I'd like begin by expressing my sincere gratitude for the support and positive feedback that I've received in response to my last post. Looking back at the past month, my experience that day was more formative than I initially realized -- and I think much of what I've made of the ordeal is informed by your reactions. While I do not actively think much about the ride, I find myself more independent than before and somewhat emboldened in the decisions that I make.
It is an auspicious time for me to be making bold choices. The Jewish High Holidays are a period of self-reflection and repentance. The hours spent in synagogue are supplemented by rituals, both talismanic and palpable, designed to bring about a truly happy and sweet new year. In many ways, the roster of ritual activities can be compared to the Passover Seder table. The Haggadah directs us to look at the Matza (unleavened bread), Maror (bitter herbs), and roasted shankbone as vehicles enabling us to relive the exodus from Egypt. We dip a leafy green in salt water to represent both the emergence of Spring and to taste the tears that were a natural outcome of slavery. There is a custom among some Jews to walk around the table and "whip" one another with onions as a reminder that we were freed from the "lash" of oppression. Nearly the entire evening is spent playacting as a means of tangibly appreciating the transition from bondage to freedom. Something similar can be said of the High Holiday period. Dipping apples in honey, eating pomegranate seeds, and displaying a fish head on the holiday table are sensory activities engendering our desire for a successful year ahead. Casting bits of bread into a body of water and transferring our transgressions onto live chickens, or coins for the squeamish, are ceremonial acts that go beyond the tangible and incorporate the ethereal nature of the Days of Awe.
The tangible and intangible rituals that constitute the season are excellent expressions of the dual nature of the High Holidays -- and Judaism in general. When I perform Tashlich, the aforementioned casting away of bread meant to represent my sins, I use one bit of bread as a token of the sins I've committed against my fellow man and one bit for those transgressions against God. On the Day of Atonement, we must be absolved of both. If we look to the liturgy, we see that our fate results as much from our actions as it does not. We ask that God favor our good deeds over our bad, but we also ask not to be judged by our deeds at all. During the holy Kol Nidrei prayer, and the Hatarat Nedarim (annulment of vows) that often precedes it, we proclaim our actions in the previous year to be meaningless. We ask that God not take us at our word and that we become a blank slate impervious to indictment. We ask God to remember, and in turn remind ourselves, that our origin is dust and our destiny the same. We place ourselves at His mercy -- not instruments of our own fate, but children reliant on the support of a benevolent parent. Weary travelers in need of a kindly guide to light the way.
As I embark on the new year, I am both heartened and frightened by this binary reality. My journey in France cemented my understanding that while only so much is in our own hands, our decisions do change things -- even if only in our own minds. If, in our actions, we determine to make this year a sweet one (for ourselves and those around us), we may just taste the sweetness ourselves. Just as the bread of affliction allows us to taste a morsel of slavery, our challah with honey ushers us closer to the year we might have if we sweeten our days with kindness and laughter and the closeness of family and friends. And, who knows, our own acts of kindness might be the serendipitous moments that make someone else realize that try as we might, and we should, some outcomes are far beyond our grasp.
Wishing you and yours a safe, meaningful, and successful fast, a Gmar v'Chatima Tova, and a truly happy and sweet new year.
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
Wednesday, August 29, 2012
In the words of Blanche DuBois...
I thought that my two overnight train rides in six-person cabins populated by strangers would be the most adventurous and uncomfortable transportation aspects of my trip abroad. Silly me. As I write this, sitting in my airplane seat awaiting a flight that I pray will go smoothly, I still haven't processed the past three hours and the variety of emotions they have stirred within me.
Some background:
When I arrived in Paris this morning, I stored my luggage in a locker at Gare d'Lyon so that I would not need to shlep it around for the day. This necessitated that, after my "I'm leaving Paris, I really need to buy something NOW" induced shopping trip, I return to Gare d'Lyon before heading to Charles De Gaulle Airport. From Gare d'Lyon I took an RER A train one stop to Chatelet -- where I was to switch to the RER B train that goes to De Gaulle. With little fanfare, I made my way to Chatelet for my RER transfer. As I reached the B platform, I saw that a very full CDG-bound train was already waiting. Knowing that I had a large suitcase, a lengthy ride, and that the next train was only a few minutes away, I decided to wait -- hoping that I could procure a seat on the next one. I regretted this decision almost immediately. The next two trains to arrive were not CDG-bound and the platform was beginning to fill up again. The next CDG train would be just as crowded and I'd wasted 10 minutes for nothing. Once again, silly me.
Well, I finally made it on to a crowded RER B and was even offered a seat after one stop by a lovely girl who noticed that I had my hands full. All seemed fine -- despite some strange rattling noises that the girl in front of me did not approve of. Then, out of nowhere, the train began to jump, as as if it had driven over a large jumble of tree branches. My fellow passengers and I stared at each other, but no one said a word. Seconds later, the car filled with the smell of burning rubber. Many people, myself included, began to cough -- and a mild panic began to take hold. About a minute later, after trying, and failing, to open some windows, the train ground to a halt. About a minute after that, we heard it power down completely. This being an airport-bound train, many of us consulted our watches, wondering when -- or if -- the ride would resume. Then, an announcement.
A female railroad employee, clearly in shock and crying, mumbled a few sentences. Not speaking French, I began to seek out translation -- but saw only disbelief in the eyes around me. Finally, through gestures and bits of polyglot dialogue, I got it. Someone had jumped in front of the train.
Holy sh*t.
Suddenly missing my flight didn't seem so important. But, my moment of perspective was fleeting and I soon began to, once again, worry about myself. I had about 12 Euros in change in my possession, no working phone, and a minimal French vocabulary. I thought I had been so smart in spending down my Euros. I didn't want to have too many left over -- especially given that currency's current state. It didn't really matter though. For the time being, the train wasn't moving and neither was I. A nice man let me use his phone to try to call my airline, but I was on a holding loop when I heard a whir and an audible gasp. Some young men had pried open the doors of the train and people were beginning to jump out.
I was more than wary of this plan.
The people who had jumped out of the coach were climbing a fence about 50 feet from the train tracks and walking away -- to where, I had no idea.
Just then, the still-crying conductor returned to the PA system and made another announcement. From the gasps of the passengers, I knew it was not good news. Apparently there were two victims. Two people who had jumped in front of a moving train.
Jeez.
It was then that I saw some firefighters walk by our train car. Their presence sparked several people to make their way off the train. This required a pretty sizeable jump onto a rocky hill and a wall climb after which someone would throw you your belongings. Apparently, the firemen had communicated that we would likely be waiting 3-4 hours before the train could start up again.
Hearing this, a French girl sitting near me, about my age and also heading to CDG, said she was going to go. She'd walk into the next town and try to find herself a cab. I suppose it made sense, considering that staying put meant that she was sure to miss her plane. Another girl tried to convince me to do the same. I looked at the wall I'd need to scale, thought for a moment, and said I couldn't. She reminded me that I was going to miss my plane. I concurred, but explained that I don't speak French and that I was nervous to head into a strange town in the hopes I might somehow find a ride to the airport. Time was already tight and I preferred missing my plane to ending up alone in the dark in a French village. At least if I stayed put, I'd eventually get back to Paris -- I hoped.
But as the minutes ticked away -- and more and more people began to jump from the train, even small children -- I questioned my decision. So many people were airport-bound. And, a group of men, in a feat of strength, managed to knock down the fence so that scaling a wall was no longer necessary in order to get away from the train tracks. I decided to go for it. I was probably going to miss my flight anyhow, I might as well try.
