches littered with disregarded items and broken down appliances, a wrap-around garbage can. While it seemed to me that the Krelians’ might want to dispose of their jumbo diaper boxes somewhere else it occurred to me that maybe the Krelian’s weren’t so concerned about public displays of paper underwear seeing as the road seemed about as traveled as Mount Deserted we just left. The strangeness of our presence was even more apparent when we’d pass a house who’s standard too long driveway had someone taking out the trash, watering plants or preparing a cat for dinner. Regardless of what they were doing, the person would slow down their activity and gaze at us--a two-person parade of foreignness. Directly proportional to the house’s state of dereliction was the number of mediocre cars. It seemed in this area stashing your extra tires and electrical parts outside meant you deserved an extra car. Thought exterior paint as a thing exclusive to the 70s? Add another used car. As an open-minded accidental traveler I try not to judge what appears to be cultural norms but I couldn’t help but question the need for so many similar cars, and if no one was home (which was the apparent state of the...area) than were they all driving around somewhere else in more cars? The thoughts provided me with a mental soundtrack to accompany the metronome of my feet.

Our energy and Naglene bottle slowly draining we came upon an unexpected T in the road. Flannel had given us directions up until the road we were currently on so anything from here on out was left to our natural intuition or the gods of the Delaware Water Gap area.
“Let me check the name of the street,” I said confidently to Hannah, who was now nervously clutching the Nalgene bottle, testing its shatter-resistant claim. The T in the road featured only a street name for the street we were just on and it was…”Tot’s Lane”.
“Wait, this says we were just on Tot’s Lane but that was the gravel street that we turned off of to get onto this street miles back.” I was stupefied. Had all directional logic been thrown out the window since we embarked on this adventure hours prior? Was it this hard for Louis and Clark? Where was our Sacagawea? Before the thought could escape my mind we glanced over to the field next to us; a small part of it was the back and front yard of a medium sized home. An elderly man was playing with, presumably, his grandchildren on a plastic swing set. Exhausted we plopped down on the grassy slop next to the street corner. We were probably about ready to accept defeat except defeat was not an option, we hadn’t the slightest clue where we were or how to get back; defeat would mean using the Fisher-Price plastic slide as shelter and roaming the neighborhood for scrapes and squirrel meat. Much like our approach to the man in the flannel, we had a brief, frantic debate over asking the elderly gentleman the name of the street we were about to turn onto. Contemplating the carb and calorie count of squirrel meat and realizing I had a bag of organic Tostidos waiting for me in the car I wasn’t ready to give up. Thankfully Hannah agreed and mustered the energy to stand up and politely shout to the now dazed man, “Excuse me sir?! Excuse me? Hi, yes I’m sorry could you possibly tell us what street this is?”
The elderly fellow began to shake his head no—a response I was not prepared for—but then managed to squeak out in a gender confusing, feminine squeak, “Cherry Orchard Road, I think”.

Hannah thanked the androgynous elder and we made a hasty left onto what may or may not be Cherry Orchard Road. As we scurried away from the scene I, in poor taste, recounted the strangeness of the area: automobiles that grow from poorly managed properties, streets that begin and end in no logical order, gender-bending grannies, it was all too much to take. The sheer lunacy of the situation shut down the sector of our brains that registered stress. Where hopeless crying should have been we laughed uncontrollably. Were we regressing from some sort of back-woods America toxin? Our brains were seemingly malfunctioning, were our motor skills next? Would that he/she senior citizen be pushing me down that Fisher-Price slide? During our inappropriate laughter we somehow managed to conclude that calling Hannah’s mom and getting online directions from Cherry Orchard Road to the Deerhead Inn just off of Mountain Road was the best option, except the laughing didn’t stop before or during the phone call. As I walked around in a small circle, arms in the air signaling defeat to Mother Nature, Hannah was trying to explain our situation to her Mom in between laughter. Much like when you accidentally hurt your friend during a childhood roughhousing session Hannah’s mom wasn’t sure if Hannah as in fact laughing or crying. Before she could deduce an answer, I signaled to Hannah that there were people ahead we could ask further directions and she snapped the cell phone shut.

Were those two moms waiting for their child’s school bus or were they waiting for us to approach them in near hysterics asking for directions? It was hard to judge especially since our brains might be functioning on a third grade level soon; after that communication will be on a strictly giggles and grunts level.
“Hi, I’m sorry but we are sort of lost we were wondering if you could help us,” Hannah again apologetically asks.
“Okay,” one woman cautiously answers.
“You see we were just hiking the Appalachian Trail and then we…”
I cut Hannah off before she can give the full back-story to our misadventure.
“Yeah we just need to get back to the Deerhead Inn actually, if that’s at all close”
“Ah yeah you want to just turn around and take this road down till it hits Main Street, then turn right and it’s right past the post office, you can’t miss it. It is a bit over a mile away I think.”

We thank them and I turn us around in the opposite direction, with—for the first time—a sense of direction. Dreading passing the androgynous grandparent again, we try to walk as fast as our aching legs can move. Still acknowledging elementary rules we walk against traffic, moving into the possibly poison filled brush every so often as we lazily warn each other, “Car”. It’s nearing the four-hour mark and everything on our bodies is tired: ankles, knees, head, even my hand is tired from carrying the Nalgene bottle. Brains and mouth fatigued as well, we barely speak except for the occasional optimistic outburst of what we plan on doing as soon as we are within visual range of freedom. Freedom meant hot showers; freedom meant junk food…freedom meant Dairy Queen.
“I would love to get Dairy Queen right now,” Hannah says, teasing my taste-buds.
“I don’t want to be in the presence of food that contains any colors found in nature. I want a pastel, rainbow plate of sugar, carbs and various fatty-based foods,” I respond, half sternly directed towards nature.
“No…my Mom’s friend said there’s a good vegetarian café in this area that we should check out.” Hannah suggests with feigned enthusiasm.

We take a moment and stand in knee length weeds as a pick-up truck barrels down the street. I try to jump-start my legs by kicking a small, run over branch into our sidewalk of wilderness. Again we stroll in tired silence.

“I know there’s a Dairy Queen around here, I just know it,” Hannah blurts out.

Before we can imagine the extra pounds on our tired thighs we come to the literal and figurative end in the road. Main Street at last. We turn right and for the first time in four hours we recognize where we are. We are getting irrationally nostalgic:

“The Italian Restaurant! I recognize that!”
“Oh, remember this dip in the road?!”
“Look up ahead—the post office!”

Every familiar sight reminds us that we are in fact headed in the right direction, and with each reaffirmation our pace begins to quicken with some unexplained energy that I imagined would only show itself when I needed to rescue a baby from under a car. Like an old friend we had been separated with, there was the Deerhead Inn; while we had no clue as to what the Deerhead Inn was, we referenced it to almost every one of our unexpected guides. It was only fitting that the final leg in our journey was a short but remarkably steep hill that passed the Deerhead Inn and reached the parking lot, one final “fuck you” from Nature, she might have been a bitch but she certainly had a sense of humor.

It may not have been washed in a few months but on that late afternoon Hannah’s Scion shined as if waxed with angels’ wings. It still might be the most religious experience I’ve had to date. Once inside the car, in unison, we took a deep victorious breath. Immediately we could smell our musky natural scent, clashing with the synthetic smells of the car. It was horrible. I smelled like pine trees, dirt, and fresh air. My lack of energy was the only thing keeping me from rubbing my face against the man-made fabric of the seat, dousing myself in the artificially flavored drink and being able to breath again. No as we pulled out of the gravel parking lot I realized I would only ever be comfortable entering a mountain when I know I have a way out. And as we merged onto the highway and were greeted with a sign proclaiming, “FOOD NEXT EXIT – DAIRY QUEEN,” Hannah and I looked at each other, smiled, and realized we were finally headed in the right direction.

We Regret to Inform You...

2008-01-25T08:21:00.000-08:00

1st rejection letter EVA, thus starting the new blog feature: "We regret to inform you.."

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SUB: Your Submission to Ploughshares

Dear Writer:

We regret that the manuscript you submitted does not fit our current editorial needs. Thank you very much for sending us your work.

Sincerely,

The Editors of Ploughshares
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Aiming a bit lower next time and possibly at a more speicialized literary magazine. New Yorker maybe?

The Adventures of Uhler and Clark: Part 1

2008-01-21T22:55:00.000-08:00

I've been writing this entry about a failed hike Hannah and I took while on break off and on for about a week. I don't usually write pieces in...well..pieces so I'm sure the grammer and spelling has reached a cosmic level of error, in addition this writing style made the piece surprisingly long and therefore I'll upload it in parts. It may be the only post i have that includes words such as "nature" and "hiking" so enjoy it...

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Given the circumstances it’s not surprising that the mysterious man in the flannel was our guardian angel. Hannah and I, attempting to curb couch and cable TV addiction and make the most of our few slow days at home, decided to go on a pseudo adventurous hike. Trail directions from the Internet, matching Nalgene bottles, and functional yet fashionable hiking ensembles en tow we piled into the car and jokingly referred to ourselves as that couple who leaves the big city on the weekend for a refresher course in nature at an upstate park or mountain; only to come back on Monday, invite friends over for a $200 dollar cheese and wine spread accompanied by a digital slideshow so we can tell them how much we’ve changed and explain in great detail our deep appreciation for nature. A fate that seemed a little less like a joke as the man in the flannel gave a hearty laugh and said, “You really don’t have a clue as to where you are do you?” No sir, we don’t but help yourself to goat cheese and Sauvignon Blanc; it’s really something to experience.

Boredom at home could lead to much less noble pursuits: cataloging back issues of Seventeen magazine, tripping on cough syrup, or binge eating on homemade cookies. When Hannah and I decided to become active the Pennsylvania way and go for a hike in the mountains I just naturally assumed the experience would be pleasant, rewarding and completely successful; a sort of higher-power good behavior reward. Mother nature must have been PMS’ing pretty hard that day because no such reward was even slightly hinted at. We may have physically been on the Appalachian Trail but I somehow ventured off onto an unwavering trail towards Mountainous resentment.

The directions we pulled from an online article from a local newspaper told us to turn off of Mountain road at the Deerhead Inn and make an immediate left turn into a parking lot that is “not well marked”. “Not well marked” ended up being “not marked at all” and the only other car in the small gravel lot, a gray haired woman taking her canine companion for a walk, seemed startled at our arrival. A not marked parking lot led to a not marked trail, in fact many not marked trails. While the trails weren’t marked our directions said to follow the “old fire road” up to the summit. A name like that is essentially a description in and of itself and therefore I was relatively self-assured in my guessing of which “trail” to start up. We had lost the woman with the dog and now seemed miles and miles from any sort of human presence. I had no worries for I figured the only person we’d run into on “the Old Fire Road” was possibly Lassie, off on another rescue. We hadn’t been hiking long and were enjoying the steady incline and fresh air. My lungs seemed to be working on a new level, the unseasonably Autumn-like January afternoon gave the air a certain crispness that agreed with me.

“Hikes are great!” I exclaimed to Hannah.
“I’m so glad we’re doing this,” Hannah replied. She went on to describe other hikes she had taken on other monotonous breaks from school. I pulled out the phone I had gotten just a few days earlier, “Ohh I still have full service!”

The vagueness of the directions bordered on haiku-status, “When near the summit; the old road narrows slightly; take white-marked trail down.” At any sort of clearing I’d ask Hannah if this was the summit, the car ride equivalent to “Are we there yet?” Yet when the Old Fire Road did in fact narrow slightly I proclaimed triumphantly as if I was a seasoned explorer guided solely by instinct and experience, “Yup this trail’s definitely narrowing just a bit, we are going the right way! Just a little bit more till we hit the summit.”

Instinct and experience weren’t necessary; the sudden change in terrain was enough to signal that one was at a new point in the journey. Although the incline was barely any steeper, the fact that it was all rock made that last few feet seem a bit more monumental. No one would judge you if you added a few unnecessary grunts and groans, verbalizing a physical struggle that mostly likely never occurred.

“We made it!” we both proclaimed, my hand unfortunately carrying only my Nalgene bottle and not a flag I could triumphantly thrust into the earth. I let out a telling sigh as I looked out over the rest of the small nearby mountains, highways and Delaware River. You almost forgot that you might be looking at New Jersey. As Hannah continued her gazing I plopped down and ate a banana she had brought but didn’t want.

“It’s so pretty!” Hannah said loudly, being surrounded by a space vast enough to make any sort of cry seem small.
“It…really…mpfhhh…is,” I said mouth full of banana.
“Will this just compost?” I asked, holding up the peel. Hannah gave a nod and I chucked it behind me. I amused myself with the thought of a unknowing hiker stepping on the banana peel and having a hilariously exaggerated tumble down the Old Fire Road.

“Well I think we’ve admired all we can, we should head down,” Hannah said.
I took one last look at the majestic scenery and agreed. Hannah’s previous hiking knowledge confirmed that the Appalachian trail was marked with small white marks on trees, and since this was as concrete of guidance as we had, we decided to follow the white trail. Gazing at the sky with feigned understanding I stated, “Should have plenty of light left to get us down the mountain, we’ll be good as long as it’s light out.”

At the mercy of the Appalachian we moved from one white marked tree to the other, failing to ignore the newly discovered trail marker, “Why is there so many clumps of hair? I’m seeing these little tufts of animal hair on the trail. Should we be worried about bears?”

Having spotted them before but not verbalizing a growing guttural fear I provided the only appropriate answer, “No, that banana peel I threw out a while ago will act as a decoy. Either that or maybe the bear will trip on it.” In reality had a bear came anywhere near us our shrieks and screams would have either scared the bear aware or alerted any dog within a ten mile radius of our danger. I was banking pretty heavily on my Lassie and the Old Fire Road theory.

The directions had stated the trail downward as “more up and down, rougher terrain and longer but much greater scenery”. I reread the directions as I past white-marked tree number eight on a fairly level open trail that edged up and down with as much intensity as a kiddie coaster. I was getting worried. The majestic views we had admired earlier on the summit was following us. There was no real alternative option and every time I’d express my growing concern over our lack of decline, the trail’s horizon would appear to promise such a drop only to show us another equal incline immediately following. We had reached a commitment point and personal pride in conquering the summit that refused to let us turn around and back track down Old Fire Road. I couldn’t bare trekking down the Road and passing Lassie, moving in the opposite direction, giving us a shameful glare. I cannot be defeated by a fictitious dog again.

The vanishing dog-walker woman from the parking lot was the last human we had seen until a larger figure, and larger dog, broke the trail’s horizon. We walked as calmly as we could while debating in loud whispers the necessity of asking this approaching figure for directions. “We have to ask him. I’m going to ask him,” Hannah said convincingly.

His large Labrador approached us first, skipping right over the cordial handshake greeting, opting instead for the much more informal crotch sniff greeting. I gave a half-hearted chuckle and tried to pat/push the dog away.

“He’s a friendly dog. Maybe a bit too friendly,” the man in the plaid said, punctuating the statement with a boisterous laugh. While his plaid shirt and relaxed fit jeans failed to evoke comforting images of the L.L.Bean catalogue it seemed to signify that this man was comfortable with nature in a way that didn’t involve post-hiking cocktail parties and Thoreau comparisons.

“Excuse me,” Hannah said, “Do you know if this will take us down to the parking lot?”
“Parking lot?” the Man questioned.
“Yeah, down by Minsi Road”
“Well if you go up a ways and then bear left, its not a quick or easy trail but it will get you down to the Lake. Or if you wait up by that electrical station just a few yards ahead of you then I’ll take you down in my truck. I’m heading that way.”
“Oh and this lake is by the start of the trail? By the Deerhead Inn?” We half asked, half pleaded with him. If we sound desperate enough, it’s bound to be true.
“Deerhead Inn? No, no, I’m talking about Lake Minsi, the Deerhead Inn is the opposite direction. The Deerhead Inn? My god, that’s way off.”

RERUNS: Even God Hates Creed

2008-01-05T09:04:00.000-08:00

In the spirit of the writers' strike and mild laziness I'm adding a ReRuns addition to this blog, which is essentially just personal essays I wrote for school. Some of you have read them before, but I feel like most haven't and therefore they aren't ReRuns at all! in fact, they're probably better to read because they have actually been proof-read and gone through revisions. I'll start with my last essay for Intro to Non-Fiction class sophomore year because I just somewhat sheepishly submitted it to Ploughshares. This will result in a well-worded rejection letter from them but everyone needs to get their first-rejection letter sometime and you might as well start near the top. Enjoy...call me when new episodes of the Office are on.

"Even God Hates Creed"

Even God Hates Creed
An Essay by Rodney Uhler

March 2007

Like a lonely, mid-class prostitute, I feigned pleasure for two hours for a fast seventy-five bucks. Although the crowd around me gave me an odd sense of comradery, the repetitive movement and the dulling of my senses made me question my decision. I imagined being confronted by my partner later in life; I’d turn around, grasp the granite tabletop and speaking in a shameful whisper I’d say, “I was a broke college student. I was desperate for money and it seemed like an easy way out.” Although the shame will follow me, I realize there is no use denying it. I participated in a Christian Rock consumer focus group for the money. I lied about my musical taste, my faith and subjected myself to bands with names like: Angels Wake, P.O.D (Payable On Death), Living Sacrifice and, of course, Creed.
I entered college with the expectation that I would hold out on getting a job until the second semester, so as to better acquaint myself with the college lifestyle and academics. I lasted a month. Having been employed since I was fourteen, and having the financial outlook of a paranoid accountant, I couldn’t handle spending money without the reassurance of earning it back. Although I was hired at a local retail boutique, my hours weren’t extensive and I was eager to make up for lost income. One of my suitemates, Zach, told me that he was participating in a music focus group he found on the popular internet classified site, Craigslist, and that compensation was seventy-five dollars. He copied down a number for me to call. “Intriguing,” I said as I rubbed my chin signifying my deep thought. People would pay for you to share your taste? Although excited, I was suddenly annoyed that I had been sharing my musical taste fee-free for years. Perhaps, one needs a focus group to provide justification for putting a price on cultural opinion. Perhaps, this focus group was my justification for charging for entertainment advice. “What did I think of the new Sam Mendes movie? Do I think Samantha Mumba will have a comeback? Five dollars please.” I wondered if this was the end to my money troubles.
Before I could contemplate my financial future I needed to see if there were still open spots. Notepad and pen ready for detailed instructions I dialed the number. The voice of a middle-aged tired professional answered. She briefly explained what a focus group was, and what my job would be in that process. Then she began throwing curveballs, “We like to know if any of your close family or friends work in the record industry or radio?” Thinking that my sister’s recent Capital Records internship would make me seem more experienced for the focus group I responded, “actually my sister works for Capital Records.”
“Ohhhh really,” her voice exhaling all hope in me. Catching on to the fact that I had given the wrong answer I backpedaled with the speed of Lance Armstrong,
“Well of course that was a while ago. And it was only an internship! She isn’t doing that anymore. Nothing like that.”
“I suppose that will be alright”
Before I could regain my composure, she threw a second pitch,
“So tell me about your interest in Christian rock music, Rodney,” she stated as if I had introduced myself by saying, “Hi, I’m Rodney, number one Christian rock fan!”
“Oh,” I was fumbling. “Well I do like rock music, and while I’m not the biggest Christian rock fan, I definitely have heard it before.” I was avoiding outright lying, while internally I was debating my pain-threshold for Christian Rock in comparison to my desire for some extra coin.
“But you like some Christian rock, right?” Her questions were now bordering on hints.
“Oh yeah! I mean I just might not be the most knowledgeable.” I tried my best to sound like a good Christian boy. I mentally reminded myself not to bring my “Gay Satanic Worshipers” magazine to the focus group. Most likely desperate to end her job, she said I was a good candidate and she’d email me directions.
Venturing out into a city I was barely acquainted with and armed with slightly vague directions I viewed myself as a modern day Columbus. My suitemate had a different scheduled time so I was co-pilot free. The directions had me venture off the main roads and into smaller, darker areas of the city. These were the types of areas where I imagined the phrase “That’ll teach ‘em” was often muttered late at night, which men from the Mafia considered “places of business,” and where young, supple Boston University freshmen girls were “last reported seen”. The temperature was brutally cold yet my increasing panic was overpowering my body’s discomfort. I pulled my jacket close around my body and wondered if this was a cruel prank by some intense Christians to punish me for lying about a faith I had no ties too. I saw what appeared to be one of those young, supple BU girls and tried to flag her down. “Excuse me,” I croaked out. She didn’t hear. “Excuse me!” I shouted, this time eliciting her to turn around, exposing a fear and distrust I rarely see directed at me. To her I was a potential rapist or sexual deviant. I was oddly ashamed but my desire to see this mission out and not accept defeat overcame her frightened gaze. Besides I was roughly her size and possess the upper body strength of a Girl Scout. I pulled out my directions and explained to her that I was pretty lost. She actually was a BU student and therefore knew the area pretty well. She pointed me in the right direction, probably mentally assessing my survival rate. Reading the BU newspaper the next morning she wouldn’t be surprised to see the headline, “Unknown Christian Rock Fan Goes Missing: Can Jesus Find Him?”
Like the light of heaven itself, my destination appeared to me in the form of an illuminated office building surrounded by a macadam purgatory. I literally sprinted into the building. Inside the lobby an easel was set up with a foam-core sign reading: VANGUARD CONSUMER RESEARCH, beneath the bold company letterhead were the words “Welcome Focus Group Participants” and an arrow pointing to a door directly to the left which featured a smaller version of the foam-core sign. I entered what looked like most doctors’ waiting rooms and made my way to the male receptionist seated behind a Formica desk. I signed in, and was given a group number and told it would be starting very soon. After finding my way to a thin, uncomfortable chair, I was ready to peruse the choice of magazines when a young woman stepped into the room from a hallway I hadn’t noticed, she called my group’s number. With slight hesitance I got up from the chair and looked around the room to see who my group-mates were. About seven males, all seemingly mute. We all silently followed the pencil-skirted young woman down the hallway and into a personality-less room. I was careful to remember the route we took in case I needed to make a quick escape. Through a slender window next to another door I could see my suitemate’s eyes fixed on something out of sight. I thought I saw a faint glow coming from the room, much like those described by victims of alien abductions, but I couldn’t be sure.
“Hi guys, and Welcome! My name is Kathy and I’m part of the Vanguard Consumer Research Group. At Vanguard we do all sorts of consumer research and focus groups on many different types of media, but as many of you know, today we will be focusing on Christian Rock themed music. Your input today will really have an effect on some decisions a new radio station will make, so get excited and I’ll explain how it all works…”
We would record our results on a 1-5 scale on a Scantron test, much like the ones that frequented many of my worst days in high school. The most physical activity involved was the perpetual shading in of tiny bubbles. We’d listen to about 30 seconds of a song and then record our opinion of it on the test sheets. The music was all programmed on a CD, so Kathy would only sporadically pop in to make sure there were no technological glitches, we had no questions, and to make sure we hadn’t attempted suicide via a sharp number 2 to the throat. At first I had the energy and enthusiasm of a loyal worker determined to earn my seventy-five dollars, regardless of my contrived interest, but like the small bubbles on the Scantron, my outlook gradually grew dark. The music was becoming one muddied mess of shouted vocals and guitar riffs. I would periodically glance up from my test sheet to see how the other participants were doing. Coincidence or not, it was all men in the room. Many were sporting casual attire such as hooded sweatshirts or layered t-shirts. Two dark haired, bearded thirty-somethings appeared to have known each other prior to our focus group family for they’d periodically whisper to each other. I began surveying the group and contemplating the reasons why each had decided to participate in the process. Was that man in the knit cap feeding a drug addiction? A knit cap worn indoors post twenty-five speaks highly of my theory but the rolled up sleeves on his button-down show exceptionally clean, needle-mark-free arms. Was the guy in the corner a new father in need of some extra money to buy gifts for his wife and daughter? Or for his mistress? Were any of these people actually fans of Christian rock? The man closest to me wearing a black band t-shirt that I couldn’t make out and black converse with neon-green laces could be a potential Christian rock fan, he seemed to show genuine enthusiasm during Kathy’s pep talk. The rest seemed to either be boarder-line unconscious or very interested in what was going on in the vicinity of their feet. While green-shoelaces-man was enthusiastic and had a fitting wardrobe, he could just be a more cunning liar. A professional focus-group fraud, perhaps? I seriously doubted that I was the only imposter in the group.
We were granted a five-minute break after the first hour in which I ventured back into the main waiting room. I wrestled a mint out of the surprisingly complicated candy jar next to the sign-in desk. After feigning activity on my cell phone, excusing myself to the building lobby as if the call was extremely private, I returned back to the room in time for Kathy to jump-start our musical adventure.
I suddenly realized that many of my bubbles were filled in towards the negative side, potentially exposing my fraudulence. I concentrated on picking answers that ran the gamut without seeming too contrived. Occasionally a random Coldplay song would come on and I’d suddenly feel better because I could give a truthful answer to a band I actually recognized. Ironically Coldplay was my savior in the Christian rock category, although I’m still debating their link to the genre. Was the song “Green Eyes” really about Jesus and not Gwyneth Paltrow? The only other band I recognized was Creed, a band fronted by the frequently shirtless and always creepy Scott Stapp. Their popularity in music coincided with the pinnacle of my poor musical taste. Besides their Top 40 hits, the only other opinion I have of the band came from a anonymous music critic; on my eleventh grade locker someone had written in black sharpie, “EVEN GOD HATES CREED!” I considered myself privileged to use that locker. I declined to share this sentiment with Kathy or the rest of focus group. The final CD played its last 30 second musical punishment and we were instructed to move on to the last, but comparatively exciting loose paper answer sheet where we circled names of bands we are familiar with or like. I circled a few based on creativity alone and left any with the words “Savior” “Damnation” or “Sacrifice” without circle or praise.
Filing back into the waiting room, spirits rose as the young male receptionist was now clutching a stack of envelopes that no doubt contained our financial reward. As if Army trained, we formed a tight line, stepped forward, gave our name and received our check. I tucked it safely inside my jacket and made my way out to the unnerving streets I had traversed before. With God on my side I made my way rape-free to civilization. Climbing out of the literal darkness and onto the streetlight filled neighborhood I felt as if I had spent years in the Vanguard prison, and would have to readjust to my newfound freedom. Waiting for the train I looked around at the others who were idly standing at the station. Were they silently judging me? I spotted one of the men from my group further down on the platform. We made brief eye contact. I wanted to exchange slight head nods that would show our brotherhood and reaffirm our unspoken link. Sometime in the future faceless radio executives will glance over a report that has a strong spike in approval of Coldplay music. They might question the participant’s faith or they might just increase the play count of “Green Eyes,” but either way I’ll know that my lack of faith and love of money will always overpower my better judgment. Check aside, next time God wants me to look through his CD collection, I think I’ll politely decline.

the internet is as confused as i am

2008-01-02T22:00:00.000-08:00

the banner ads on my myspace are still in french for some reason despite the fact that myspace clearly knows i'm back in the states for i'm online yet no where near a mcflurry; it is making this "transitional" periods even stranger and more difficult. rupert murdock owns myspace, this maybe a insignificant fact to my situation or it maybe horribly significant.

A Heathrow Holiday

2007-12-24T21:48:00.000-08:00

Writing in an airport isn’t as romantic as I pictured it. I’ve been in airports many times recently and the charm of flying itself sort of wore off some time ago, but just a day or two ago I pictured myself click-clicking away on my laptop aboard the airplane; perhaps in a well-fitting retro suit...perhaps everyone in a well-fitting retro suit. The stewardess in her orange and white funky uniform would offer me a strong coffee but with a simple raise of my hand she’d know that I was too engrossed in my writing. There’s no room on my tray table for distractions. This would only make the other passengers near me more interested in what I was writing, but they wouldn’t dare directly ask me, instead they’d whisper to each other possible theories of what publication I wrote for. Time? Esquire? Cat Fancy?

Instead of a retro suit I’m wearing an H&M plaid shirt I’ve had for years, an oversized knitted cap to hide my unwashed hair. On top of my hobo-chic ensemble the all-nighter I pulled last night: packing, cleaning, and finishing up last minute details of my Parisian home-life, has given me a glossy-eyed, sloth like appearance. The plane from Paris to London was too short to take a proper nap so instead I’d fight my body’s inclinations to pass out. I thought sitting by the window seat would help me sleep comfortably but instead my head would bob, succumbing to slumber but would instantly smack against the hard plastic wall jolting me awake. This little mid-air head banging session continued until I had a small plastic cup of orange juice to distract my body. Instead of wondering if I was a glamorous writer the two Indian gentlemen next to me might have wondered if I was an unstable hermit or a masochist.

If one is looking for the least Christmassy place in the world I’d add the international connections terminal of Heathrow airport to the list of suspects. Instead of a holiday spirit there is an air of incompetence still looming from the approximately 1,000 stranded passengers from last night. Every employee is playing the role of the Grinch in this play. As I type the only sign of Christmas décor is a woman waiting in one of many long lines decked out in a cheap sequined Santa Claus outfit that makes me think for of festive stripper routines rather than season’s greetings. The woman has now boarded a plan for Hong Kong. Ho Ho Hong Kong. It would be amazing if my Christmas eve was spent in truly festive areas because with the lack of sleep, multiple time changes and random naps I feel as if this day could end up being 72 hours long. Stepping into my terminal after the trip from Paris I was desperate to wake myself up and stretch my legs so I decided to do some light Christmas and layover entertainment shopping. I only have Euros so I justified picking up a few extra things so I could pay with my credit card. It’s been a rough 36 hours without a coca-cola so I grabbed that first, then some Cadbury Dark chocolate for my family, both of which were an attractive shade of dark red and black. I wasn’t hungry but perused the semi-refrigerated section of sandwiches; many featured strange British ingredients that seemed mildly unfit for consumption but I chose one of the more pricey ones because it was labled as a special “Christmas Sandwhich” choice and I won’t lie, it matched my other purchased really, really well. The woman at the checkout didn’t appreciate my color oriented shopping and the credit card machine “wasn’t down but is taking a bloody long time today for Christ’s sake!” Even near his Birthday Jesus gets no slack. After about 3 minutes a Heathrow typical line formed behind me; now everyone was wondering how bad the masochistic hobo’s credit is.

The fact that there was meat stuffing inside my sandwich could be seen as the red and green frosting on top of the strangest, saddest Christmas eve ever but I’m still a bit jolly. Besides the fact that I love meat and will eat anything with the word stuffing in it: I’ve got an 8 hour plane ride ahead of me and one more Tylenol PM, I’ll see all my family together again in a house with wireless internet, a stove AND a dryer, and it’s the first Christmas eve where I have all my presents to wrap at once. My excitement at the idea of having a present wrapping marathon in front of the TV or in my room listening to music on my external speakers has made me so giddy that some people in Paris have even told me I talk about an odd amount of time. I suppose the phrase “absence makes the heart grow fonder,” wasn’t entirely meant to apply to the act of wrapping presents but in the context of my life it may be the only application. Being away from my job at the store where wrapping can become a competitive art form and being in a situation where I’ve been buying presents since September has made me craving for a good clean wrap job borderline drug like. I’ll scramble into my room and press the scotch tape against my nose, roll around on the tubes of festive wrap and curl ribbon until my fingers are pink and puffy.

The last few emails from my mom have ended with “after this I’m gonna start backing cookies!!!!!!” so I’m sort of expecting to not come back to a home so much as large gingerbread house. I’m entirely okay with this as long as we still have wi-fi. Gumdrop wi-fi. There is so much and maybe too much I’ll miss from Paris but there were always things missing. It will be nice to be in a place where people know I can speak at least one proper language, am not homeless, can pay in more than one way at a grocery store and have enough credit to purchase the bittersweet chocolate that makes up my Gingerbread home.