I cautiously lowered myself to the floor of the train and contemplated my jump. The ground below was slanted and covered in rocks. I gritted my teeth and succumbed to gravity. Though wobbly, my landing was painless and I managed not to fall -- though my heart and the laughter of the men at the door of the train told me it was close. The men, who had taken on the role of gatekeepers, passed me my belongings -- including a very heavy suitcase -- and I made my way to the spot where the fence had been breached.
Around the bend, I encountered my former seatmate. She had called and was waiting for a cab, but was sorry to tell me it was going to be full. She explained that most people were walking to the next train station where they were hoping there would be cabs available.
I followed the crowd, answering "Je ne comprende pas" every time a fellow traveler tried to communicate. At one point, I considered joining a young couple who had flagged down a woman in a minivan they were hoping would drive them to the airport. They were unsuccessful in their mission and I trucked on. I honestly had no idea where I was going, but I followed the other intrepid travelers with rolling suitcases and walked parallel to the tracks through a sparsely populated residential area where people stared at us in our motley parade. In the distance, I saw another train. I hoped this meant the station was near and that I'd find access to a taxi. Preferably one which would accept my 12 Euros, 40-something American dollars, or a credit card as payment.
I continued to follow the others on an increasingly windy path, through parking lots and playgrounds, when I finally saw what seemed to be a busy intersection -- and a bus. A bus! I began to run, or hobble -- with my over-stuffed suitcase, hoping that the railroad had sent a shuttle to take all of us weary travelers to CDG. It was not to be. It was a regular bus, at a regular bus stop, and none of its routes included the airport.
Disappointed, I noticed the growing crowd at an unattended taxi stand to my left. There were no taxis, but there was a sign, and that was something.
Surveying the crowd, I heard heavily accented English being spoken between two middle-aged gentlemen.
"Do you speak English?," I inquired.
"Yes," the younger of the two men replied.
"Are you going to the airport?"
Again, his reply was yes and I asked if I could join them. They said sure, noting, that with the older man's son, our group would be four. I explained that I could only pay with dollars. The younger man hurriedly told me not to worry and that he would pay my share. I thanked him profusely and we began to seek out taxis.
A few passed by, but already had passengers. A group next to us flagged one down and put two members of their group in that cab's remaining seats. After several minutes, the older man's son flagged down a minivan taxi that had an old man in the front passenger seat. The opportunistic driver said he would take us after dropping his passenger off nearby and at the price of 30 Euro per person. My benefactors agreed and we piled in. The driver told us it would be a 15-20 minute journey to CDG. After bidding the old man "Au revoir," literally, we were off. After a serious lobbying effort, I convinced the men to take 30 dollars from me and continued to thank them for their help. I am absolutely certain that they only took my money because of how absurdly ripped off we were being by the taxi driver and the realization that he had actually deprived them of all their cash.
I knew I was going to Terminal 2, but beyond that I was clueless. There were no signs letting me know which airline parks where. The younger man was going to 2B and the father-son pairing needed Terminal 1. Our driver stopped first at 2B. The man and I ran out, grabbed our bags, and wished our new companions a hearty good luck. The man dashed off and I tried to figure things out.
Seeing no signs of clarification, I stopped a CDG employee and asked her for my airline. She and friend were heading to a cigarette break, but she told me she'd show me to the Info Desk because she wasn't sure. I told her my story and we began to run because she, like me, was pretty sure I wasn't going to make it to my plane.
The woman at Information told me to go, quickly, across to 2A and hope that check-in wasn't completed.
My new CDG employee friend (I can't spell or pronounce her name) insisted on running with me since I didn't know the way and even insisted that I let her pull my rolling bag.
Upon our breathless arrival at the XL Airways area, she explained the situation and a staffer let me past the rope line.
However, upon reaching the counter, I was told that check-in was closed and that I'd need to go lobby the airline to let me on the flight. Seeing this, the staffer who had let me past the ropes intervened and I was allowed to get my boarding pass and even check my bag.
Very luckily, I faced no lines at security or Passport Control and my gate was located directly behind the x-ray machines.
I walked onto the plane just as the boarding period was nearing its end.
Now sitting in my seat, almost 2 hours after takeoff (the amount of time I've been writing this), I have a moment to think about someone other than myself.
Why did two people jump in front of a commuter train? Their motive, I'm sure, was not to have me miss my flight. What had gone so wrong in their lives that they thought death was the answer? How are their families? How is that conductor? Her shock and sadness were palpable. She will never be the same.
What possessed that lovely airport employee to run with me (and my suitcase!) through the tunnels of CDG? I tried to express my gratitude, but as she kissed me goodbye (both cheeks, very French), the other staffer dragged me away. I told her I wouldn't forget her, and, the next time I see someone in need of a helping hand, I pray that I won't.
Kindness and sadness emerge in the strangest of places. Character is your reaction wherever you find them.
Some background:
When I arrived in Paris this morning, I stored my luggage in a locker at Gare d'Lyon so that I would not need to shlep it around for the day. This necessitated that, after my "I'm leaving Paris, I really need to buy something NOW" induced shopping trip, I return to Gare d'Lyon before heading to Charles De Gaulle Airport. From Gare d'Lyon I took an RER A train one stop to Chatelet -- where I was to switch to the RER B train that goes to De Gaulle. With little fanfare, I made my way to Chatelet for my RER transfer. As I reached the B platform, I saw that a very full CDG-bound train was already waiting. Knowing that I had a large suitcase, a lengthy ride, and that the next train was only a few minutes away, I decided to wait -- hoping that I could procure a seat on the next one. I regretted this decision almost immediately. The next two trains to arrive were not CDG-bound and the platform was beginning to fill up again. The next CDG train would be just as crowded and I'd wasted 10 minutes for nothing. Once again, silly me.
Well, I finally made it on to a crowded RER B and was even offered a seat after one stop by a lovely girl who noticed that I had my hands full. All seemed fine -- despite some strange rattling noises that the girl in front of me did not approve of. Then, out of nowhere, the train began to jump, as as if it had driven over a large jumble of tree branches. My fellow passengers and I stared at each other, but no one said a word. Seconds later, the car filled with the smell of burning rubber. Many people, myself included, began to cough -- and a mild panic began to take hold. About a minute later, after trying, and failing, to open some windows, the train ground to a halt. About a minute after that, we heard it power down completely. This being an airport-bound train, many of us consulted our watches, wondering when -- or if -- the ride would resume. Then, an announcement.
A female railroad employee, clearly in shock and crying, mumbled a few sentences. Not speaking French, I began to seek out translation -- but saw only disbelief in the eyes around me. Finally, through gestures and bits of polyglot dialogue, I got it. Someone had jumped in front of the train.
Holy sh*t.
Suddenly missing my flight didn't seem so important. But, my moment of perspective was fleeting and I soon began to, once again, worry about myself. I had about 12 Euros in change in my possession, no working phone, and a minimal French vocabulary. I thought I had been so smart in spending down my Euros. I didn't want to have too many left over -- especially given that currency's current state. It didn't really matter though. For the time being, the train wasn't moving and neither was I. A nice man let me use his phone to try to call my airline, but I was on a holding loop when I heard a whir and an audible gasp. Some young men had pried open the doors of the train and people were beginning to jump out.
I was more than wary of this plan.
The people who had jumped out of the coach were climbing a fence about 50 feet from the train tracks and walking away -- to where, I had no idea.