Lessons In Public Transportation from Brussels

2007-12-22T10:01:00.000-08:00

Perhaps it’s not well known but my love of public transportation, specifically subways, is so grand that I have a hard time believe it’s not apparent to friends, family, and perhaps even the metro drivers I blow kisses to every time I enter and exit. I even contemplated a metro related tattoo at one point. This love of subways has only been intensified since coming to Europe and I didn’t feel truly at ease with a trip unless I felt comfortable with their Metro system. Stockholm, Barcelona, Paris…check, check, check. I view myself as a sort of subway Napoleon, if I can conquer their metro, I can conquer their people. This in mind I knew the trip to Brussels would not be our best when Cara and I found ourselves in the middle of what seemed like a VHS tape on “Uncomfortable Subway Situations: Ride with Pride”.

After a post bus trip nap we had plans to meet up with our friend Joris, who was coming down to Brussels from his small Belgium town. Adapting our party outfits to the tundra like conditions took a little longer than expected and we were running a little late when we hopped on the metro. The Brussels system isn’t horribly confusing but it uses more trams than subways and therefore deciphering the lines on the map does take a little bit of effort. We figured out how to get to Joris’ station and it only required one small transfer; we were warm, we were ready. As with any big city on a Friday night, the metro did have a few rowdy teenagers who I can imagine just get really drunk and ride the metro all night, forgetting two hours into taking it around a loop if they ever had actual plans for that night but not caring either way. This group was a little louder and more aggressive than any I’ve seen in Paris and we were still feeling quite foreign but this group seemed to contain themselves to the other side of the car. Not interested in being too conspicuous I’d glance over every now and then to watch them shout and spill beer as they tested their reflexes with the subway doors. The only other really comfortable place to look was down at my double-socked feet for to my right was a group of young girls taking up a four-seat spot. They had ratty hair, suspiciously large breasts and seemed to be angry with everyone and everything. Had these girls spent more time on personal hygiene and less on death glares they might be a bit more cheerful. Like our language defense in every foreign country Cara and I remained silent and stoic on the subway, occasionally glancing up at each other and giving a telling eye-roll or awkward smile. Our composure was broken when we heard a woman a couple seats away from the glaring girls scream.

“HEY, you, get out of my bag! I know you were going through my bag, what are you doing?!”

The woman was leaning against the back of a four-seat section of the car and her purse naturally fell in a position that seems conducive to pick pocketing. I couldn’t see the man she was accusing but the man next to her was now getting involved, telling her to call the police.

“He was going through my purse,” she turns her head to the man, “I KNOW YOU WERE.” She was speaking in English, an ambiguously non-American accent. She was naturally overwhelmed but where as I tend to internalize my stressing and forget about motor skills entirely she was having no trouble expressing her freak-out. It seemed odd that she was constantly brushing her fake blonde hair out of her face as she flung her purse around and rummaged through it to find something missing. The intensity of her shouting and her building physical anger was making me nervous about a possible impending fight. She was now turned to the group of ratty girls who were now laughing manically.

“Hey! You little shits had something to do with it I know. You were trying to distract me weren’t you!?”

At this point I turned to give Cara my best silent, wide-eyed, “What the hell!?” expression but as I broke my gaze from the metro battle I caught a glimpse of Cara now on the station platform. Motor skills naturally failing I couldn’t manage to shout anything to her and I caught the door handle just as the doors locked shut with a dramatic clunking sound. She managed to escape the bizarre world that was taking place within the metro car. I rested against the hard plastic wall, a shade of orange that seemed to be appreciated only during the 70’s and frequently mixed with browns or anything offensively distasteful. It was just a touch off from being the color of prison jumpsuits; it seems Brussels is not without its irony. Happy to busy myself with my cell phone I texted Cara to let her know that I was getting off at the next stop, which was actually where we needed to make the transfer. Waiting for her at the platform I could catch a glimpse of the English speaking girl rummaging through her bag with one of the men from the metro; counting all her sample perfume bottles and fake-nail appliqués to make sure they were all there.

Cara got off one of the next train and explained how she just had to get off the train, that it just did not feel okay. I imagine she meant it less in a Zen-aura way and more of a “hey people are getting robbed and little girls with fake boobs are laughing” sort of way. I understood. I tried to picture how I would react if someone were stealing from my man purse or maybe just my pockets. Unfortunately I just sort of picture me realizing it, giving the person a strange, frightened look and then sort of just sighing VERY dramatically. I’d freeze up and not move; now more scared of awkward interaction with the person rather than actually getting my things back. I’d get off the metro and call someone to complain about how my iPod was stolen and now I’ll be bored during workouts, or if my phone was stolen I’d go to my house and complain about the same things but complain about having to get to the house as well.

We switched to the next line, which was significantly less dramatic but still featured that haunting shade of orange. Although we were now even more late the train got us to our destination. It was a new experience to be conquered by a new city’s metro but I’m confident that when, or if, I return to Brussels I’ll cross it off the map of conquered metros, of course I won’t bring a man-purse and I’ll keep my eyes away from easily entertained drunks, easily annoyed girls and just look contently down at my feet; if they knew I was the Napoleon of international public transit I’d be eaten alive.

choo choo train of thought...

2007-12-13T05:05:00.000-08:00

Only in my present situation can being at McDonald’s be part of a much needed mental/physical health day. Milkshakes are the new aspirin. The past few weeks have really been so all over the place that my blogging capabilities have been at a clear minimum, but i'll attempt a sort of cop-out list blog with mini anecdotes that range in ages ago to today but all are things I'm afraid I'll forget or want to write in more depth later. A theme you will not find, but they all stem from my experience or mental wanderings...both of which are heavily influenced by milkshakes so I guess there is a theme.

(For the record I'm pretty sure I lost weight since being here)

-The most info I want to divulge about the past couple of days is my metro ride from school yesterday morning. Despite the ridiculous amounts of metro strikes (there was one today that was barely noticeable) my metro ride has been the one source of routine and stability here; a 5 second walk to the metro stop, an easy 30 minutes on the 8 line to Madeline and then another easy 30 minutes on the 12 to Port de la Chapelle. If it's not too crowded and I can get a seat I read (metro-reading was a skill I never thought I'd possess). Usually my metro-rides don’t include hallucination but there’s a first for everything. I had the oddest sleep schedule the past couple days where naps usually carried more sleep time/weight than actual “nights,” this has been going on for only a few days but it caught up to me that morning on the metro. Traveling back from an exam I drifted in and out of sleep so frequently that my sleep deprivation turn to hallucination. I had found a seat in an empty four-seat section, one by the wall…deadly. I’d frequently move my leg over because I could swear someone had just brushed against it. Conversations I was hearing prompted me to display the full gamut of facial expressions and mild grunts. Occasionally I’d stand up just to give myself a mild form of movement; afraid I’d pass out and wake up having traveled the entire track an undisclosed amount of time. When I was snapped back to reality I’d look over at the few passengers aside from me, their expressions not lost in translation, they thought I was either insane or on some sort of drug. I was too tired to be ashamed.

That being said tonight I could have received a call from the Pope saying, “Madonna, Hillary Clinton, and the Olsen Twins are having a get together at the Louve, you GOTTA go,” I’d politely decline, reach for an unnecessary Tylenol PM and have my own silent party in bed. Besides I hear the Pope is a sloppy drunk at parties.

(* update: I just had a night of 10 hours of sleep, have been reborn)

- Despite the wildly excessive street cleaning in Paris I’m frequently amazed and disgusted by what I find on the sidewalks. I’ve stepped in a 2.5 foot smear of feces in a metro station, stepped over a pile of puke a mere 4 inches outside the door to my school and stepped over a small intestine outside the butcher shop near my apartment. I’d stop looking exclusively down at my feet when I walk but it’s my only form of shoe-defense.

- The other day I decided to buy a block of brie while shopping and a baguette from one of the many local bakeries just to cram a little more cliché French culture into my last few days. I was alone in the apartment for the afternoon and had already done the essentials: ate, napped, showered, dishes so despite my full stomach I decided to indulge in my food purchases. Having meticulously cut half of the baguette up into small oval morsels and took care to spread a respectable amount of cheese on each piece. I sat down and ate in front of a French makeover show I didn’t understand and realized this was more depressing than fun. I’m frequently amazed at how many times I think an activity will be fun or charming only to have it actually turn out sort of sad. It could have been the intro to a Lifetime movie about depression and obesity had I been a has-been 35-year-old actress and my glass of coke was a bottle of whiskey. Again, I’m shocked at the fact that I’ve lost weight here.

- I somewhat spontaneously bought a bus ticket to Belgium the other day and I leave this weekend. I thought I might be doing the trip alone and I was somewhat apprehensive for I’ve never traveled in Europe by myself but also somewhat excited for that same reason. It ended up that Cara could actually accompany me for one night so it should be a good balance. I assume Belgium will be good for some head clearing; waffles sort of have that power.

- Thursday, December 20th, is my “going away party” at Pop’in. If you’re reading this and in Paris, let me know cause you are probably invited.

- There are some habits I’ve picked up here that I was sort of afraid I’d pick up and sort of afraid to continue when I come back home. I’m generally afraid of anything that could be considered an addiction. Coca-cola does not count; my body now runs on that. The content of my veins are carbonated. It might not sound serious but I have truly come to appreciate/need coffee. While I’m always impressed by people who can randomly throw out bits of knowledge or taste-expertise when you’re at a café with them, I don’t want to be one of those people who calls themselves a coffee addict and buys novelty coffee-themed sweatshirts and desk ornaments. I don’t want to become my high-school history teacher Mr. Haja whose coffee breath acted as a three feet deflector shield for any sort of social interaction.

- One of my French friends read my blog and although he said “I didn’t know you were so clever,” he also didn’t think it could be described as funny. Perfectly understandable and respectable but I happened to witness said friend laugh at a Garfield comic in a French newspaper. That was the moment I realized that if I ever had a career as a literary humorist my tours would probably skip right over France. France is Jim Davis territory.

- Being here has made me realize how isolated I am from the rest of the world on a mere communication sense. I like the idea of being able to pick up and move to a foreign country without feeling so foreign. Meeting people here you realize how flawed our language-education is in the US and how great it can be. It has inspired me to take on studying a new language when I return. While most logical signs would point to continuing Spanish I feel some sort of strange debt to attempt to learn French. I do know that if I returned to Paris being able to somewhat effective communicate I would enjoy it even more. Strangely being here has made my English somewhat worse for I’m frequently talking to people for whom English is their second or even third language and for some reason this makes me overly think about what I’ll say and what words to use. Often I’ll end up somewhat stumbling and using awkward phrasing. A while ago I was talking for a while to a French guy my age who was completely fluent in English; he stopped me mid sentence once to ask if English was my first language or not.
“It seems you have a bit of trouble with it?”

- I’m finding the prospect of essentially stepping off the plane and stepping into Christmas morning completely strange and jarring. A lot of these feelings have to do with me being able to successfully wrap my presents.

- Following that train of thought I’ve found it hard to think of things I want for Christmas because I feel as if I’ve been given an amazing vacation for the past three months, a great deal of which was made possible by parents and relatives. On the flip side these past three months was the longest time in the past five years that I haven’t been employed and not being able to buy those little things you want but don’t really need has been an unwelcome reality.

- Continuing the train of thought one of the things I do want is a tattoo but I don’t want it to be rushed into or not given adequate amount of thought. Two ideas I’ve had for a while that I would be very happy getting are 1.) a cityscape comprising of selected buildings from cities I’ve lived in / spent time in on my upper back. 2.) a medium sized rectangular print on the upper inside of my arm…there is a Chagall print I’ve always really liked but I also think an Aubrey Beardsley print would be a wise decision. While those two have been walking around inside my head for a while I’ve recently opened the floor to the idea of an illustration from a children’s book namely a Quinten Blake/Roald Dahl image or a Sempé illustration of the Roddy character from the book “Martin Pebble”.

Christmas lists and shopping usually doesn’t require this much debating, thinking or introspection. Although it does require a good credit limit, which I have officially, earned thanks to my continually on-time and in-full payments!

- During one of my sleep deprived days I realized halfway through the day that my underwear was on inside out. Tre chic.

- Thanks to my description of the reaction of Airborne to water and subsequently Cara’s myspace alias we have been teaching the French (and some New Yorkers) the phrase “Frothy top”. The word Frothy is undeniably amusing in English but thanks to the difficulty the French have with the “TH” sound it becomes 100% more amusing and charming when a French person says it. Thankfully a lot of these conversations take place near a pint or pitcher of beer so one only need to point to the foam of the beer in order to convey the meaning. Beer and Vocab: A Frothy Tale could be a fitting title for my inevitable Parisian memoirs.

This entry ended up being much longer than expected but my body is staying awake much longer than expected. The list format took some of the burden off my brain but as cliché as it sounds it does feel good to write and hopefully I’ll have an actually exciting blog entry after Belgium and then at least one masterfully nostalgic and inspiring entry before I return to the U.S.

4 small +

2007-12-04T04:16:00.000-08:00

The following is my response to the "Tell a clear story with a beginning, middle and end in five photographs" assignment for my Directing class taught by the one and only Boris (see previous post):

The other projects ranged from very artsy to shockingly simple with a strange number of them involving death and/or crime. After we finished looking at mine Boris responded by saying, "Aww we will have fun talking about this one..." What followed was a heated 20 minute debate where my peers were really into the project and thought it was clever and Boris thought it was too vague. Although he thought it wasn't clear, actually to quote him, "All I see is a bunch of legs walking around," many of my classmates got the idea right away. Karen (see previous post) thought it was funny because clear it was me picking up "a woman of the streets"; apparently based on Karen's logic anyone who owns red pumps is a unabashed prostitute. Sorry Cara. While Karen was kindof off topic others surprised me by picking up on the small details like the body language of the feet and how the woman was obviously the one seducing the male and he was relatively apathetic in the whole thing. All this talk was lost on good ol' Boris for he began to challenge the class to the question of how one shows that two people are strangers based on one still photograph. While it was hard to really take everything Boris says seriously seeing as he also said that "The ending is clear because if man and woman go to bed together it ends in either marraige or one-night-stand," I still sat slackjawed for most of the class. I'm not used to in class debates here especially when I thought I had a very simple, clear project.

Grading for Boris consists of a 30 second discussion of the project (usually) then followed "Alright now we grade." Then, with the author present, he asks the class to shout out what they think the person deserves based on a scale of 1 to 5. Through the past few days the scale has come to involve + and -'s as well yet the acual academic meaning or consequence of these has yet to be understood. After the class grades are approximated into one mean number Boris gives his grade. The class gave me a 4+ and I expected Boris' to be around 2, possibly 3 based on his vein-popping distaste for my feet exclusive portrayl of a fling. He gave me a four and averaged out the grade to a "4 small +". I sat back in my seat, sighed and vowed never again to take minimal risks in Boris' class and also...to buy a pair of red shoes.

(feel free to grade yourself, get creative with the grading scale, 3~~~7, 6^44, 8:), whatever)

"He Asked Us If We Wanted To Buy Coke or Ecstasy"

2007-11-18T12:14:00.000-08:00

The crowd was so packed that you gave up the idea of simply moving through the crowd and adopting the concept of moving by way of the crowd. You hoped to luck out and get sandwiched in between two lines of people who were moving in your direction so the lines would do the work for you, much like the intestine moves digested materials. By the looks of the floor the digestive system was cleaner than this bar. Despite the density and the dirt, we were having fun. After being abandoned outside an early closing bar we spent nearly an hour trying to traverse the tundra of a city; happiness was achieved by mere warmth. We were with some friends of friends who were visiting Paris for a short time and while I had just met them I felt some strange obligation to be positive for Paris’ sake. We have been to this particular bar quite a few times so my anecdotes about the crowd and knowledge of the bar made me feel even more like a true Parisian resident to our new friends. The fact that I had yet to adopt the slightest bit of French language was a purposefully overlooked factor. I was providing a service to those young French who wanted to improve their English. The universal language. God’s language.

Our visiting friends ducking out at a few four a.m. was just another sign that I had adopted well to the Parisian lifestyle. Stephanie and I were sticking it out; the fact that I had paid seven euro for a drink justified to me staying till close, perhaps sleeping overnight and a complimentary early morning breakfast buffet. Moving out of the most crowded room we spotted an empty table by a few attractive people our age. Compared to the rest of the crowd they seemed to be pretty passive, waiting for us to sit down by them perhaps. Or maybe just on downers. I squeezed in on the long booth seat next to Stephanie and a couple who had begun to display Parisian affection for each other, which translated to English means they were making out to a degree that would make most porn stars uncomfortable. Soon it became clear that we were in the unofficial couples zone, and while we are a couple of people we are most certainly not a couple. We took the time to do some Parisian people-watching, which translated to English means visual judgment. We decided which couples were poorly matched and how they would be better paired. Many of my rearrangement simply had them dating me instead. Our lonely-hearts game ended with the sound of the bar bell, five a.m. had come fast.

We were back on the streets. A street we had successfully caught a cab on numerous times. The cold made the streets seem vaster and made you feel smaller. We finally flagged down an empty cab…he wouldn’t take us. He told us to walk down a block or two and we’d hit a taxi stand. Worn out groups of people dotted the stand, a few barely managing to stand up, and some staggering out into the street as if to get a better look. We were a few people behind in the line but outlook didn’t look dreary. Thanks to the everlasting metro strike I had left the house prepared for a night containing some winter walking: a long sleeve shirt over a short sleeve shirt, a cardigan, a leather jacket that may or may not be bulletproof and a hat befitting of a thin-skinned Eskimo. I might as well have been wearing pasties and a crotch-covering belt. The wide heavily traffic street created an unforgiving wind that mocked my idea of layering. We were huddling together and doing our best to conjure up images of poor abandoned orphans for that certain Daddy Warbucks driven cab. The few people who were in front of us had been successful in obtaining the rare open cab but it was beginning to seem as if our luck was not as strong. Had my rabbit’s foot matched this outfit my night could have been drastically different. I knew a beige rabbit’s foot would have been much more practical.

I have a tendency to obtain a odd smirk whenever I’m nervous or uncomfortable but I was surprised to find out I obtain a wide grin whenever I’m on the brink of frostbite. “Why are you smiling right now!?” Stephanie asked, clearly unaware that I was not in fact enjoying myself. Unwilling to open my mouth and let precious mouth heat escape I simply shrugged and wiggled around more, trying to keep my blood pumping. Stephanie pointed out a group of people waiting by the nearby Metro station and because it was a bit after five a.m. it seemed to suggest that they were anticipating the first Metro passing through. While one would think that a Metro strike means no Metro, the Parisian definition is quite different. With this particular Metro strike (the second of my short time here) certain lines were running, certain lines were not, and those that were running had certain amounts of trains operating and all of these logistics were constantly changing. What was running at 1 metro for every 8 before could be completely dead in a few hours. I had noticed earlier in the night that one line of the 8 was running fairly regularly and this was the line we could take here. I suggested we run to a nearby cheap restaurant, warm ourselves up with greasy food and wait till the Metro started up again. While we were both hesitant to leave our spot in line, every unlit taxi that passed seemed to make me even colder. A few more minutes outside and Stephanie could simply sled home using my frozen corpse.

Seemingly unaware of the time and place many people were simply engaged in conversation, ordering full dinners. Others were chain smoking over a greasy Greek sandwich; I even spotted a full family. Like most times I need to interact with a random Parisian I simply prepared myself for the necessary vocabulary or sentence and anything else they said I simply sort of smiled making sure it wasn’t a “yes of course smile” or “no thank you smile,” I’ve perfected a very objective, non-committal smile. While I assumed the transaction went okay seeing as I ordered fries, paid 2.50 and the man left without shaking his head or screaming at me he did point to the front façade of the store a few times and I ran over to Stephanie, already seated. “Why is he pointing to the front? I did everything okay, I swear,” pleading for her assistance. Perhaps viewing the mound of fries as proper payment for my incompetence she told the man we were eating here and he gave us the fries. Setting them ceremonially on the table and hovering over them like a campfire we took in their loving heat. Ripping into them National Geographic style we were suddenly interrupted by a large man speaking commanding French to us. I turned my head sharply to stare at him, ketchup still on my lips, I was a Lion interrupted at feeding time. I had no patience for Gorilla antics. “He says we have to pay to sit down here, that’s why they were pointing to the front. It’s more expensive to actually eat inside,” Stephanie explained. Without taking my face from out of the paper dish I handed over the money. The harshness of the rule aside, on a night like this it was simply cruel. I had to use my best motivating skills to get Stephanie to agree to leave our unexpected sanctuary. I wasn’t really tired but I was growing tired of this night. Besides, I had just subjected a family to my late night binge eating; the grease and mayonnaise staying on my thighs, the shame staying on my face.

Believing we had just cheated the system we were excited to simply dash across the street and hop on a Metro, avoiding cab fare the entire night. Happy to actually have a destination in sight, I didn’t mind the fact that it seemed to be even colder out than before. There were less people on the street but I wasn’t sure if the crowd’s absence meant that they had lucked out with a cab, simply walked home cold and defeated, or were the victims of desperate cannibalistic actions of the few sad people left in the street. Running down into the Metro, which seemed even colder than above we passed an old man walking slowly out. He spoke something in French to us and again I smiled. “He says the Metro’s not running. No metro at all,” Stephanie translated. I was in disbelief, I refused to accept it until we marched down to the platform and were forced to confront the reality of our situation. I wasn’t ready to go back into the unprotected cold. I wasn’t ready to do the waiting for a taxi routine again. I wasn’t ready to be consumed by those who are still waiting; they can probably smell the delicious salt and potato on my icy breath.

I had no more nervous grin or frozen smile. I didn’t have the energy or patience for facial expressions. Stephanie was still trying her best at getting a cab but I merely shifted my body back and forth, trying to prevent my muscles from tensing up. My back was doing a scary stiffening action every few minutes.

“Should we try walking to a new area to get a cab, it looks completely hopeless here” I suggested.
“Are you serious, walking?”
“I’ll actually be warmer if I’m moving, and I just want to know I’m going somewhere. I can’t stand this idling.”
“I literally can’t move my feet, I’m not sure they’re still there. I can’t,” Stephanie reasoned.

An old beat up car had pulled up to us and the few other small groups of people waiting; he had offered to drop people off somewhere but no one was going in his direction.

“Is hitchhiking legal in Paris?” Stephanie asked.
“I think so, I think it still might be legal in all of Europe,” I hesitantly stated.

Stephanie now had new inspiration for getting us home and all it required was a different hand position. Unlike my reaction to the unbearable cold, Stephanie seemed to have the vocal energy to beg and shout for help from those who would be willing to drop us back near our respective homes. Some cars would look over surprised and unnerved which made me question my knowledge of hitchhiking legality and some would drive past in stoic silence.

“We look like normal, decent people, right?” Stephanie asked me.
“Look like? We are normal decent people. Normal, decent people popsicles,” I assured her. The concept of hitchhiking didn’t even register in my head. It was one of those crazy things that my Mom tells me about from her time in Europe or even during her college days; or else it begins a horrifying accounted of murdered travelers on Fox News, but it’s not one of my recognized mode of transportation; let alone in a city I can’t understand. An unassuming car a few years old pulls into the taxi stand but past us and right to another couple of people. My hands deep in my pockets for warms I waddle into the street, looking for a sign of hope in the distance.

“He’ll take us!” Stephanie screams out to me. She’s leaning next to the car, which the other two people have already crammed into. For Parisian standards it’s a fair sized car but in America standards it’s a Razor scooter. Stephanie slides in next to the couple who are barely fitting as it is, the one propped up on the other’s lap. I forgo any sort of formalities or questions and sit on top of Stephanie, but I have to tilt the upper half of my body towards the center of the car while leaning forward; my stomach turns into a series of wrenching muscle knots. My neck and shoulders are against the stained upholstered roof and I rest my tired head on the back of the driver’s seat.

“We’ll have to give me a little bit of money, I said we would. He knows these other people,” Stephanie whispers to me. I nod in agreement. I have only a few Euros in coins but I’m not outside and therefore everything will work out.

A few destinations are shouted, Bastille being Stephanie and ours, it’s not really where my apartment is but it’s an easy twenty-five minute walk I’ve done too many times to count. The shouting doesn’t cease and I can sense Stephanie’s voice getting tense. “No” is the only word I can understand during the ride and the frequency with which it’s used should be alarming but the part of my brain that registers fear has yet to thaw. I stare at the mess of feet and try to look up to the other two people to gauge their expressions. I realize that me speaking loud enough for the driver to understand that I don’t speak French is a poor decision so I continue my silence. The car pulls up to a street I’m not familiar with and the other two slid out and slam the door. It’s just the driver and us and as I sit down properly I can see a woman, silent, next to him. She’s looking out the window and I join her. It’s well past the six a.m. mark but the city shows no signs of morning. The driver is playing loud techno music and it makes the car move a bit faster. Stephanie leans in close to me and whispers, “He wanted to charge us fifty dollars, I told me we needed to get out then, but he lowered it, I have him down to fifteen but I only have a twenty but I told him fifteen is all I can afford.” I pull out the coins from the pocket and systematically add each one up; almost seven euro. I don’t want to keep speaking in English so I try to give Stephanie an encouraging smile but it might have come out as objective, non-committal.

I wonder if he frequently ends his Friday nights by driving around, picking up cold, desperate strangers and charging them extensive fees. I look over at his female companion, still silent, holding her large bag in her lap. It doesn’t seem like she approves but she seems to accept it. The music is still too loud but it’s making the silence understandable. The driver and Stephanie are talking again now, I barely pay attention but I can tell it’s not as heated. Stephanie later tells me he was asking if we wanted to buy cocaine or ecstasy. How much would he charge for cocaine to strangers who just told him they couldn’t afford a fifty-dollar car ride? We spot the Bastille; Stephanie gives up her last twenty.

Too exhausted to properly assess the progression of our night and again faced with the brutal reality of the wintertime weather we quickly separate. I start my walk home, the driver’s bad music still thumping in my head. I quickly pass a few clumps of post-partying walkers and from then on my walk is mostly devoid of any sign of human life. It’s down one single street and I know that if I start my pace quickly I’ll get into a groove that will get me home quickly. It’s never fully dark in Paris but it still seems dead. Without really questioning, I know which streets I can pass through without checking the stoplight. I’ve done this walk so many times, mostly with me that I have begun to think of it as my own. If I begin to start seeing another regular walking down Daumensil between the hours of 4:30 – 6:30 a.m. I’ll think of them as an imposter. I make my steps louder, not only to make my presence known but the cold air makes the echoes more pronounced. I begin to see the Daumensil metro stop which means only a few more minutes, it’s at this point where I can start to really visual getting home and right now nothing exists except my bed and the covers I have piled on top of it. I’ll have to pull the curtains tightly closed because it will be light out soon and while I doubt it will wake me, I want to be sure.

Free Parking

2007-11-10T09:39:00.000-08:00

I’ll always be surprised to see a pony. Last Sunday I decided to explore the hint of a park I had spotted from my permanent seat at McDonald’s. There were ponies; in fact, there was everything beautiful and picturesque that I’m a bit hesitant to go back for fear I’ll merely find an expansive landfill or parking lot and I imagined the whole park, not a pony in sight.

It was one of those Sundays where doing the dishes and listening to music was actually considered “doing something,” and when you live in an apartment without real TV or any internet the dishes tend to be spotless. In Paris, few things are open on Sunday, but being here for such a brief time I am constantly viewing a day inside as one that could have been spent strolling the Seine and growing a pencil thin mustache. I had just shaved and this park was closer than the Seine. Often when I go out to explore Paris my time is dictated by my stomach, for once I start to get hungry I often have an hour-long window before I’m delirious with hunger: unable to hold a conversation, menstruation moody, and physically anxious. Rarely will I actually see the fiscal benefit of grabbing a sandwich where I am and continuing with my adventuring. Once home I rip into a bag of chips or bread and jam unable to contain myself for the five minutes it takes to make pasta. This afternoon I ate to hibernation standards and even grabbed some Pocky and a water bottle just in case. Viewing this as a possible means for executing the romantic visions of Parisian parks I’ve had before I packed my sketchbook and art supplies. The majestic pony is best captured via pen and ink.

Past the McDonalds is unchartered territory and away from the center of Paris so everything seemed even more foreign. “What could that grand building be over there, so pristine it positively glows,” I thought to myself, “Oooh it’s a Laundromat!” I began to notice that my pilgrimage was a popular one and I was constantly being flanked by small groups of families or smiling couples. The park has a few entrances that are preceded by large gravel walkways bordered with benches and a large wooden map, which gives the feeling that you’re entering an old-fashioned amusement park. I was greeted with ponies and small children. This park is virtually unknown in Paris and I have yet to visit the truly famous ones; I expect to walk into the Luxembourg gardens and see small jockeys riding giraffes and emus. Little kids could pay a few Euros to ride around a small part of the park on pony-back while their parents strolled leisurely next to them. Only one parent was adjusting the child for gratuitous picture taking, the others were casually talking and laughing with their children; probably some lighthearted preschool anecdotes or friendly disagreements over Sartre’s philosophies.

Unlike most of Paris, the park seemed be straightforward in its layout. A large kidney shaped lake was in the middle and the park stretched out around it, the main path encircling the lake. I thought a lap around the lake would be the perfect route to take in order to scope out the perfect grassy knoll for my Parisian doodles. The path was a virtual trip through Norman Rockwell’s greatest hits, images so heartwarming I literally made a list as soon as I sat down to draw. A little girl rode past me on an old bike, she was carrying a pinwheel high in the air. The lake featured couples on rowboats that somehow managed to row while leaning in to give each other little kisses. I passed a man who was playing with a miniature wooden clipper ship, hand-painted of course. A group of children (let’s say they were once orphans) were skipping stones by the lake’s edge. A father and a son were leaning over a small wooden bridge, fishing. These Kodak moments aside nearly everyone else who I passed were smiling couples, well behaved families or old friends with non stop chit-chat. It was enough to send Mr. Rodgers on a three-day drunken binge that ends in him setting fire to his now inferior neighborhood. I could see him waving a white cardigan, a man defeated.

I could commiserate with ol’ Rodgy; it’s hard being surrounded by such imagery. It’s a lot for one man to take. Paris’ beauty can be isolating. I often enjoy doing things by myself: errands, movie-watching, public transportation, using the bathroom; all perfectly exceptional solo activities. My trip to the Pompidou wasn’t hindered in the least by my solo status. Sometimes after going to a Museum by myself I’ll be reduced to coming home and putting on Celine Dion’s version of “All by Myself” on repeat or imagining a sort of “museum relationship” where you notice the same person over and over again until you believe they’re following you; making an exceptionally coy attempt at flirtation. Then you realize they’re merely moving from Picasso’s blue period to his cubist period, along with the rest of the museum traffic.

The happy couples aside I couldn’t help but realize that unlike the pony I, as a single individual, was a rare breed in this park. Renting a rowboat I’d be limited to humiliating circular movements. I’d look comically large on a pony, and despite my lack of Sartre knowledge, I’d be disappointed at the Pony’s silence. Paris has been testing my sense of independence with the internal conflict between the appreciation of your surroundings and the desire to experience it with someone. Public displays of affection in Paris could be given MPPA ratings; and they’d often be at the PG-13 level; although the other night in a bar I saw a couple so into their romance they didn’t notice that the woman’s right breast was hanging out, gasping for air during their suffocating make out session. Thankfully this didn’t make me feel bad for myself.