Just then, the still-crying conductor returned to the PA system and made another announcement. From the gasps of the passengers, I knew it was not good news. Apparently there were two victims. Two people who had jumped in front of a moving train.
Jeez.
It was then that I saw some firefighters walk by our train car. Their presence sparked several people to make their way off the train. This required a pretty sizeable jump onto a rocky hill and a wall climb after which someone would throw you your belongings. Apparently, the firemen had communicated that we would likely be waiting 3-4 hours before the train could start up again.
Hearing this, a French girl sitting near me, about my age and also heading to CDG, said she was going to go. She'd walk into the next town and try to find herself a cab. I suppose it made sense, considering that staying put meant that she was sure to miss her plane. Another girl tried to convince me to do the same. I looked at the wall I'd need to scale, thought for a moment, and said I couldn't. She reminded me that I was going to miss my plane. I concurred, but explained that I don't speak French and that I was nervous to head into a strange town in the hopes I might somehow find a ride to the airport. Time was already tight and I preferred missing my plane to ending up alone in the dark in a French village. At least if I stayed put, I'd eventually get back to Paris -- I hoped.
But as the minutes ticked away -- and more and more people began to jump from the train, even small children -- I questioned my decision. So many people were airport-bound. And, a group of men, in a feat of strength, managed to knock down the fence so that scaling a wall was no longer necessary in order to get away from the train tracks. I decided to go for it. I was probably going to miss my flight anyhow, I might as well try.
I cautiously lowered myself to the floor of the train and contemplated my jump. The ground below was slanted and covered in rocks. I gritted my teeth and succumbed to gravity. Though wobbly, my landing was painless and I managed not to fall -- though my heart and the laughter of the men at the door of the train told me it was close. The men, who had taken on the role of gatekeepers, passed me my belongings -- including a very heavy suitcase -- and I made my way to the spot where the fence had been breached.
Around the bend, I encountered my former seatmate. She had called and was waiting for a cab, but was sorry to tell me it was going to be full. She explained that most people were walking to the next train station where they were hoping there would be cabs available.
I followed the crowd, answering "Je ne comprende pas" every time a fellow traveler tried to communicate. At one point, I considered joining a young couple who had flagged down a woman in a minivan they were hoping would drive them to the airport. They were unsuccessful in their mission and I trucked on. I honestly had no idea where I was going, but I followed the other intrepid travelers with rolling suitcases and walked parallel to the tracks through a sparsely populated residential area where people stared at us in our motley parade. In the distance, I saw another train. I hoped this meant the station was near and that I'd find access to a taxi. Preferably one which would accept my 12 Euros, 40-something American dollars, or a credit card as payment.
I continued to follow the others on an increasingly windy path, through parking lots and playgrounds, when I finally saw what seemed to be a busy intersection -- and a bus. A bus! I began to run, or hobble -- with my over-stuffed suitcase, hoping that the railroad had sent a shuttle to take all of us weary travelers to CDG. It was not to be. It was a regular bus, at a regular bus stop, and none of its routes included the airport.
Disappointed, I noticed the growing crowd at an unattended taxi stand to my left. There were no taxis, but there was a sign, and that was something.
Surveying the crowd, I heard heavily accented English being spoken between two middle-aged gentlemen.
"Do you speak English?," I inquired.
"Yes," the younger of the two men replied.
"Are you going to the airport?"
Again, his reply was yes and I asked if I could join them. They said sure, noting, that with the older man's son, our group would be four. I explained that I could only pay with dollars. The younger man hurriedly told me not to worry and that he would pay my share. I thanked him profusely and we began to seek out taxis.
A few passed by, but already had passengers. A group next to us flagged one down and put two members of their group in that cab's remaining seats. After several minutes, the older man's son flagged down a minivan taxi that had an old man in the front passenger seat. The opportunistic driver said he would take us after dropping his passenger off nearby and at the price of 30 Euro per person. My benefactors agreed and we piled in. The driver told us it would be a 15-20 minute journey to CDG. After bidding the old man "Au revoir," literally, we were off. After a serious lobbying effort, I convinced the men to take 30 dollars from me and continued to thank them for their help. I am absolutely certain that they only took my money because of how absurdly ripped off we were being by the taxi driver and the realization that he had actually deprived them of all their cash.
I knew I was going to Terminal 2, but beyond that I was clueless. There were no signs letting me know which airline parks where. The younger man was going to 2B and the father-son pairing needed Terminal 1. Our driver stopped first at 2B. The man and I ran out, grabbed our bags, and wished our new companions a hearty good luck. The man dashed off and I tried to figure things out.
Seeing no signs of clarification, I stopped a CDG employee and asked her for my airline. She and friend were heading to a cigarette break, but she told me she'd show me to the Info Desk because she wasn't sure. I told her my story and we began to run because she, like me, was pretty sure I wasn't going to make it to my plane.
The woman at Information told me to go, quickly, across to 2A and hope that check-in wasn't completed.
My new CDG employee friend (I can't spell or pronounce her name) insisted on running with me since I didn't know the way and even insisted that I let her pull my rolling bag.
Upon our breathless arrival at the XL Airways area, she explained the situation and a staffer let me past the rope line.
However, upon reaching the counter, I was told that check-in was closed and that I'd need to go lobby the airline to let me on the flight. Seeing this, the staffer who had let me past the ropes intervened and I was allowed to get my boarding pass and even check my bag.
Very luckily, I faced no lines at security or Passport Control and my gate was located directly behind the x-ray machines.
I walked onto the plane just as the boarding period was nearing its end.
Now sitting in my seat, almost 2 hours after takeoff (the amount of time I've been writing this), I have a moment to think about someone other than myself.
Why did two people jump in front of a commuter train? Their motive, I'm sure, was not to have me miss my flight. What had gone so wrong in their lives that they thought death was the answer? How are their families? How is that conductor? Her shock and sadness were palpable. She will never be the same.
What possessed that lovely airport employee to run with me (and my suitcase!) through the tunnels of CDG? I tried to express my gratitude, but as she kissed me goodbye (both cheeks, very French), the other staffer dragged me away. I told her I wouldn't forget her, and, the next time I see someone in need of a helping hand, I pray that I won't.
Kindness and sadness emerge in the strangest of places. Character is your reaction wherever you find them.
Wednesday, November 9, 2011
How to get to Handsome
Greetings from Creative Writing class...
Today's assignment: Write a scene conveying the notion that Bill is handsome -- without actually saying that Bill is handsome.
I only had five minutes to work on this, so it's not quite polished. But, I'm setting it free into the blogosphere anyway and giving you free reign to critique. Be ruthless.
His new cubicle was just like the old. Grey pre-fab walls and an HP desktop. This job might not be the fresh start he'd hoped for.
"You should put up pictures of your wife and kids," Kim, the receptionist piped in as she showed him to his workspace.
"Oh, I'm not married," Bill said.
"I'm sorry. That was presumptuous of me. . . . I'll be at my desk if you need anything."
Just then, Margaret from Accounting passed by.
"You know, Bill, a bunch of us grab drinks on Thursday nights after the department meeting. You should come -- and bring your girlfriend."
"Thanks, Margaret. I'll be there. But just me. No girlfriend these days."
And that's when Claire and Sandra made their way down the hall...
(Did I get there?)
Today's assignment: Write a scene conveying the notion that Bill is handsome -- without actually saying that Bill is handsome.
I only had five minutes to work on this, so it's not quite polished. But, I'm setting it free into the blogosphere anyway and giving you free reign to critique. Be ruthless.
His new cubicle was just like the old. Grey pre-fab walls and an HP desktop. This job might not be the fresh start he'd hoped for.
"You should put up pictures of your wife and kids," Kim, the receptionist piped in as she showed him to his workspace.
"Oh, I'm not married," Bill said.
"I'm sorry. That was presumptuous of me. . . . I'll be at my desk if you need anything."
Just then, Margaret from Accounting passed by.
"You know, Bill, a bunch of us grab drinks on Thursday nights after the department meeting. You should come -- and bring your girlfriend."
"Thanks, Margaret. I'll be there. But just me. No girlfriend these days."
And that's when Claire and Sandra made their way down the hall...
(Did I get there?)
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Girl, Interrupted.
[Insert apology for not having written in ages and ages here.]
Today, I started a creative writing class called "Brief Encounters." The class is taught by a very nice Columbia MFA student and focuses on short pieces known as Flash Fiction. As an introduction, the instructor told us about a challenge that was once posed to Ernest Hemingway. An adversary bet that Hemingway couldn't tell a story in six words. The toreador's response: For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn. Her point in sharing this anecdote was simple -- stories come alive in the reader's imagination. A writer's job is to open the door.
We read three stories: "The School" by Donald Barthelme, "The Cage" by Heinrich Böll, and "Girl" by Jamaica Kincaid. Barthelme led a trip into the absurd, Boll to hell, and Kincaid explored the unfathomable depths of a mother's love for her daughter.
As an exercise, my classmates and I were asked to rewrite Kincaid's piece from the maternal perspective. The text of "Girl" can be found here. Please see my response below. I'd appreciate any comments that you have. (Oh, and many thanks for all the support and love in response to my Metropolitan Diary submission. It really was a dream come true!)
Response to Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl"
I'm scared that if I tell her, I'll scare her. So I won't.
I'll teach her how to do the laundry. How to wash her hair. Bake a bundt cake. I'll yell when she stays out past her curfew with that boy who won't ever be good enough. Who won't ever love her like I love her. I'll walk into her room without knocking and criticize her outfits and how she bites her nails. I'll make sure she knows that red just isn't her color and that Floyd from the football team only wants one thing. I'll take away the car keys and make her clean the bathroom and call Cindy's mom because Cindy's being mean. I'll cheer at graduation while others clap politely and stay too long at Parents' Day. I'll chaperone her field trip and not let her go to parties -- even when she tells me "Everyone's gonna be there." I'll ruin her life a thousand times over and take her to buy lip gloss.
And hope that one day she figures it out.
Today, I started a creative writing class called "Brief Encounters." The class is taught by a very nice Columbia MFA student and focuses on short pieces known as Flash Fiction. As an introduction, the instructor told us about a challenge that was once posed to Ernest Hemingway. An adversary bet that Hemingway couldn't tell a story in six words. The toreador's response: For Sale. Baby shoes. Never worn. Her point in sharing this anecdote was simple -- stories come alive in the reader's imagination. A writer's job is to open the door.
We read three stories: "The School" by Donald Barthelme, "The Cage" by Heinrich Böll, and "Girl" by Jamaica Kincaid. Barthelme led a trip into the absurd, Boll to hell, and Kincaid explored the unfathomable depths of a mother's love for her daughter.
As an exercise, my classmates and I were asked to rewrite Kincaid's piece from the maternal perspective. The text of "Girl" can be found here. Please see my response below. I'd appreciate any comments that you have. (Oh, and many thanks for all the support and love in response to my Metropolitan Diary submission. It really was a dream come true!)
Response to Jamaica Kincaid's "Girl"
I'm scared that if I tell her, I'll scare her. So I won't.
I'll teach her how to do the laundry. How to wash her hair. Bake a bundt cake. I'll yell when she stays out past her curfew with that boy who won't ever be good enough. Who won't ever love her like I love her. I'll walk into her room without knocking and criticize her outfits and how she bites her nails. I'll make sure she knows that red just isn't her color and that Floyd from the football team only wants one thing. I'll take away the car keys and make her clean the bathroom and call Cindy's mom because Cindy's being mean. I'll cheer at graduation while others clap politely and stay too long at Parents' Day. I'll chaperone her field trip and not let her go to parties -- even when she tells me "Everyone's gonna be there." I'll ruin her life a thousand times over and take her to buy lip gloss.
And hope that one day she figures it out.
Monday, May 2, 2011
My Grandfather's Granddaughter: A Jewish-American Tale
This coming month marks the one year anniversary of the passing of my grandfather, George Steiner, of blessed memory. I have been thinking about my grandfather a lot lately -- with the upcoming unveiling of his gravestone, the end of my father's aveilut (year of mourning), and Passover Yizkor all recent familial topics of conversation. But, tonight, with the historic news of the death of Osama Bin Laden, thoughts of my Poopa (the silly name I coined as an infant unable to pronounce "Grandpa") cannot escape my mind.
When I think about my grandfather, and his passing in particular, a number of questions arise with my memories. I think about what it means for me to no longer have any living grandparents. Has my childhood lapsed? Have I lost a vital connection to my past? (As many of you know, I am a genealogy nerd -- having spent several summers working at the Center for Jewish History's Genealogy Institute. My capstone project as a CJH Fellow was a documentary timeline of my grandfather's life.) But these questions, vital as they are, are not what dominate my thinking about my grandfather tonight. Rather, it is America, the nation and its actions, that led me to think of him tonight -- and that is a critical part of my thinking about him always.
Before he was my grandfather, George was a son, a husband, a father, a soldier, and a friend. And he excelled at each role in which he was cast. To digress for a moment, I'll add a word about him as a husband -- of the most devoted order, for nearly 52 years.
In addition to being wonderfully kind and caring, my grandmother, Gloria Steiner, z"l, was an amputee, having lost her leg to bone cancer while a young mother in her 30s. Even now, eleven years after her death, it is strange for me to write that -- as I never once thought of my grandmother as disabled. The reasons for that stem mainly from her grace, courage, and, in the days before modern prostheses, unfailing determination to do everything that an able-bodied person could. They also stem from my grandfather. More than her supporter, he was her champion -- both allowing and encouraging her to do all the things she wanted to do. I could try and list his daily devotions to her, but there is no way to fully paint a picture for you of the kind of dedicated husband he really was.
The trait of dedication -- of devotion, of doing what is right -- is one that my grandfather honed in the United States Armed Forces. Born in Nitra, Czechoslovkia, George immigrated to the United States with his parents, Joseph and Matilda, in 1923 -- when he was barely 2 years old. Raised in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, he was a Boy Scout par excellence and grew into a tried and true American boy. Upon graduation from high school in 1939, George voluntarily enlisted in the US Army and was stationed in the Panama Canal Zone. Just as his active duty was scheduled to end, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and George embarked on an additional 4 years of service. Together with the Army Corps of Engineers, my grandfather built bridges and saw combat throughout France and Germany. Though he never shared this fact with his children or grandchildren, he was awarded the Bronze Star for valor after running into mortar fire to retrieve a wounded member of his company and, with another soldier, carry him several miles to the nearest army hospital. (We only learned of this story, and the medal, upon finding the well hidden paperwork while sorting through my grandparents' apartment after my grandmother's death.) These days, when we often rush to share our accomplishments with the world through text messages, Facebook, or, sometimes, a blog, it is all the more astonishing to learn that others have kept their most meaningful accomplishments secret.