Rounding the halfway point in my lap around the lake I noticed that the park stretched out even further than I had imagined, too expansive to see an end. This was the perfect time for me to make a detour to my artistic landing. I couldn’t take any more laughing children or fresh picnic lunches; my bitter attitude could be channeled into duck and tree sketches. Now knowing that the park was quite expansive I didn’t want to go too far off the trail that I would get lost, but I also wanted to veer a little bit, away from those friendly faces. I needed a spot that both Robert Frost and Rand McNally would agree upon. I found one by a trashcan. My little sketching gave me a sense of personal accomplishment; I was finally beginning on my goal of drawing more. An individual goal that could only be motivated by myself. Or maybe, a perfect Parisian park.

The Sunday sun was starting to leave the Sunday day. My stomach was surprising me with its temperance, but I decided to forge my way back with the families and couples. A peace walk of sorts. The budding sunset was making the trip even more grotesquely gorgeous and I needed a peeing hobo or overturned trashcan to cleanse my visual palette. For a city and a person that virtually shuts down on Sundays my day proved to be somewhat eventual; I like to think there was give-and-take in my relationship with the park. It gave me a reason to walk past the McDonalds and it provided the only time I didn’t find rollerblading to be an egregious error in human judgment. I gave it a much-needed dose of individualism and infinite blog fame. I’ve started to read Hemingway’s A Moveable Feast and while I’m just a few pages past the preface I appreciate the possibilities of Paris in terms of artistic inspiration; my sketches are barely past the doodle status and I’ll never feel fully ready without a set of crayolas, but I’ve never written so much and Film school was been jarringly hands-on. Just don’t ask me how my French is coming along. I now know how to properly pronounce Oui, and I say it with a turret’s like fervor.

Despite my seemingly well-chosen spot to sketch I soon realized I was a little lost. I looped around the walkway a bit, where the rowboats were all tied up now, and where the man with the clipper-ship was sailing, a few people were still out with their dogs (not Poodles) but the picturesque sights I was recalling acted as trail-markers and I soon found myself back at the beginning. Much to the children’s dismay, the ponies were now being packed up into the trailer. Having been greeted by the ponies I was more prepared to face their presence upon exiting but just as I was about to leave I noticed that the only one that still had a child on it was shitting what appeared to be one full month’s worth of food. It was the perfect way to cleanse the squeaky clean image I had of the park and gave me hope for a better, brighter and more inspiring future here in Paris. Mr. Rodger is putting the Jack Daniels away, finally putting a shirt on under his cardigan and realizing that he might have overreacted at Paris’ perfection.

The Exchange Rate

2007-10-31T01:18:00.000-07:00

I’m not sexually promiscuous. My wardrobe features no Americana or even an Old Navy 4th of July tee. I understand all my classes and can engage in normal social conversation with my classmates. Yet I’m an exchange student; a title I quickly laughed at and dismissed when I was first introduced as such. I’ve seen “American Pie”, and I’ve laughed at the Swedish exchange student in “Can’t Hardly Wait”, yet I fail to fulfill any of the stereotypes these fine films and other forms of media have informed me about exchange students. It may be a different case since I go to an International School where most people have lived in a half a dozen countries and speak three fluent languages, but my title, and possible stigma, as the exchange student has been rearing it’s ugly stars-and-stripes face at me too many times for me to ignore.

I do not exaggerate when I say that every single one of my classmates is a character. This is not a good or bad thing; it’s usually merely an entertaining thing. Karen is one of these characters. Karen has been described by other classmates as “sucking at everything,” her skin, hair and eyes are all a very similar shade of amber, despite being obviously quite a bit older than the rest of the class she remains ambiguously ageless, she is frequently 20-40 minutes late for class and she tends to regularly interrupt class with inane literary references. I’ve never minded Karen, she’s a lot to take but she always interesting, is usually very well put together and is a confirmed owner of patent-leather loafers. She hails from Swaziland but her personal history reads like a “Where in the World is Carmen Sandiago” adventure. South African accents tend to bring out the best in the English language, and her English Prep school education tends to reinforce this accent to a degree suitable for giving the Royal Family dialect coaching. With her older age, scholarly accent and shiny clean loafers whenever she talks to you you tend to feel as if you’re a common street child being scolded. Her accent is so significant, it sums up her persona, Karen is her accent. Karen has issues with my accent.

Coming inside from our break a small group of us were nearly run over by a Range Rover pulling in fast to the school entrance; a head pops out of the drivers’ side window and shouts, “Sorry chaps!”…Karen. Inside the lobby, which consists of the delicious .40 Euro coffees and a few mismatched chairs, I sit down talking with some friends scattered throughout the room. From the corner of my eye I can see Karen closely talking to my friend Madison and looking in my direction. I can already tell she is asking him what my name is. The previous week I was on a brief shoot with Karen and upon seeing my storyboards she came over to me and asked if I would sit down with her and work on hers; she then proceeded to volunteer me as director for the next film shoot by shouting to me from across the classroom, “Rodney! You should do it, I’ve seen you storyboard, you can do it.” I just figured out how to use the coffee machines successfully and had yet to actually touch equipment in the school yet somehow the fact that I know how to draw someone crouching against a wall gives me directorial validation. During the extended silence of the class unwilling to volunteer she volunteered me another two times. Last week she was all too familiar with my name, apparently this week she forgets. I mentally prepare myself for conversation with her.

“Where are you from Rodney?”
“From Philadelphia originally but I’ve been living in Boston for the past few years”
“That’s strange. I wouldn’t have guess that at t’all. I suppose your accent through me. I’ve been having a wild time with it.”
“Oh? I’m not usually aware of myself having an accent I guess.”
“Yes well see Madison [Madison is from Portland, Oregon] speaks quite differently from you but he’s from the States as well. He says everything quite clearly, quite crisply. Whereas you tend to…sing everything”

This is where I stop. This is where I glance over to Stephanie and Jean-Louis to make sure I didn’t just imagine someone referring to my speech as having a “singing” quality. I don’t even think people would describe my singing as having a “singing quality” let alone my everyday speech. Jean-Louis’ confused look and Stephanie’s barely contained laughter confirm that I have not imagined such a statement. I attempt to respond…

“I don’t really understand”
“See! Right there, you sang that.” She makes a twirling motion with her hands as if to illustrate the physical movement of my voice. The dance to my vocal singing. Never having been one to effectively hide my facial expressions she sees the mix of confusion and disbelief in my face and tries to elaborate in what she might possibly perceive as a complimentary way.

“I would have guessed you were from California, Southern California. It’s very much like those rich ones who are always frolicking on the beaches in television.”
“Uh no” is all I can manage to muster in my most East Coast monotone manner. Karen disregards and continues…
“Like those girls who are always vacationing in Malibu, those rich kids from the media, Southern California. Very rich California”

Karen keeps repeating these phrases as if they are cues for me to chime in, saying how she’s right…yes I was mistaken, my accent is very SoCal, rich girl, I was having a blonde moment before when you described it the first few times but once you mentioned Malibu I totally understood.

As. If.

Now like every red-blooded adolescent male I had fantasies of Jeep rides down Sunset Boulevard, one hand balancing the steering-wheel and the Venti-Frappicuino, the other adjusting the rearview mirror to check myself out; but those visions came and went with “Clueless” viewings. They were never substantial and I happily never have an actual experience relating to said Jeep ride. I have a few Southern California friends and have been to Los Angeles quite a few times but I dislike the city mostly because I never feel like I belong there. Karen’s repeat viewings of the O.C. tell her otherwise.

I could only tell to Karen that I had never had such a comparison before and repeated my personal geographical history to which she replied:

“Oh so that’s what a Boston accent is like!”
“Oh god no.”

Karen soon dropped her traumatizing description of my accent and I was left to debrief with Stephanie (my friend who was born in Mexico and was raised both there, Seattle and studied in Spain) and Jean-Louis (my friend who was born and raised in Guatemala but has studied in Belgium and France). Stephanie having lived in the West Coast laughed at Karen’s remarks, which made me feel better. Jean-Louis inquired as to whether I had a Philadelphian accent, to which I replied I’ve never actually lived there but it’s the closest place that people in Europe might know. He then asked if I had a Boston accent sounded like and I did my best “Pahk da Cah in Hahvahd Yahd,” anyone who needs reminding as to my ability at accents or impressions needs only to read a few posts down. Jean-Louis then said that reminded him of “Rocky.” The movie Rocky famously takes place in Philadelphia.

While I might have left a few people confused, myself included I’m not used to being a representative of the East Coast. There are really only a few Americans in the program and none of them come from the East Coast, far from in all cases. A few times in Europe, when asked I’d tell people I was from “the New York area’ seeing as I’ve been countless times, isn’t too far from my hometown and honestly just didn’t want to have the conversation die at “Pennsylvania”. When I was traveling in England in high school people would often respond shocked, “You’re from Transylvania!!” But suddenly I felt an imposter to even the title of East Coast. I’ve never been in a position of providing a sole personal representation of the East Coast. I’ll spend my nights researching Boston, Connecticut, and Baltimore. I’ll interview and get advice from my friends in New York. I’ll start a big fight with Stephanie over the merits of Seattle rock versus Brooklyn rock. I’ll claim Tupac was nothing compared to Biggie; and I’ll delete “California Love” from my iTunes. Perhaps I’ll just say I’m from Pennsylvania and welcome the confusion, enjoy the looks of people as their eyes widen and check my molars for signs of fangs. Out with the Amish questions and in with the Vampire assumptions.

I’m one of two exchange students in the school of over seven hundred and I was denied a school ID today because they weren’t sure whether or not exchange students get them or not, we’re their first ones. They weren’t sure about insurance as well. Seems I’ll be wrapping myself in the good old red, white and blue for protection. Pass the “Freedom Fries” please.

For a trip that was largely based on getting far away from the U.S. and the East Coast, I was suddenly brought a whole lot closer to it. The diversity in terms of my classmates’ personal histories and cultural identifications are so varied, by comparison, I seem to be the clear-cut one. I in no way feel some grand need to fulfill some sort of “representing your country well” promise that teachers usually sternly tell you before you embark on school trips outside the country, but it’s an interesting place to be in. Who knows, perhaps I’ll embrace my few months as the exchange student. No need for a jacket if I’m wearing my large American Flag sweater! If I’m invited to a party my classmates will teach me phrases like “Would you like to touch my penis” in French and then send me off to greet their French friends with my new phrase. I’ll give a loud, guttural American laugh at their shocked expressions thinking they just didn’t understand my French through my heavy accent. It’s very Californian you know, very rich, very beachy, very…Malibu.

When You're Happy and You Know It Write a Blog

2007-10-24T05:08:00.000-07:00

If television and the media have taught me one thing (besides my reason for existence! LOL) it’s that during a sweet sixteen party, as their friends hoist them on their shoulders, or as a newlywed looks down at their new finger bling, it’s that these moments are directly followed by the joyful exclamation, “This is the happiest day of my life!”
Big. Deal. If I were to pass by an anonymous stranger in the park and overheard him saying casually to his friend/lover/neighbor/dog “This is the happiest day of my life,” I’d be much more impressed. I’d want to know what that guy’s secret is. I’d be envious of that guy’s life. I’d be waiting for his caretaker to come back and remind him not to talk to strange dogs in the park.

While I’m neither that guy who talks to dogs in the park, or that joyful partier, I feel a sense of satisfaction that seems worthy of sharing. Location aside, my life consists of nothing miraculous and most days my routine would bore a sixty-year-old librarian but having this contentment at these times makes it all the more significant. Anyone can feel elated shoving a piece of $400 wedding cake in their new spouse’s face, ABC Family channel can tell you that. Jennifer Lopez, even before the J.Lo years, put out a video for her mind-numbing song “Feeling So Good” that featured, what I interpreted as, her perfect “normal” day: Jennifer getting ready to go out, listening to her favorite music (her song…a bit narcissistic), getting together with her friends, passing a store and seeing a great fur coat on sale, and finally Jennifer reaching the club and smiling all throughout a choreographed dance with her pals. This video has no relevance to me and I would never compare my version of happiness to that of Jennifer Lopez but I did recently find a thrift store that sells vintage fur coats for around 80 Euro. A fur coat has a universal affect in terms of happiness.

Being fully aware of my eating habits, my day is often brightened just by looking in the mirror and not seeing a 300 lbs. popsicle. I don’t want to shatter the image I assume everyone has of French dining but I can sum up my experience so far with a recent purchase of a three pack of microwavable pizzas for 1.30 Euro. Don’t shame me for some factors are against me: money, facilities, and time. The conversion rate has reared it’s ugly head at my bank account and my funds are nearly famished (expect an email soon mom and dad!) so I often play a game of “How many items under 2 Euro can I get” while at the grocery store. I have yet to reach the point of purchasing the industrialized sized can of beef ravioli that features merely a grainy image of ravioli and a Times New Roman title of “RAVIOLI BOEUF” but I know exactly where it is in the store. Our kitchen cannot be accurately described in words but a good place to start is with the word…small. We are sans oven, dishwasher, and toaster oven and can only have one appliance plugged in at a time. The pots, pans and silverware are all time capsules, treasures deemed unpackable from previous tenets. I’d like to know the story behind the Casino Royale shot glasses, or the mug featuring a Family Circus style illustration of a girl and boy kissing – naked, partially covered only by a winter scarf acting as a loincloth. With my new routine I often wake up early and try to spend as little time possible making breakfast, I have lunch packing down to a 6-minute art and when I arrive home from school and errands my hunger pains often dictate how fast I prepare dinner.

Time also poses another problem during the post-dinner-pre-sleep period where if I went to real school would be filled with homework, or if I lived in a normal media environment Internet browsing or channel surfing; instead it’s filled with shameful trips to the refrigerator. A few chips would make a nice snack…but they go best with soda, and suddenly I’m tired of chips but still have soda left…I’ll balance that out with a cookie or peanuts. With the amount of carbs I eat in a given day my food diagram would resemble a ranch house more than a pyramid. Before I had a school routine I would often have to ask myself if I already ate pasta twice today as I reached for a fresh bag. The incredibly delicious and cheap jelly here has increased my daily toast count three-fold. I recently justified eating another ice cream sandwich immediately after having consumed one by saying to myself “an even number is better than an odd, and having one pistachio and one chocolate evens out the number left in the box”. It’s this kind of thinking that has Jenny Craig members filling out membership-renewal forms at Krispy Kreme. I have a twisted vision of a bunch of blind-folded children whacking my dead body with a stick until it splits apart sending candy and other treats flying across the room; the children squealing with delight as they scoop up the sugary contents of my corpse. In the future I may refer to these days as “happier times” merely in reference to my metabolism but until then I find comfort in food and comfort in my body being able to maintain acceptable appearance and bodily functions despite being 75% Coca-Cola.

Tuition for the EICAR film school was worth it for providing a cure for my insomnia alone. Five to seven hour days of class with an hour and fifteen minute commute there and back have made sleep problems a thing of blog history. While I’m not exactly exerting physical activity during the school day, the lectures, discussions, and strenuous doodling send me crawling for bed before 11 p.m. During the weekends if it’s a good night I’ll leave the respected establishment between 4 a.m. and 6 a.m. and if it’s not I’ll usually consider an early ending justification for walking back; both of which have me exhausted (and hungry) when I finally return. Sometimes I feel bad when I look at the Tylenol PM bottle, once my favorite bedside companion, now laying defeated on the floor collecting dust. While I’d rarely want to disclose this information to those teenagers and twenty-somethings with exciting social lives, the warmness and comfort of climbing into bed at 10:30 knowing your body and mind are fully prepared to sleep throughout the night is an indescribable joy.

In a primal way I have satisfied my basic desires; sleeping and eating. As a man, this immediately makes me happy. Cara will often come into the kitchen to a slaughtered chicken on the kitchen floor, a trail of bones will lead to my bed--another happy night for the alpha-male of the house. Man sleep. Woman clean bones, prepare ice cream sandwich platter.