While my grandfather did share some stories of the antisemitism he experienced in the military, I don't know if, during his six years of service -- especially those spent fighting in Europe, he knew that his grandparents, numerous aunts and uncles, and 27 of his 28 first cousins were being led to their deaths by the Nazis. There is certainly no way he could have known that, after the war, there would be no record of Jewish survivors from the town of Nitra.
It is this interplay between his patriotism and his Jewishness that has rooted my grandfather in my thoughts tonight. Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. I grew up in a home, and in a community, that is steadfast in its dedication to Holocaust education. As a grandchild of survivors (my mother's parents met as refugees in Siberia), I am proud to carry the banner of Zachor -- Remember, Never Forget. Today, as thousands crowd the streets of Lower Manhattan waving flags to the choruses of U-S-A, U-S-A, I remember the victims of Bin Laden's terror along with the six million who perished merely because they were Jews. As I remember, I am saddened by the fact that, 66 years after the liberation of the concentration camps, baseless hatred still exists in this world and I am heartened by the tremendous step the United States has taken today to eradicate that hatred. And, while I am filled with pride and patriotism, I still face the same questions that confront me each Yom HaShoah, each time I think about my grandfather. How can I be better? More grateful? More active? For as long as I can remember, I've grappled for answers. And, for as long as I can remember, I've fallen short. Today, as my American and Jewish identities merge in a way that they have not before, in a way that my grandfather might have found familiar, I redouble my efforts to honor the past and impact the future -- to fulfill my potential as my grandfather's granddaughter, to merit the privilege, American Jew.
When I think about my grandfather, and his passing in particular, a number of questions arise with my memories. I think about what it means for me to no longer have any living grandparents. Has my childhood lapsed? Have I lost a vital connection to my past? (As many of you know, I am a genealogy nerd -- having spent several summers working at the Center for Jewish History's Genealogy Institute. My capstone project as a CJH Fellow was a documentary timeline of my grandfather's life.) But these questions, vital as they are, are not what dominate my thinking about my grandfather tonight. Rather, it is America, the nation and its actions, that led me to think of him tonight -- and that is a critical part of my thinking about him always.
Before he was my grandfather, George was a son, a husband, a father, a soldier, and a friend. And he excelled at each role in which he was cast. To digress for a moment, I'll add a word about him as a husband -- of the most devoted order, for nearly 52 years.
In addition to being wonderfully kind and caring, my grandmother, Gloria Steiner, z"l, was an amputee, having lost her leg to bone cancer while a young mother in her 30s. Even now, eleven years after her death, it is strange for me to write that -- as I never once thought of my grandmother as disabled. The reasons for that stem mainly from her grace, courage, and, in the days before modern prostheses, unfailing determination to do everything that an able-bodied person could. They also stem from my grandfather. More than her supporter, he was her champion -- both allowing and encouraging her to do all the things she wanted to do. I could try and list his daily devotions to her, but there is no way to fully paint a picture for you of the kind of dedicated husband he really was.
The trait of dedication -- of devotion, of doing what is right -- is one that my grandfather honed in the United States Armed Forces. Born in Nitra, Czechoslovkia, George immigrated to the United States with his parents, Joseph and Matilda, in 1923 -- when he was barely 2 years old. Raised in the Yorkville section of Manhattan, he was a Boy Scout par excellence and grew into a tried and true American boy. Upon graduation from high school in 1939, George voluntarily enlisted in the US Army and was stationed in the Panama Canal Zone. Just as his active duty was scheduled to end, the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor and George embarked on an additional 4 years of service. Together with the Army Corps of Engineers, my grandfather built bridges and saw combat throughout France and Germany. Though he never shared this fact with his children or grandchildren, he was awarded the Bronze Star for valor after running into mortar fire to retrieve a wounded member of his company and, with another soldier, carry him several miles to the nearest army hospital. (We only learned of this story, and the medal, upon finding the well hidden paperwork while sorting through my grandparents' apartment after my grandmother's death.) These days, when we often rush to share our accomplishments with the world through text messages, Facebook, or, sometimes, a blog, it is all the more astonishing to learn that others have kept their most meaningful accomplishments secret.
While my grandfather did share some stories of the antisemitism he experienced in the military, I don't know if, during his six years of service -- especially those spent fighting in Europe, he knew that his grandparents, numerous aunts and uncles, and 27 of his 28 first cousins were being led to their deaths by the Nazis. There is certainly no way he could have known that, after the war, there would be no record of Jewish survivors from the town of Nitra.
It is this interplay between his patriotism and his Jewishness that has rooted my grandfather in my thoughts tonight. Today is Yom Hashoah, Holocaust Remembrance Day. I grew up in a home, and in a community, that is steadfast in its dedication to Holocaust education. As a grandchild of survivors (my mother's parents met as refugees in Siberia), I am proud to carry the banner of Zachor -- Remember, Never Forget. Today, as thousands crowd the streets of Lower Manhattan waving flags to the choruses of U-S-A, U-S-A, I remember the victims of Bin Laden's terror along with the six million who perished merely because they were Jews. As I remember, I am saddened by the fact that, 66 years after the liberation of the concentration camps, baseless hatred still exists in this world and I am heartened by the tremendous step the United States has taken today to eradicate that hatred. And, while I am filled with pride and patriotism, I still face the same questions that confront me each Yom HaShoah, each time I think about my grandfather. How can I be better? More grateful? More active? For as long as I can remember, I've grappled for answers. And, for as long as I can remember, I've fallen short. Today, as my American and Jewish identities merge in a way that they have not before, in a way that my grandfather might have found familiar, I redouble my efforts to honor the past and impact the future -- to fulfill my potential as my grandfather's granddaughter, to merit the privilege, American Jew.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
The Short List
New year. New format. New nonsense.
1. Let's discuss President Obama's truly awful airplane-without-an-engine analogy during the State of the Union address. Did anyone else love the irony of that whole section going over like a lead balloon? (What's that? I'm a dork? I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the hordes of people clamoring to win the future.)
2. As many of you know, I have been re-watching my all-time favorite TV show - The West Wing. It is amazing the things that are different the second time around. Namely, while still madly in love with Josh Lyman (I'm still torn as to whether or not I want to be him or marry him), I find myself becoming increasingly smitten with Sam Seaborn. Obviously, Rob Lowe is unfailingly gorgeous. But, it's more than that. Sam is smart, idealistic, sensitive, and ... he writes like a dream. Swoon.
[For those of you who do watch WW, I have a question. In Posse Comitatus, how, on his journey between 45th Street and the FBI field office - which by my best estimation is either in the Federal Office Building on Varick Street or the one on 125th, does Simon Donovan end up in a bodega on 98th and Broadway? Considering the events that transpire in said bodega, it's a legitimate question. I'm not opposed to the UWS getting a shoutout, I'm just curious.]
3. I'm well aware that the above question demonstrates my freakish over-thinking of inconsequential issues. You needn't point it out.
4. The Super Bowl media frenzy is in full swing. This year's hot topics: Ben Roethlisberger's behavior, Ben Roethlisberger's suspension, and Ben Roethlisberger's new found appreciation for success. Apparently, in the NFL, being suspected of rape is the gift that keeps on giving...
5. Paul Bettany regrets his giving up the lead role in "The King's Speech". Is it okay that I don't?
1. Let's discuss President Obama's truly awful airplane-without-an-engine analogy during the State of the Union address. Did anyone else love the irony of that whole section going over like a lead balloon? (What's that? I'm a dork? I'm sorry, I can't hear you over the hordes of people clamoring to win the future.)
2. As many of you know, I have been re-watching my all-time favorite TV show - The West Wing. It is amazing the things that are different the second time around. Namely, while still madly in love with Josh Lyman (I'm still torn as to whether or not I want to be him or marry him), I find myself becoming increasingly smitten with Sam Seaborn. Obviously, Rob Lowe is unfailingly gorgeous. But, it's more than that. Sam is smart, idealistic, sensitive, and ... he writes like a dream. Swoon.
[For those of you who do watch WW, I have a question. In Posse Comitatus, how, on his journey between 45th Street and the FBI field office - which by my best estimation is either in the Federal Office Building on Varick Street or the one on 125th, does Simon Donovan end up in a bodega on 98th and Broadway? Considering the events that transpire in said bodega, it's a legitimate question. I'm not opposed to the UWS getting a shoutout, I'm just curious.]
3. I'm well aware that the above question demonstrates my freakish over-thinking of inconsequential issues. You needn't point it out.
4. The Super Bowl media frenzy is in full swing. This year's hot topics: Ben Roethlisberger's behavior, Ben Roethlisberger's suspension, and Ben Roethlisberger's new found appreciation for success. Apparently, in the NFL, being suspected of rape is the gift that keeps on giving...
5. Paul Bettany regrets his giving up the lead role in "The King's Speech". Is it okay that I don't?
Thursday, October 28, 2010
I might as well have Cablevision...
As the World Series, a sporting event that I traditionally take an interest in, begins tonight, I feel it is important to muse on why it is that – this year – I have no interest whatsoever.
Yes, the answer is not particularly mysterious. The Yankees are not making an appearance. No Yankees. No Yael. Plain. Simple.
The first sign that the Yankees were doomed to a late fall, rather than a Late Fall, appeared when the Bombers failed to clinch the AL East. The Rays? Really? Let’s examine the reasons why a team should never trail behind The Rays.
Reason number one? Two words. Expansion Team. This team did not even exist when the Yankees began their current era of domination in 1996. In their 12 year lifespan, the team has required a name change and a color change to expand its marketability. I don’t care that the ascendance of The Rays indicates the potential for young teams from minor markets in Major League Baseball. I’m a New Yorker, a capitalist, and an enemy of the salary cap. For all I care, small teams from small towns can wither and die.
On that note, we approach reason number two. Tampa Bay. The 19th largest metropolitan area in the United States. A city known only for its beer-sponsored theme park. I realize I’m an obnoxious Northeastern snob. Still. Northern Florida? Yuck.
At the end of the day, the Yankees outlasted the Rays and at least made it to the ALCS – where they ultimately lost to a team from a metropolis that at least cracks the top five. Making it within two games of the pennant would be a major accomplishment for any of the other 29 teams in Major League Baseball. For the Yankees, it is like being asked to spend the off-season in a garbage dump. They may as well have not made the playoffs altogether. In New York, it's go big or go home.
Our discontent with a semi-final level finish is demonstrative of how life as a Yankee fan is emblematic of life in New York in general. We don't want good, we want great. We don't want mostly. We want always. For instance, as I walked home the other evening around midnight, I found myself legitimately angry that the Dry Cleaners was closed, preventing me from picking up my clothing. This is New York for goodness sakes! Everything is supposed to be 24 hours. Do I care that the Dry Cleaners only closes at 10 PM? No! I should be able to visit whenever I please. Do I take any solace in knowing that, EVERYWHERE else in the world, Dry Cleaners close at 6 PM and not a moment later? Nope. Closing at 10 PM is the New York city equivalent of a Yankees losing ALCS appearance. Okay, but not nearly good enough.
Yes, the answer is not particularly mysterious. The Yankees are not making an appearance. No Yankees. No Yael. Plain. Simple.
The first sign that the Yankees were doomed to a late fall, rather than a Late Fall, appeared when the Bombers failed to clinch the AL East. The Rays? Really? Let’s examine the reasons why a team should never trail behind The Rays.
Reason number one? Two words. Expansion Team. This team did not even exist when the Yankees began their current era of domination in 1996. In their 12 year lifespan, the team has required a name change and a color change to expand its marketability. I don’t care that the ascendance of The Rays indicates the potential for young teams from minor markets in Major League Baseball. I’m a New Yorker, a capitalist, and an enemy of the salary cap. For all I care, small teams from small towns can wither and die.
On that note, we approach reason number two. Tampa Bay. The 19th largest metropolitan area in the United States. A city known only for its beer-sponsored theme park. I realize I’m an obnoxious Northeastern snob. Still. Northern Florida? Yuck.
At the end of the day, the Yankees outlasted the Rays and at least made it to the ALCS – where they ultimately lost to a team from a metropolis that at least cracks the top five. Making it within two games of the pennant would be a major accomplishment for any of the other 29 teams in Major League Baseball. For the Yankees, it is like being asked to spend the off-season in a garbage dump. They may as well have not made the playoffs altogether. In New York, it's go big or go home.
Our discontent with a semi-final level finish is demonstrative of how life as a Yankee fan is emblematic of life in New York in general. We don't want good, we want great. We don't want mostly. We want always. For instance, as I walked home the other evening around midnight, I found myself legitimately angry that the Dry Cleaners was closed, preventing me from picking up my clothing. This is New York for goodness sakes! Everything is supposed to be 24 hours. Do I care that the Dry Cleaners only closes at 10 PM? No! I should be able to visit whenever I please. Do I take any solace in knowing that, EVERYWHERE else in the world, Dry Cleaners close at 6 PM and not a moment later? Nope. Closing at 10 PM is the New York city equivalent of a Yankees losing ALCS appearance. Okay, but not nearly good enough.
Wednesday, July 28, 2010
The Unbearable Triteness of Being (an Unpaid Intern)
I need to vent. Seriously. I need to vent about life, about work, about school. Did I mention that I need to vent about work? And, alas, I cannot – for the protocols of the workplace prevent it. You see, as the New York Times Magazine not so subtly reminded us this past weekend, the internet is the end of the innocuous tirade. What was once a transient exercise in catharsis is now html-encoded permaglyph.
And so, despite the anonymity of this blog, we cannot occupy ourselves with topics of consequence and must turn instead to other things of import – i.e. movies and television shows.
Historically , the summer has been a veritable dead zone for television and a hotbed of cinematic delights. Of course, in 2010, a year that’s gotten increasingly strange with each passing day, the opposite is true. The small screen is shimmering while most summer blockbusters have been... well... busts.
Now, some of you are going to challenge my particular TV favorites – but, before you do, you should note that, as with all things in my life, I place a high premium on fun. As such, my summer TV accolades are awarded to the coolest crew at NBC Universal – the good people of USA Network. [Insert voice-over guy saying “Characters Welcome” here.]
Never has a network’s catchphrase been so accurate. (CBS’s “Welcome Home?” Really? Do I live with Les Moonves?) At USA, characters are not only welcome, but something of a prerequisite. Their shows, In Plain Sight, Burn Notice, and White Collar in particular, are chock full of engaging, fast-paced storylines, intriguing (and hot) men, and kick-ass women. They are examples of bubbly summer fare that never takes itself too seriously. Even In Plain Sight, a fascinating peek into the Witness Protection Program and the US Marshal Service, is banter-ific enough to keep the tone light.