Surprisingly enough I have found pleasure outside of food and sleep, school has proved to be enjoyable. Most of the professors have been rather engaging, and when they aren’t they are more than entertaining. The amusing broken English that comes not only from the teachers but also from the students keeps me alert. The assignments are actually things to look forward to, and I have yet to fully grasp the expanse of Paris’ film culture. Despite my French Film nativity I’m actively learning, why just today I was browsing the DVD selection of the local Fnac store; Mean Girls…9.99, Adams Family Values…9.99, the culture here is not only accessible, but affordable. I’ve gotten along quite well with most of my classmates and have made some good friends fast. I’m embracing them now for once they find out about my torrid past I’ll be back to silently wandering the grocery store aisles, entertaining myself with the ambiguity of the shampoo and conditioner bottles. Breaking the food realm and triumphantly forging into the beverage category, I have found simple delight in the coffees dispensed from the machines populating our campus; for a mere .40 Euro I can get an authentic Café Au Lait, topped off with a mechanical “Merci, Merci, Merci!” During the breaks in between classes the entrance to the building is suddenly turned into an alcoholic anonymous meeting spot, clumps of people clutching cheap coffee and chain-smoking while they complain about the cold and discuss drunken weekend escapades. It may not be the most successful alcoholics anonymous group, but they’re taking it one coffee cup at a time.

This may have been the most “bloggy” of my blogs, but talking about your feelings just seems so much more hip when you can publish it online and chose your font color. I contemplated putting little emoticons of smiley faces throughout this entry just to utilize the technology. While the fact that the French dub every and all shows has yet to deter me from watching some television, there are some things I know are being said on certain shows. There are times when it’s expected to be the happiest day of your life and frankly I’m not wow’d; add an all you can eat buffet, conversation over cheap coffee, an on time-metro and a welcoming bed and now we’re speaking the same language.

The Aurora BORISalis

2007-10-17T13:59:00.000-07:00

The day I was introduced to my professors at EICAR could have easily passed as the final round of the “Cliché Country Ambassador” competition. It was down to Claudio the representative from Uruguay, who despite his heavy accent and unabashed affinity for fellow Latinos was doomed from the start seeing as Uruguay possesses no well-known clichés. Also in the line up was the eloquent, prep-school grad Andrew from Great Britain, the wide-smiling and shampoo-commercial-worthy-haired Adriano from Italy, and John the half American, half English representative who’s facial blemish is unfortunately placed directly in between his eyebrows giving him the impression of a well-mannered Oxford grad who accessorizes with a unexpected bindi. Despite all these more than worthy candidates, who have all done their respective countries well, they couldn’t hold a cliché candle to Boris. Boris Rechkovich to be precise. Hailing from two ambiguous Eastern European countries Boris was the born winner, although soon being able to be in the presence of such a man, I truly felt like the winner.

Currently having only a few hours experience with Boris my judgments are still in the first impression stage. During the course of the semester I’ll get to know Boris better and probably grow to know more about him and be able to judge him in less of a superficial way, but until that time comes I will milk my ignorance and speculate as to Boris: the man, the myth, the Eastern European.

People fortunate enough to have been witness to me recounting and re-enacting a story that involves someone, or even better multiple people, who has an accent can attest to my astonishing ability to reduce every and all accents into an insulting Asian/Indian fusion. Often times I become aware at how incredibly off my accent is half-way through the story and I’ll merely stop, apologizing and start again sans accent. Unable to contain my excitement at the creature I was introduced to I began to try to recreate Boris’ truly magical dialect for Cara. As expected halfway through I stopped, expecting Cara to ask if Boris hung around a lot of Indian or Asian people. While I’m not unaware of this blog’s technical abilities, nor do I have the courage to secretly record part of Boris’ lecture I doubt your ears will ever have the pleasure of hearing Boris pronounce the word “Shit!” A pleasure I do not take for granted, even though I’ve experienced said pleasure nearly a dozen times. I might even register his accent as a learning disability for myself, I find myself sitting in class distracted, fantasizing about hearing him participate in a spelling bee. Instead of classic spelling bee words I’d hand pick my favorite words to say like Vulva, or words that contain lots of R rolling. Fist pounding would be mandatory after every word and each word would have to be shouted for all of Russia to hear. The whole event would be recorded so I could use it as my new ring-tone.

Despite the distraction his accent, which I had only previously heard coming from exhausted Olympic figure skaters in post performance interviews, had on my first day of class I still managed to take a bunch of notes. Half of those notes were pulled quotes from his quirky vocabulary and lost in translation phrases. I felt they were of as much importance in my film education as Goddard ever will be. Perhaps I was an unfair note taker for I’d pay particular attention to words relating to war, death and other various forms of macabre. I was hoping to pick up some sort of pattern that would point to his past as a veteran of a bloody civil war or his unspoken night job within the caves of a mad scientist. Luckily he described the film set as a “warfield” and instead of calling for volunteers he would call for “heroes”. When describing a photo exercise he did during film school in which he told a tale, in merely five photographs, of a woman committing suicide after receiving a disturbing piece of mail. He drew crude representations of those photographs and asked the class to try to guess what the story was from them. While all were close he pointed out how his photographs weren’t perfectly chosen because the person didn’t receive a sign that she was to be murdered she (in what I have coined as Boris’ catchphrase) merely “made suicide”. Yes, she made suicide like you or I might make casserole. Only this time he explained, as he pointed to the last drawing, it “happened in blood puddle”. Rarely, and thankfully so I assume, does one get to use the phrase “puddle of blood” but if such an occasion might occur, its nice to know that merely dropping the “of” and switching the words can lighten the mood a bit with such an amusing word pair. While I’ll undoubtedly try to incorporate new hot phrases like “make suicide” or “happen in blood puddle” into my language when I return to the States remembering how truly authentic it sounded coming from Boris’ mouth will only make me realize how I’ll never be able to pull it off. Besides with the standard-issue Asian accent I deliver in stories, my friends will only question why an Asian sounding person would be named Boris.

I’m not sure if Boris, the ever-amusing jokester, was pulling a fast one on us new students this year by slouching in a noticeable way throughout the day, but regardless, his Quasimodo stature only intrigued me more as to his personal history. His boarding school professors might have reprimanded him with cruel and unusual punishments for his sailor like use of the word “shit”. The crimp in his back might have been caused by countless hours hunched over a Steenbeck editing machine working on propaganda films for a small dictator. Despite the oppressive memories of splicing footage of mind-controlled citizens of his homeland in a poorly lit cave his love of film and desire to teach triumphs. Brave Boris, as he’s known around the faculty lounge.

While I’m unsure of the origins or circumstances of Boris’ unusual facial structure/features I will throw moral caution into the wind and disregard the very apparent fact that it could be a tragic tale because I feel like Boris has embraced it as much as I have. Above his right eye is a medium-sized bulbous patch much resembling a welt one might get from a football to the head. Whether related to this or not his right eye seems to be continually squinting, a big contrast to his round, lively left eye. These descriptions are not meant to poke fun at what could possibly be a very private and personal topic to Boris but what seems and sounds like a handicap to most only seems to be an unattainable physical feature when applied to Boris. As if he requested the alteration to God and God accepted only because it’s Boris and such a change would only enhance Boris’ overall character. Both eyes are a solid blue usually only achieved with delicate watercolor.

Like his vocabulary to his accent, Boris’ mannerisms suit his physical stature impressively well. The first day of classes he was sharing the teaching time with the Italian (whose look, attitude and teaching style are so completely opposite to Boris’ that the experiencing this interaction was like a well-timed production of the Education Odd-Couple). Although they followed a syllabus the time was rarely divided up in any sort of predicable pattern for Boris would often interrupt himself to warn Adriano that he “was really feeling it now, in the mood and cannot stop,” much to the delight of the rest of the class. Pacing back and forth he’d fly through a recap of the previous year’s teaching. His statements were grand and his tangents morally inspiring; a brief mention of respect between actors and directors by Adriano would inspire Boris to proclaim his position not only as a professor of directing but a teacher of morals and ethics describing to us his predicted feelings of failure if he did not think about instilling in us fair and respectable morals. One particularly lengthy digression was about Boris’ belief in all of us as not just great filmmakers, and students but as great people too; he ended the touching moment by making a standard Boris joke about “I hope I will not make crying!” He laughed along with the class but I secretly hoped he wasn’t kidding and would break down any second. Despite my unceasing awkwardness whenever in the presence of someone crying I figured with Boris it would be different. Witnessing Boris cry would be comparable to unexpectedly catching the Aurora Borealis, a rare sight that later becomes a tall you pass down to your grandchildren. He tears might be those of a normal human being or perhaps they’re composed of a completely new substance. Catching them in a jar could be the first step in finding a cure for cancer. Boron would be renamed so as to not be confused with the new element on the table…the Boris Element.

During his “on the roll” teaching moment that lasted nearly an hour, Boris would often bob his head in thought as if phrasing each sentence or question was a full body activity. When someone would answer the question correctly or perhaps even finish his sentence he’d pause for a moment, give a slight smile and proclaim “Yes, I’ll accept that,” and the whole activity had a near party-game like quality to it. First day and first impressions usually bring out the most flustered, anxious side of me. Walking around clutching a map and walking aimlessly around like an upperclassmen joke my self-consciousness usually renders my social observation to the status of paranoid-schizophrenic. The fact that I even remembered my professors’ names usually registers as a personal victory but for some reason I always feel sad to see the first day end. Upon my return to Boris’ class I might realize that his accent isn’t as strong, and the next class I might not even notice his unusual eyes, and with every class I might come to judge him more and more on the workload and not his mannerisms. Part of me wanted to capture these details to leave written prove as to his existence, beyond mere documentation. To give the legend of Paul Bunyan some much needed competition. But another part of me thinks Boris will not go the path of so many other professor impressions and will increase his child-scaring vocabulary, will hint at a past that may or may not have included a fight with nuclear explosives and if he ever so much as hints at crying again I’ll be there with a Bell jar, ready to capture that elusive Boris element.

Fashion...Weak.

2007-10-09T11:31:00.000-07:00

It’s rare that I find the only appropriate way of describing something is by using a cliché phrase, but fashion week in Paris is its own little bubble. A bubble made out of crocodile skin, metallic leather and inflated with experienced egos, but a bubble nonetheless. While the fashion week nightlife took my social status from mute monk to Mary-Kate Olsen, I’m seriously afraid that, judging from my Stockholm blog entries, the time I’ll need in order to fully write about those nights will bring my social status back to that of the monk. Instead I’ll explain how I witnessed the Napoleon of fashion photography, how my beat up leather bag became more popular than I, and how I lied on camera to Spanish fashion television.

After coming to the realization that I was in danger of becoming a Parisian housewife, I was determined to utilize Paris fashion week, no matter how little it related to me. Cara has been knee-deep in her extensive orientation at the Sorbonne, while my classes seem like a far off reality. Being unemployed for the first time in five years in a completely foreign city I found myself wandering an empty apartment obsessively cleaning. Greeting Cara when she’d return back she’d inform me that I was shouting, having become used to silence I wasn’t even aware of my voice’s pitch. While I was trying to utilize Paris’ incredible culture and art, I quickly found myself growing tired of going to museums by myself. I had found a schedule of the Paris fashion week online a few days before and after having a successful time meeting strangers at a fashion party the previous night I decided to try my luck alone at an actual show. If not for the general experience of it, at least there would be some clothing eye candy. Besides, I could use some exposure to normal voice modulation.

The information I had gave only the addresses, so I picked a designer I recognized that took place somewhere within the Tuilleries gardens. While the Tuilleries are more like beautiful football fields rather than petite backyard gardens, there was a Tuilleries metro stop and that was good enough for me. My sense of designer handbags actually got me to the show rather than my sense of direction; after getting off the subway I wander around the entrance of the park for a minute or two before I spotted two people carrying $2,000 handbags and walking with a purpose. I slung the beat-up leather weekender bag I brought over my shoulder and decided to inconspicuously follow them. During the walk there I noticed that one lost woman who I pegged as a journalist actually spotting me and following me there. She obviously knew nothing about expensive bags.

Arriving when the show was actually supposed to start ended up being perfectly early. There was a mob of people outside the fenced off tent. Channels of metal fences led to bouncer protected entrances. Although the fashion elite was either comfortably inside the tent or forming the long lines waiting to get in, the area outside the tent resembled an upscale fashion cocktail party. Like most parties I attend, I decided to find a comfortable spot toward the outside and eat. After realizing that merely eating in the presence of these people might increase the worldwide bulimia epidemic I put away my French Pocky and busied my hands with my camera. If I wanted to appear like I belonged I made the right choice for looking around half of the people were photographers.

To my left I recognized a street style photo blogger (facehunter.blogspot.com) that had actually got us into the Karl Lagerfeld approved party last night. He was photographing a stoic woman in a fashion forward birka and oversized black sunglasses. While a majority of the crowd was dressed in blacks and grays, you couldn’t help but notice the various Vogue-approved footwear that strutted past, each one exceeding 3 inches and costing the approximate amount of my current bank account.

“Can I photograph your bag,” someone questioned me from aside. “Of course” I said startled. A quick shot with her intimidating camera and she left, no further question necessary. I look down and began examining my bag wondering if something expensive or fabulous had began to grow on it’s aged and stained exterior. No Jimmy Choo shoe was ensnarled in it’s torn straps. Moving spots for more unobscured people watching I shook the situation off as a merely uninformed photographer. I spent a few minutes watching and photographing those people who garnered the attention of a crowd of Asian photographers unaware of who they were and why I should actually be documenting their presence. Just before the lines outside the tents emptied inside a man approached me asking if he could get a photograph of my bag as well. Again I was more than happy to accept, although all too aware of the fact that my actual presence was not necessary in the photograph. He thanked me and left as quickly as the previous photographer and I wondered if they were together, working freelance for “Bags in Need of Botox Quarterly.” Becoming more and more amused at the situation and less paranoid I welcomed any attention myself or my accessories received.

Soon music emerged from inside the tent and the area outside, while not at all empty, was considerably less populated. Now nearly everyone was a photographer. I figured their presence meant that the emptying out of the tent was as entertaining as the filling of the tent. I also realized that the only entertainment at the apartment was dubbed re-runs of “Desperate Housewives”. A titled I was all too afraid of acquiring.

From not having any clue to the actual happenings inside, I found the Carpenter’s music that emanated from the tent a strange choice; perhaps it was the only music that could fit into the clothes. As I entertained myself with visions of what was actually happening inside, I noticed the photographers rushing past me to a couple approaching the tent. I had my palm sized Fugifilm 3 Megapixel camera ready. Turns out it was Kanye West and what appeared to be a transsexual prostitute, but was merely just his girlfriend. Arriving ironically unfashionably late, the show was just about half over. I snagged a few photos that would make the paparazzi proud.

By far the most entertaining portion of the afternoon festivities ended up being what I affectionately refer to as the releasing of the models. Despite the Asian photographers fervor I witnessed all afternoon, it seems as if they truly come to life when the models exit the tent. While I pride myself on an elementary education of the latest supermodels I had no idea who they were but based on the Asians’ reaction to their appearance, I’d surmise that it falls within the Elvis - Jesus realm of idolatry. Due to their height and weight ration, most normal movements of models seem a bit odd and awkward but when they are literally being chased by a horde of camera wielding Asians they resemble scarred giraffes. I might have laughed out loud once or twice at the sudden jungle like environment but I still took a few priceless photographs and was glad to see the models escape the tiny clutches of their fans.

When I got back to the apartment I still couldn’t resist describing the day’s happenings in a dog-rousing shriek, yet I felt it was more understandable when I wasn’t merely telling her that I added another blanket to my bed. The next couple of days her schedule permitted us to go to a few shows together and after a day of solely observing the environment I was able to better prepare us both. Seeing as many of the photographers solely came to photograph people outside the show we felt it justified to get dressed up in adventurous ensembles. We supplemented color for expense. Cara was outfit was distinctly French, finished off with bright orange pointy flats where as I channeled my non-existent naval roots in a nautical get-up. I topped mine off with white boots and a ridiculously oversized scarf that I found in my basement.