Another great thing about USA programming? The myriad of West Wing alums who randomly show up to join the party. For starters, Mary McCormack and Josh Malina (WW’s Season 7 Lovebirds Kate Harper and Will Bailey), are In Plain Sight regulars. Richard Schiff (WW’s grizzly, yet lovable, Toby Ziegler) has guested on both IPS (as a rabbi!) and Burn Notice (as a criminal!). Tim Matheson (WW’s smarmy John Hoynes) is at his smarmiest as Psychopath Larry, a recurring thorn in Michael Westen’s side on Burn. And, just this season, the Flamingo-esque Allison Janney (WW’s Press Secretary-cum-Chief of Staff C.J. Cregg) joined IPS as a nagging, and nuanced, supervisor who butts head with Mary Shannon every chance she gets.
Why does any of this matter? Well, it doesn’t, but it does allow me to aggravate my father every once in awhile. You see, when I’m at my parents’ house we tend to watch a lot of USA together. Every time a WW alum enters a scene, I gleefully exclaim, “He/she’s from West Wing!” Most people would find this only mildly irritating. My father, however, hates it. Let’s just say he’s not the biggest fan of The West Wing. In fact, I’m not allowed to watch the show he scornfully calls “a love letter to the Clinton administration” while he’s in the house. The fact that I absolutely adore it? It irks him to no end.
Okay. We’ve discussed my love of USA shows. Though I have to say, these past few paragraphs have been extraneous. If you need to be convinced of USA’s greatness, I only need two words – Matt Bomer. Google Image him. You’ll understand.
On to film...
Inception was great. Really interesting, not as confusing as it could have been, blah, blah, blah. But, other than that, I haven’t seen a good film for adults in ages. Toy Story 3 was wonderful, and arguably more fun for adults than for kids, but that doesn’t count. The Kids are All Right is getting good buzz and I’m definitely going to try to see it in a few days. As for Charlie St. Cloud? When Zac Efron puts an “h” or a “k” at the end of his first name, maybe I’ll take him more seriously.
And in sports...How ‘bout dem Yankees?
B'ahava, Y
And so, despite the anonymity of this blog, we cannot occupy ourselves with topics of consequence and must turn instead to other things of import – i.e. movies and television shows.
Historically , the summer has been a veritable dead zone for television and a hotbed of cinematic delights. Of course, in 2010, a year that’s gotten increasingly strange with each passing day, the opposite is true. The small screen is shimmering while most summer blockbusters have been... well... busts.
Now, some of you are going to challenge my particular TV favorites – but, before you do, you should note that, as with all things in my life, I place a high premium on fun. As such, my summer TV accolades are awarded to the coolest crew at NBC Universal – the good people of USA Network. [Insert voice-over guy saying “Characters Welcome” here.]
Never has a network’s catchphrase been so accurate. (CBS’s “Welcome Home?” Really? Do I live with Les Moonves?) At USA, characters are not only welcome, but something of a prerequisite. Their shows, In Plain Sight, Burn Notice, and White Collar in particular, are chock full of engaging, fast-paced storylines, intriguing (and hot) men, and kick-ass women. They are examples of bubbly summer fare that never takes itself too seriously. Even In Plain Sight, a fascinating peek into the Witness Protection Program and the US Marshal Service, is banter-ific enough to keep the tone light.
Another great thing about USA programming? The myriad of West Wing alums who randomly show up to join the party. For starters, Mary McCormack and Josh Malina (WW’s Season 7 Lovebirds Kate Harper and Will Bailey), are In Plain Sight regulars. Richard Schiff (WW’s grizzly, yet lovable, Toby Ziegler) has guested on both IPS (as a rabbi!) and Burn Notice (as a criminal!). Tim Matheson (WW’s smarmy John Hoynes) is at his smarmiest as Psychopath Larry, a recurring thorn in Michael Westen’s side on Burn. And, just this season, the Flamingo-esque Allison Janney (WW’s Press Secretary-cum-Chief of Staff C.J. Cregg) joined IPS as a nagging, and nuanced, supervisor who butts head with Mary Shannon every chance she gets.
Why does any of this matter? Well, it doesn’t, but it does allow me to aggravate my father every once in awhile. You see, when I’m at my parents’ house we tend to watch a lot of USA together. Every time a WW alum enters a scene, I gleefully exclaim, “He/she’s from West Wing!” Most people would find this only mildly irritating. My father, however, hates it. Let’s just say he’s not the biggest fan of The West Wing. In fact, I’m not allowed to watch the show he scornfully calls “a love letter to the Clinton administration” while he’s in the house. The fact that I absolutely adore it? It irks him to no end.
Okay. We’ve discussed my love of USA shows. Though I have to say, these past few paragraphs have been extraneous. If you need to be convinced of USA’s greatness, I only need two words – Matt Bomer. Google Image him. You’ll understand.
On to film...
Inception was great. Really interesting, not as confusing as it could have been, blah, blah, blah. But, other than that, I haven’t seen a good film for adults in ages. Toy Story 3 was wonderful, and arguably more fun for adults than for kids, but that doesn’t count. The Kids are All Right is getting good buzz and I’m definitely going to try to see it in a few days. As for Charlie St. Cloud? When Zac Efron puts an “h” or a “k” at the end of his first name, maybe I’ll take him more seriously.
And in sports...How ‘bout dem Yankees?
B'ahava, Y
Friday, July 2, 2010
To Infinity and ... boredom.
I’ve stopped and started many posts over the past month or two. Posts about hot guys at the gym. Posts about the World Cup. Posts about nothing at all.
I’ve apparently come down with some kind of writer’s block. And yet, I keep on trying.
Perhaps I have nothing to write about because I don’t really have much going on. I go to work – where Chambers privilege precludes me from blogging about proceedings. I come home. I go to the gym. And, unless you want to hear about those aforementioned hot guys, there’s not much there to tell.
Oh, how I wish I had something witty to share. When did life get so boring?
Two nights ago, in a nod to boredom, I rented “He’s Just Not That Into You.” I know, I know. I ‘m about two years late. I simply hadn’t had time to see the film that I’d heard should have been subtitled “The [Insert the name of every girl you’ve ever known, yourself included] Story.”
So, best lesson of the movie? Hanging out is not dating.
Worst lesson of the movie? You are the exception to the rule.
The movie prattles on and on about how girls shouldn’t listen to movies and men don’t change – and, lo and behold, the movie refuses to heed its own advice.
I won’t spoil the pleasantly predictable ending for those who are even slower than I, but I will profess to having teared up at the close.
Damn me and my emotional vulnerability.
One last thing – the cutest part of the movie is by far the credits. So, if like me, Ben Affleck makes you cry in the last five minutes, don’t run for the tissues until you see Kevin Connelly and Justin Long in the credit clips.
A. DOR. A. BLE.
For the sake of preserving my cinematic dignity, I must disclaim that liking this movie may very well be a consequence of having recently seen the truly awful “Valentine’s Day” – another ensemble Rom-Com. It was so bad, it made “HJNTIY” look like art.
Since we’re already in cinema-scope, I just have to ask – did you see Toy Story 3? Cute, eh? Pixar has a knack for assembling stellar vocal casts. Perhaps if there were more dialogue, I wouldn’t have fallen asleep during Wall-E.
See kids, I told you that I had nothing to write about.
PLEASE. Someone do something interesting. Or… I might have to rent “The Ugly Truth.”