We arrived to the Celine show unnecessarily early because we thought (after a friend’s success the previous night) that you could wait in a standing line and if you were early enough you would actually be able to go inside the tent. When we actually arrived nearly an hour before the scheduled time there were only a handful of people outside. Luckily the show was in the same place and we were able to entertain ourselves within the Tullieres gardens to delay our entrance. “It’s better to arrive when all the photographers are already there; that way for that minute you arrive and head towards the tent you can fool the photographers into thinking you’re someone,” I explained to Cara. It was a dreary day and we found we couldn’t entertain ourselves as long as we expected too so we still re-entered early to the group but as we sat down on a bench on the outskirts of the tent area a woman approached us and asked to take our photograph. She even gave us a mini interview as to who we were, what we were doing there (who knows) and what we were wearing. She was from Connecticut but was working freelance for an “obscure fashion magazine for 20-30 year old Japanese women, named Soup”. I was already dreaming of using the phrase “I’m big in Japan” literally. As it approached the show’s scheduled time we began to notice that those in the standing line were all carrying what was undeniably invitations. Despite losing hope in ever actually attending a show we decided to stick around until it started. During the course of our wait we were photographed roughly about half a dozen times, sometimes together sometimes separate.
Most of the time a person would ask, occasionally they’d do a sort of hand gesture that translated to asking and sometimes they wouldn’t ask and would snap on the sly. While the photographer would seldom actually tell you why or for whom they were taking the picture, rarely did anyone seem affected by being photographed. Not usually photographed by strangers I still found it amusing, yet given the environment not entirely unexpected. What I didn’t expect was to be interviewed on camera for Spanish television.

A woman carrying a microphone interrupted my absentminded gaze at the tent.
“Do you speak English” she asked. “Uh yes,” I sheepishly replied; fearing the worst, which was exactly what she asked further, if I minded being interviewed about the Celine show and fashion week, even though we informed her that we do not work for any fashion publications and do not know much (anything) about Celine. She motioned to a Spanish man, head obscured by his large video camera, to come up next to her as Cara turned away beyond pleased at the situation. While I already told her I didn’t know much about Celine, I still felt obligated to answer her question, which was now hanging in front of me. I looked around at the crowd, who dressed almost entirely in black, resembled a fashionable funeral.

“Very Paris, Very Paris,” I said, immediately contemplating what that even means.
“Is this your first Fashion week? And what do you expect from it, what have you thought so far?”
“It is my first fashion week, I just moved to Paris but I’m from the New York area (LIE #1) so I can’t help but compare it to the New York shows.”
“We just came from New York fashion week! It was so much celebrities! Have you seen many celebrities here?”
“Oh well, yeah actually I saw Kanye West at the Victor and Rolf show, but that’s about it I think.”
“Yes he has been to so many so far. So how does this week compare to New York?”
“Well I mean New York’s fashion week is crazy (LIE #2 – Never been in New York during fashion week) but this is just…just…crazy. Ridiculous”
“So obviously you love fashion,” she said as she and the camera panned me, up and down. “Can you tell us about what you’re wearing?”
“Well as I student I don’t have much money to spend on clothes so most of what I’m wearing is pretty cheap, and most of it is vintage (LIE #3 – while most of it is cheap, only a few things are vintage, the rest coming from the cheap chain stores)
“Ah, but is it all about the big bag!?” she asks excitedly motioning to my confusingly popular weekender bag.
“Oh well actually this was my Dad’s so it has just been in the family”
“Wow, that’s great, it’s so big!”
“Yeah...it’s great I can fit like…a week’s worth of stuff in it! (LIE #4 I probably could not pack a week’s worth of things in it and using that as a reference is beyond me)

The interview ended soon after that, perhaps my ever-increasingly red face acted as a literal stop sign for the interviewer. Once the two of them were properly out of sight I turned dumbfounded to Cara who had a wide grin on her face. “I’m SO happy that wasn’t me!” Despite my recollection of it she assured me it wasn’t THAT bad but we both laughed at my preposterous responses. More insane to me than the fact that I very much made up a good portion of what I said, is that the lies I told weren’t even interesting or worth lying about. For the new few hours I would periodically run the questions again in my mind, thinking of better responses, occasionally laughing out loud to the whole situation. I reassured myself that the footage would merely become the joke within the editing room or make it to the highlights reel of the bloopers; perhaps they’ll dub in a Spanish man talking sense over my image; or perhaps headlines all across Spain will declare that the Celine show was “Paris, very Paris”.

Despite my fashion interview shame we decided to go back the next day to catch the Sonia Rykel show. Knowing I probably won’t go to another show, and having two under my belt I wanted to make this one the best. Cara and I had picked out our outfits the night before; the only fashion show we actually participated in. Fully understanding the need to dress as a pair, I waited until Cara had picked out her outfit (“a very 40’s look,” as the Sartorialist will tell her [thesartorialist.blogspot.com]) and I chose a similarly retro look.
Riding the metro there and seeing the eyes that followed us I wondered how I could feel self-conscious and overdressed in Paris yet once we got within fifty feet of the fashion show we seemed perfectly suited and welcomed with open arms and open shutters. Previously considering all of Paris a fashionable bubble, I now realize there can exist a bubble inside a bubble.

We arrived right when the show was scheduled to begin, so about a half an hour to forty-five minutes before the show would actually start. Within thirty seconds of entering the fashion show bubble, the Sartorialist pulled Cara aside to take her picture. A big fan of his blog, I thought I spotted him at the first two shows but wouldn’t believe it because this man is pint-sized, like a novelty travel sized human, whereas the man I pictured traveling around the world to take photos was completely different. During the brief photo shoot Cara noted that not only does he have Napoleon’s stature but he has Napoleon complex as well. As soon as he was done taking a photo of her, our old friend the Facehunter swooped in for a shot as well. When we reconnected and attempted to traverse the crowd we were photographed surprisingly often. We took a break from the actual excitement and were back to our real purpose of observing. A few Japanese photographers asked us a question or two but thankfully there were to be no on camera interviews…apparently word got around.

Looking around I began to recognize a lot of the people and had little stories I could say about them from either interaction with them at a party or within the gardens or from observed interactions. A moment more and I would have fooled myself into thinking that I had a strange place within the environment. I have yet to perfect the unamused expression that so many of those photographed have, but I figure a smile and some color would be a welcome change to the area, the Asians agreed. Once again I justified my presence by taking a few pictures. The crowd was once again unfamiliar to color for the sea of sleek black made us stand out even more. Having left before the end of the Celine show I made Cara stick around with me till my favorite part…the running of the models. The Caucasian towers once again found themselves within a sea of constantly moving Asian photographers. No fatalities, no broken bones, only a few scuffs on their Christian Loubatain heels.

Walking away from the tents and seeing the tourists up ahead in their hooded sweatshirts and comfortable sneakers, I was sad to think about the absence of this little bubble. I wondered if I would ever return to Paris fashion week with a real purpose or perhaps even an invitation or two; if I do I’m glad I got to experience it without those things. Those who walked briskly in might have missed the ancient photographer who despite his constantly delayed reaction and missed shots kept smiling, giving him the appearance of a proud Grandpa on his grandchild’s prom day. Perhaps inside the tent it wasn’t a Karen Carpenter purge fest but in fact something less interesting.

Besides, I don’t want to bust their bubble but have you heard of Soup magazine? I’m big in Japan.

Because I Forgot I Owned Tylenol PM

2007-10-04T04:42:00.000-07:00

There’s a certain look that a room has when you’re absentmindedly staring at it, half-awake, in the middle of the night. It resembles a stippling drawing or the black and white cable channels that come in fuzzy…. except without the broken porn images. Usually.

Scarier than the look of a room at 5 a.m. is the thoughts that entertain your mind at that hour; tonight a depressing amount of them have been Facebook related. Pre-planning wall posts and messages and then refining them to 3rd draft status. These will most likely never see the light of day for even in my clearly unsound nighttime mind I question their relevance. I justify my superficial mental wanderings by passing them off as timely thoughts of overseas correspondence. If I was in the same situation 50 years prior I’d be thinking about what I would write in my letters; perhaps even leaning over to light the candle, breaking out the quill and ink and writing a few nonsensical drafts wasting precious scroll.

While I’m not (legally) a doctor, and I have yet to WebMD my symptoms, I have diagnosed myself with an acute case of insomnia. For the past few days I’ve been having the most inconvenient sleep schedule, usually falling asleep around 1:30 and then waking up around 4, or 5, entertaining myself with reading again or (to your current benefit [or not]) writing, and then falling back asleep anywhere from 7-8:30 am waking up about 2 or 3 hours later. Usually a severe sneezing and simultaneously stuffy nose accompanies the insomnia. During the day I’m reasonably fine, feeling no sleepier than my well rested self of the past. The waking hours my nose seems to forget it ever had a problem as well. Again, as I must remind myself, the “Crayola Factory: Doctor of Drawing Certificate” I received in Elementary School doesn’t legally make me a doctor, yet I still feel compelled to assess the possible causes of my sleeplessness. “Nurse please take this down…and use the Cornflower blue crayon.”

Chief, and currently sole, in the list of suspects is my physical, immediate surroundings…my room. Cara summed up the Parisian apartment situation by saying the price you pay for keeping beautiful old exteriors is crappy old interiors, and we literally live and “sleep” those unfortunate circumstances. We signed the contract to our apartment sight unseen except for a few JPEGs on the apartment agency website and while we had good motivation for taking such rash actions (impending homelessness) there are certain things a photo cannot show you. Let it be known that our apartment is comfortable in size, has a layout that works well for our makeshift 2-bedroom status and features a 700 Euro antique buffet stand, so during the waking hours I’m quite content with the space.

The previously mentioned “things” that do not show up in the JPEGs are ambiguous mold, visible instillation, unknown wall materials and makeshifts ceilings. While the mold and installation spots are fairly contained and small I’m more worried about my bedroom wall and “ceiling”. Upon entering the bedroom anyone with a vision exceeding the legally blind status will take note of the interesting look of the walls, which can best be described as fake white-washed wood. The actual material is anything but a fine French timber. It is texturized, with ridges and marks resembling wood but with a touch that resembles more of stucco/felt hybrid. Running your hands across it lightly, you’d understand the stucco reference, but press your fingers deeper into certain portions and you’d have the unwelcome sensation of experiencing what feels like the love child between a sponge and common felt. I have also never been in the contracting, carpentry or even woodworking field but I feel safe in assuming that these spongy sections of my walls are signs that the walls are actually alive. I’m living in a giant fungus and come December I’ll simply wake up grab a chunk of my wall on the way to the kitchen, grab an egg and fix myself a delicious egg and mushroom omelet. Always a bright side…or a porous side.

Our first actual night in the apartment Cara and I decided to celebrate with a bottle of French Champagne. The only champagne featured on college campuses is the five-dollar bottles of Andre, which, if I remember correctly, do not feature the classic “popping” cork; they might in fact actually have a flip top and easy to grip “sport” sides. Thankfully Paris does not carry Andre but instead real, or at least better-disguised fake, Champagne. To me the downside to Champagne is the popping of the cork to which I have a fear accurately gauged only in terms of high-pitched squeals and look-away head turns. Naturally as the man of the apartment I made Cara open the bottle, suggesting she open the bottle out the window. Although I imagined the cork skyrocketing out of the bottle and careening across the expansive street and into a neighbor’s window, I much preferred that to the inevitable lamp-shattering cork popping, followed by the brief foamy tidal wave that would occur if she opened it near me. She didn’t see my logic. I turned away, heard the pop and turned to see if Cara made it out alive. “What happened?” I asked in response to her shocked look, but I answered my own question as I followed her gaze to a literal tear in our ceiling. If you were wondering what materials a cork can break through, you can add “synthetic nylon ceilings” to the list. Since the landlady was coming on Monday to go over the inventory of the apartment we immediately and maturely fixed the problem by patching the tear with a torn piece of nearby paper. “If I don’t have my glasses on, I can’t even tell there’s a tear. That’s a good sign,” Cara reassured me.

While the Champagne bottle story is not directly related to my insomnia, besides filling a brief portion of it, it does explain how I came to realize that I have no idea what condition the actual ceilings are in. This is not a mystery I am looking to solve for the sight of what is actually up above will probably only add nightmares to my sleeping handicap.

Dawn has yet to break but my eyes have adjusted to the dark: the covers and my feet no longer appear to be created by many soft dots, the clean nylon ceiling not as fuzzy, the tissue graveyard beside my bed more in focus and my mental wandering slowing down. A few welcome yawns are as much a signal as I need to try again. I’ll be asleep soon and when I wake up the only things I’ll be able to piece together is that I need to WebMd something, cook myself a mushroom and egg omelet and sharpen my Cornflower blue crayon.

my bum is on the swedish. PART II

2007-09-30T12:59:00.000-07:00

I knew it was going to be a good night when a man with an Afro let me take his spot at the bar. We walked in and veered slightly right as to avoid a large train of fashionable Swedes and to look as if we had a destination in mind. Luckily our instincts directed us to the bar. Airing on the side of caution I paid for my drink with a large bill, expecting change without having to ask how much the drinks were; once we had a drink in hand we felt properly armed to descend upon the troops of partygoers.

The room we had left looked like it could have been an upper class ballroom in the Titanic; rich woodwork, dark plush couches and expansive mirrors that reached from the floor to a narrow balcony that bordered the expansive room. A row of three large, crystal chandeliers loomed over the lounging area that was scattered with the eldest of the partiers. While “courteous Afro” seemed like he could be a friend we decided to explore the rest of our new surroundings.

Another room off the main traffic highway carried with it much more of the MTV atmosphere I expected. We were ready for our welcome to the elite Swedish Social Circle (SSC as we call it). The décor of this room varied greatly from the stately room we first walked into. Although the physical structure of the room was similar large canopy beds placed at random replaced the plush velvet couches, and the magnitude of the stage and speaker area in the back replaced the majesty of the chandeliers. The crowd was different as well. Whereas the people in the previous room might have prepared for this party by sipping an aged Cabernet Sauvignon while watching Frasier, this crowd “pre-gamed” with vodka and red-bull while watching The OC.

Despite the flutter of people enjoying their own attractive company I was still reminded of that unsettling feeling of entering the cafeteria the first year of middle school. Everyone seemed to know what to do except me, and their were obviously the cool beds and the not as cool beds; deciding which bed to sprawl out on could determine the fate of my entire night. Rarely does the choice of which bed to go to happen when you enter a club rather than when you leave a club. The bed nearest the door was clearly the most established of all the beds; men, women and possibly a waiter or two were laying, interwoven with each other casually relaxing only to sit up in order to sip their cocktails. While it didn’t seem to be becoming sexual it did seem to be quite private. Our chosen bed was clearly still out there, besides that bed was pretty crowded and I usually like to spread out in bed, bunching up the covers and positioning the pillows in the most comfortable way possible. Something tells me that crowd wouldn’t have responded well to me approaching them with, “Hey guys move over, I hate being squished.” “No, seriously come on, Jesper, Heidi, I really need those pillows, I have a delicate spine.”

Following the cardinal rule of real estate we chose a bed based on location, rather than style. It was situated between the bar, a small roped off private party, and the nearly empty dance floor. The only other people on the bed were another couple who were dressed comparatively drab and were perpetually smiling. They seemed to be oblivious, and while their existence at this party may have been more justified than ours I suddenly developed a strong desire against associating with them. They clearly didn’t understand the mood of the party for they hadn’t yet chosen between “having the best time ever, pass more uppers” or the brooding “I have yet to have fun”. They seemed to be lost on their way to the Best Western and considered the Scandinavian beer on tap a “wild drink!” The middle school cafeteria aura was rearing its ugly head again; the cattiness was becoming contagious.

A cameraman made his way past the dance floor and through the beds, pausing on our bed for a pan. While I tried to look as if I was enjoying myself but had clearly experienced crazier parties I think I just looked mildly confused and my grin was a bit too shaky. Suddenly I wondered where this footage would be aired and had a panic that those same cashiers and metro riders that had experienced my confusing silence and unwarranted head nods in Paris would turn on MTV back home only to see me solidifying my “mentally slow” image in Paris and Europe. This room was clearly bringing out the worst in me. Cara and I agreed that after another drink we should wander again. Where was the “courteous Afro” when I needed him?

We passed by the bed that now resembled a plate of human spaghetti; the amount of humans lounging on top of each other had surpassed sexy a long time ago and now just appeared uncomfortable and sloppy. We made our way upstairs to the large balcony that looked out onto the street below. Our desire for human interaction was reaching dangerous levels for we had now been abroad a week without really interacting with anyone. Our expectations were lowering minute by minute and the slightest eye contact or possible head nod caused us to break out into an excited conversation about the possibility of us befriending said person, complete with multiple plans of friendship attacks. We had crossed the line from friendly bar-goers to friendship poachers. We were down to our last room of the party, an unsuccessful time here and we might be headed back to the geriatrics in the Titanic room to lament over the loss of Frasier and get insider tips to the Transport or Post Museum of Stockholm. The stakes were high.

Deciding it best to be near the always crowded bar we found an area close to the traffic but private enough for a couple people to park next to us to engage in stimulating conversation. We must have been parked in a handicap spot for our time was mostly spent observing three Swedish gay men who carried a mysterious large satchel, were thumbing through a magazine they quite probably styled and taking not so hidden snorts from their cocaine spoon necklace. Cara suddenly interrupted my silent staring and deliberate shifts in stance, “Quick go to the bathroom, I’ve made contact with someone and I think he’ll actually come over here if you leave.” Too overwhelmed with the possible idea of human contact to assess the level of insult I quickly agreed; willing to take any directions in order to advance our social situation. “Do you want me to leave completely? I can totally do that; if he asks about me just tell me I’m a waiter or something. Change my name to something more interesting or I can speak in an accent in needed. Should I have a lisp?” I was ready to help in any way possible. My first helpful act was a quick disappearance to the bathroom.

Snaking my way back through the crowd I spotted Cara talking to what appeared to be the Big Friendly Giant, from the Roald Dahl book I cherished as a child. Finally something I can talk about with someone. While I was back I had yet to make my reappearance apparent to either of them but I was happy silently cheering on the success of one of us. After multiple slight adjustments I found the best stance against the bar, leaning back casually as if to show the Swedish crowd that, “yeah, I’m associate with this socialization happening right next to me.” Cara turned to introduce me to her new Swedish friend who, unfortunately was not The BFG but an unpronounceable Swedish name we referred to as Gunner. Gunner said he wouldn’t have guessed I was American but from Great Britain or possibly Denmark. I immediately loved him. I knew nothing about Denmark or how attractive their citizens were but it sounded exotic to me and I was already planning on sharing this comparison with friends, acquaintances and Starbucks baristas back in Boston. Upon meeting someone new in class I’d ask where they were from, prefacing it by saying, “And no, a lot of people have told me I look like I’m from Denmark but I’m not”.

Luckily for me, as Cara’s casual conversation with Gunner turned to innocent flirting two of Gunners new friends reappeared next to him: Johan and Jessica, two genuine Swedes. Johan was younger and although he had brown hair he was born and raised in Stockholm. He had a strong desire to share the best places to go in Stockholm, like the underground ping-pong bar, he even gave us advice on Parisian nightlife.

Jessica began to talk to me with a youthful enthusiasm I thought could only be promised at the empty bar we passed earlier in the night. She was originally from the Swedish country and had moved to Stockholm in the past few months. Like 75% of the young Stockholm professionals she worked for a hip, young magazine. “It’s like Cosmopolitan for younger girls, you know, like ‘Go do your own thing Girls! Like very independent, very girl spirited!” Absolutely, Jessica, absolutely I know exactly what you mean. I was overjoyed to be making new Swedish friends and having broken the barrier of waiting for it allowed me to pass off the creepy obsession we possessed of it before as a novice’s natural worries. Jessica and I began to have an all out gab-sess most likely appropriate for her magazine. She shared her secret of being horrible at flirting, for which I most naturally related too. Another drink and a bit too loudly she began to digress gushing about her admiration for Johan the other companion in our new friendship circle. Apparently they had just met tonight as well and despite my shared confession of flirting fauxpas I began to coach Jessica with her seduction of Johan. “Don’t be subtle Jessica!” I warned her, “He could be really shy and just unsure if you actually do like him.” “Ohmygod he’s so CUTE!” Jessica half said, half giggled. “What do I do Rodney, what do I do?!” Jessica pleaded to me. Five minutes into our friendship and already I was the undeserved dating doctor for Jessica the country girl. I began to question 29-year-old Jessica’s qualifications for dispensing advice to the independent tween girls of Sweden. Johan unfortunately did not seem to be responding to Jessica’s flirtation although she was being less subtle. Gunner and Johan seemed to be talking about leaving but I motioned for everyone to get together for a picture. “Jessica get next to Johan” I directed, “ah yes, you guys look good together” I said as I snapped the picture. Very not so subtly Jessica ran up to me gave me a Swedish bear hug and said “Oh thank you, I Love you!”

All three of them exited shortly after, and while I was hopeful for the romance between my two new Swedish friends, I couldn’t help but smile and shake my head at Jessica. Having just arrived in the city from the rural country she clearly had so much to learn about the social ways of Stockholm but luckily she had me for a friend. I’m an expert.

my bum is on the swedish.

2007-09-27T13:07:00.000-07:00

(roughly edited as of 3.10.07)

Determined to make a name for ourselves in the Swedish socialite network, Cara and I turned to where most socialites go for nightclub advice…Google and tourist pamphlets. We read about a nightclub that was “buzzing with energetic and optimistic youth,” it was in the same building as “the Spy Bar,” which was “legendary within the Stockholm community.” For me the Spy Bar carried images of an international crowd dressed mostly in black suits and cocktail dresses; one hand on the martini and the other hand stealthily fingering the Glock 45 stashed above the cummerbund. I couldn’t decide which suited me best for although I am an optimistic youth, I have watched a lot of spy movies.
I didn’t bring a suit with me so we decided it best to head to the bar with those our age; besides it was in the same building as the Spy Bar so if we heard the sounds of gunfire and glass shattering we’d know that the party should move up to Spy Bar.

We had only been in Stockholm for twenty-four hours--ten of which had been spent sleeping--but we decided to make our way to the bar using our new knowledge of the metro and the best of our map reading skills. Although most people in Stockholm know excellent English, I still find the Swedish language best understood when accompanied by an IKEA instructional booklet. Each street had a name consisting of no fewer than eleven characters and many looking like typos of a street near it. In addition to the language handicap, our nightclubbing skills are best described as novice to non-existent. Aside from a few short, rowdy trips to Canada and the occasional “18 and under” night at an American club, our social smoothness consisted of shoving our ID into the bouncers hand and nodding with a nervous smile.

Luckily the area we were lost in had an active scene of hotels, restaurants, bars and clubs so while en route to our destination we compiled a mental list of possible alternative options. When you pass by the same street twice in a city you know nothing about you suddenly feel as if you’re going in circles and every road leads to this one. In our case we were going in circles and were finding our way back to “Dankiensplakanstein”. My mental list of possibilities was inching its way to the front of my mind when we reached our destination. We missed it before because it was…completely. dark. inside. Pressing our faces against the glass we could see what appeared to be a dance floor, and oh, over there looks like a possible bar, and those lights look like they’d be fun when you turn them on! The Spy Bar that seemed to be one floor up was dark as well, not even the faint sound of a silenced gun or refreshed martini. My youthful optimism was draining out of me like the drinks once served at the empty bar.

“There’s a TGIFriday’s over there,” I told Cara as I pointed to the restaurant’s façade speckled with a few too-drunk-too-early individuals who looked like they could have been plucked from the middle of Pennsylvania. Except blonder. We retraced our steps looking for our other options. Walking along one of the nearby streets we could hear what sounded like fun in a side street. Making sure to walk as inconspicuously as possible we came upon an “MTV EUROPE VIDEO MUSIC AWARDS PARTY MUNICH” sign outside a grand hotel and bar. “When did we arrive in Germany?” I thought to myself. The entrance had two security guards flanking a red velvet rope. Next to the entrance was a large MTV logo carved out of ice, and inside music, lights, and hordes of attractive people solidified our notion that this was, indeed, a party. I walked past the hotel fingering my Pennsylvania Drivers license in my pocket and chuckling to Cara at the notion of going to an MTV party while in Stockholm. While I played it off as a joke I was already mentally picturing what kind of activities were going on inside and which celebrity was shouting into their Blackberry, “I can’t hear you! I’m at this MTV thing in Stockholm,” as they absentmindedly brush off the silver platter containing cocaine, caviar and assorted condoms.

The best bet seemed to be an anonymous club that had not only a large group of young Swedes outside but a ton inside as well; the wall of windows displaying the dancing rituatals of the young Swedish community. We passed this bar before and were hesitant as well because Cara had spotted some small pieces of paper clutched in each of their porcelain hands. “Is everything a private party in Stockholm?” I asked, spotting the flyers Cara had mentioned. Cara seemed to be hesitant as to the notion of us going out at all this night and I swear I could have spotted her looking in the direction of the TGIFridays but I was determined to experience Swedish social life, dignity or no dignity. “Let’s just go up to the guy, and see what happens. At least we know its all people our age, a lot of these other places seem to be older people.” I led the way, traversing the chain-smoking youths till I reached the doorman. He said something to me in Swedish and I nodded as if I understood, taking out my wallet and reaching for my ID. He said something in Swedish again and I leaned in further; perhaps if I hear it more clearly I’ll understand the language. I gave him a slight smirk and reached for my ID again. “Have you been in here before,” he said, in English. I looked over to Cara as if she would know more than I would. “No it’s our first real day in Stockholm but we really love it! Stumbled upon a great thrift store and went to a Toy museum that I think you’d really love!” I wanted to say, impressing him with my admiration for his city. I simply shook my head no. “It’s a private party. Under 18 Birthday. No alcohol,” he said, sensing my confusion and putting it into simplistic of terms. “Ohhh” I said as I shook my head up and down showing him how I fully understood now. Looking over at Cara who was silent beside me, I turned back to the man and replied with a friendly chuckle, “Then nooo” as if I still had the option and was simply turning it down due to the fact that it was filled with minors and had no alcohol. I was too much of a mature drinker for that party indeed!

“Let’s just go back to the MTV party, we could totally get in,” I said to Cara as we scampered away from the Swedish Super Sweet 16 we were just rejected from. She groaned as I pressed on. I was devising a mental monologue and back-story I could present the bouncer if they denied us entry. We are American MTV workers who are in Stockholm on some youthful business, this party being business of course. Our intern Rachel should have faxed your people our credentials but it’s so like Rachael to forget (we’d fire her but she’s a college intern and you can’t help but empathize). We had people to meet inside, goddamnit, who know what sort of important MTV business will go unfinished if we don’t get in and meet our colleagues. As we approached the entrance I was mouthing my personal profile and perfecting my business like strut. When I actually reached the entrance a group of people were leaving and I simply walked in as they walked out, blocking the absentminded security guard who was now on her own. Looking back as if someone behind me just said something totally plebian and annoying I saw that Cara had done the same and we were actually inside rather than walking to the real, more heavily guarded, entrance. We did make it inside…looks like intern Rachel finally did something right. I’ll have to make sure to thank her personally when I get back to New York.

my milkshake brings all the french to the yarddd

2007-09-18T14:00:00.000-07:00

The last time we were on the Internet Cara and I we were hunched over our computers ten feet outside the nearby McDonalds; stealing their Wi-Fi while the impending storm and light drizzle stole our time. Formally dressed in a button down, Balenciaga boots and trench coat I was on a broken bench facing the street; amusing Parisian motorists as I crammed all the essential Internet tasks in before the drizzle broke into a downpour or the McDonalds employees caught wind of our grand heist. We first realized the McDonalds down the street from us had usable Internet a few hours after we gave up on a day that we devoted solely to the task of going online.
I would expect no less than the unbelievable irony of McDonalds providing us with the connection to the outside world from our experience thus far. McDonalds has actually been an unusual and unexpected third companion on our trip. It saw us off at JFK with an $8 dollar Big Mac meal thanks to Terminal 4’s lack of culinary options (although it did have a sense of culinary cruelty with the “Coming Soon! Balducci’s!” sign right next to MickyD’s).
That Big Mac quickly became the requiem for my digestive track as it was the last meal I had for nearly 24 hours. While a majority of those 24 hours was spent either in flight or in an airport, entirely too much of it was spent frantically looking for Cara and our Hotel in Paris. By the time I reached her/our hotel room, my shoulders were raw and bruised from dragging my luggage through the metro and streets of Paris, my clothes were marinated in sweat and the only thing keeping me awake was the yelling of my stomach.
While the first few days were devoted almost entirely to the apartment search and capture it goes without saying we were blown away by Paris’ beauty and charm—

-While walking from one street corner to the next we quickly realized we literally ran into a police chase. We happily crossed a confusingly empty street as a man brushed past us at full speed only to be grabbed and knocked to the ground by two or three policemen, all the while narrated by a series of grunts and hollers from the large crowd that had gathered.
-While happily munching on our baguette sandwiches on a bench near the street we were joined by one of the many Parisian pigeons, who, as you might expect, do not triumphantly strut around the street wearing mini berets, smoking tiny Camel 100s, in fact, many of them are deformed or wounded. This little champ has both legs but only one foot. We may never know the story behind it but the pigeon seemed almost comically unaffected by the lack of foot. Cara and I have found a new sort of entertainment in spotting deformed pigeons in Paris. Much of our time spent under the Eiffel Tower was with our heads down gawking and giggling at the circus freak show of our feathered friends.
- A strange treat of the population around our Hotel was roasted corn on the cob. Little people seemed affected by the sight of a family walking down the street munching on a roasted ear or two and mini grills were set up here and there roasting and selling the corn. While this seemed to be almost customary it may or may not be legal and judging from the time we witnessed a group of “sellers” shrieking and scattering as a policeman approached their street corner my Euro is on the idea that it may be illegal.

The most unsettling aspect of the experience so far is the feeling of one’s on foreignism. We know no one and nothing here. When someone tries to communicate to me I have either pre-planned monosyllabic answers or look at them with a blank stare and try not to piddle myself. While riding the Metro Cara and I are often pretty silent but when we do talk we question how much the other passengers can understand of us and how much they think we can understand of them. We can usually get away with a slight smile, head nod or “oui” or “non” but I’m pretty sure that those Parisians we’ve delt with so far think we’re just “slow”. We’ve blacklisted ourselves from nearly every grocery store in the area after multiple embarrassing and confusing checkout ordeals. A trip to the grocery store is now automatically preceded by a trip to the ATM to ensure the least confusing method of payment.

While our communication and co-ordination with Paris has yet to be found, I find myself again at McDonalds and thankfully it seems France, and myself, is entirely comfortable with the word “milkshake”.

you have to shift to get a period in france

2007-09-16T08:55:00.000-07:00

this post is merely to let people know they can call off the search party and to aanounce my somewhat successful arrival in paris. despite the fact that i have numerous updates including: one footed pidgeons, a double dose of public vomitting (one self-induced), damaging our apartment on the first night and sharing gum with strangers on the metro I will just post my new address and telephone number so you can send me an assortment of treats! my restraint is due to (as you may have infered from the title) the logic-defying french keyboards.

rodney uhler is in paris:

rodney uhler
12 villa daumesnil
3ieme droite
75012 paris 12
france

calling me from usa:
011 33 68 47 85 91 2

from france:
06 84 78 59 12

i hope i can update soon, perhaps before i leave for stokholm and barcelona!

blogerffic!

2007-09-08T10:39:00.000-07:00

In response to the overwhelming demand from publications such as "the paris review", "the new yorker", "gq", and "highlights for children" I have decided to make my literary presence known to the online community. People can only look at porn for so long I guess.

While personally I've created this to document (hopefully with military like disciple) my experience overseas in Paris, it's really for the fans in the end. Maybe with the added technological and aesthetic appeal I'll write a lot more.

Currently I'm still stagnate in Pennsylvania so it would go against the true purpose of the blog to write anything of substance while I'm here so in accordance to my own wishes I'll stop.