Don’t let that happen.
Hearts, Y
I’ve apparently come down with some kind of writer’s block. And yet, I keep on trying.
Perhaps I have nothing to write about because I don’t really have much going on. I go to work – where Chambers privilege precludes me from blogging about proceedings. I come home. I go to the gym. And, unless you want to hear about those aforementioned hot guys, there’s not much there to tell.
Oh, how I wish I had something witty to share. When did life get so boring?
Two nights ago, in a nod to boredom, I rented “He’s Just Not That Into You.” I know, I know. I ‘m about two years late. I simply hadn’t had time to see the film that I’d heard should have been subtitled “The [Insert the name of every girl you’ve ever known, yourself included] Story.”
So, best lesson of the movie? Hanging out is not dating.
Worst lesson of the movie? You are the exception to the rule.
The movie prattles on and on about how girls shouldn’t listen to movies and men don’t change – and, lo and behold, the movie refuses to heed its own advice.
I won’t spoil the pleasantly predictable ending for those who are even slower than I, but I will profess to having teared up at the close.
Damn me and my emotional vulnerability.
One last thing – the cutest part of the movie is by far the credits. So, if like me, Ben Affleck makes you cry in the last five minutes, don’t run for the tissues until you see Kevin Connelly and Justin Long in the credit clips.
A. DOR. A. BLE.
For the sake of preserving my cinematic dignity, I must disclaim that liking this movie may very well be a consequence of having recently seen the truly awful “Valentine’s Day” – another ensemble Rom-Com. It was so bad, it made “HJNTIY” look like art.
Since we’re already in cinema-scope, I just have to ask – did you see Toy Story 3? Cute, eh? Pixar has a knack for assembling stellar vocal casts. Perhaps if there were more dialogue, I wouldn’t have fallen asleep during Wall-E.
See kids, I told you that I had nothing to write about.
PLEASE. Someone do something interesting. Or… I might have to rent “The Ugly Truth.”
Don’t let that happen.
Hearts, Y
Monday, May 31, 2010
Leaks and Gleeks
A long, long time ago in a galaxy far, far away, I had a blog. This galaxy was known as 1L -- or, sometimes more aptly, 1HelL. In this galaxy, time was elusive. It was constantly finding a way to slip through my fingers. Just when I thought I had nabbed some, it was already out of reach. There were always footnotes to read and essays to write. I logged hour upon hour on a legal research site whose name I may or may not have found derivative. And so, blogging took a backseat to case law. Until now. The school year is over and, as much as I loved eating three meals a day out of vending machines, my life has found some semblance of order -- in the form of a 9 - 6 unpaid judicial internship. Please, contain your excitement. So yes, the blog is back. Now, let's get this party started:
Uno: For those who are interested, the pipe-burst/leak situation in our apartment has still not been resolved. For some unknown reason, the management company refuses to take our calls and hasn't given us any sort of timeline for repairs. On Friday, I left the managing agent what I like to call "an intimidating message." It remains to be seen just how (or if) he will respond. In the meantime, we continue to live in a paint chip infested domicile that still smells faintly of wet dog. Yes, it's as wonderful as it sounds.
I suppose I can't really complain given the state of other unresolved leak situations in this country. Speaking of, is there anyone out there who can explain the concept of a "top kill?"
Dos: This blog was never meant to become the Vanity Fair highlights reel. And yet, despite my disdain for Graydon Carter, the people at vf.com continue to hit culture right on the nose. My most recent fascination? The Gay Guide to Glee! Brett Berk is a delightful dilettante and his glee-caps take themselves just seriously enough to make them hilariously fabulous.
Also on vf.com this month, an interview with one of my favorite John Ritter lookalikes, Zach Braff. (Braff used to be my favorite Ritter lookalike, edging out Ed's Tom Kavanagh, but that was before I started swooning over Jason Ritter's nice guy English teacher character on Parenthood. The chemistry between John's real-life son and Lauren Graham is crackling. Check it out here.) In the interview, Braff discusses his summers at Stagedoor Manor, a drama camp in Loch Sheldrake, NY (Vacation Village represent!), and his musical theater themed Bar Mitzvah. VF seems to find this unique. The editors clearly have never been to Bergen County -- where every girl and her sister has a Broadway-themed party replete with Playbill placecards and Fiddler on the Roof centerpieces. I just want to know if he chanted his Haftorah to "I Dreamed a Dream," Dudu Fisher style.
Tres: A lot of guys are obsessed with Bill Simmons, aka ESPN's "The Sports Guy." This weekend, in honor of Memorial Day, Bill shared some correspondence that he has received from his adoring fans. Here's my favorite:
Q: So I'm in the grocery store the other night buying ramen noodles 'cause that's literally the only thing I can afford to eat. Right after I had put the fourth huge case into my cart, a really cute girl approaches me and says, "Wow, that's a lot of ramen." For whatever reason, my immediate response is, "Yeah, I'm buying it for a local food drive for the homeless." Wouldn't you know it, but the girl finds this extremely sexy for some reason, and we continue to talk for a few minutes. Eventually, I ask her out, and we decide she will come to my place for dinner and a movie later on this week. What in the hell am I supposed to do? I have no money and a kitchen full of ramen noodles that are supposed to be for some mysterious food drive. Your thoughts?
-- Shane, Baltimore
SG: Yup, these are my readers.
Other, not quite as awesome, exchanges can be found in The Sport's Guy's Mega-Mailbag.
OMG...I was just about to end this post without calling your attention to the holy grail of Glee -- last week's flirtation with Lady Gaga. At this point, it's all pretty much been said. I'll just add this -- Quinn's outfit was kickass. Anyone who buys it for me will get a special prize.
In closing, one of these days I might get around to writing about the law. I'm starting to gather that bankruptcy court is a Dynasty-level soap opera. Stay tuned for more...
Thanks for welcoming me back into your lives! Love and Leotards, Y
Uno: For those who are interested, the pipe-burst/leak situation in our apartment has still not been resolved. For some unknown reason, the management company refuses to take our calls and hasn't given us any sort of timeline for repairs. On Friday, I left the managing agent what I like to call "an intimidating message." It remains to be seen just how (or if) he will respond. In the meantime, we continue to live in a paint chip infested domicile that still smells faintly of wet dog. Yes, it's as wonderful as it sounds.
I suppose I can't really complain given the state of other unresolved leak situations in this country. Speaking of, is there anyone out there who can explain the concept of a "top kill?"
Dos: This blog was never meant to become the Vanity Fair highlights reel. And yet, despite my disdain for Graydon Carter, the people at vf.com continue to hit culture right on the nose. My most recent fascination? The Gay Guide to Glee! Brett Berk is a delightful dilettante and his glee-caps take themselves just seriously enough to make them hilariously fabulous.
Also on vf.com this month, an interview with one of my favorite John Ritter lookalikes, Zach Braff. (Braff used to be my favorite Ritter lookalike, edging out Ed's Tom Kavanagh, but that was before I started swooning over Jason Ritter's nice guy English teacher character on Parenthood. The chemistry between John's real-life son and Lauren Graham is crackling. Check it out here.) In the interview, Braff discusses his summers at Stagedoor Manor, a drama camp in Loch Sheldrake, NY (Vacation Village represent!), and his musical theater themed Bar Mitzvah. VF seems to find this unique. The editors clearly have never been to Bergen County -- where every girl and her sister has a Broadway-themed party replete with Playbill placecards and Fiddler on the Roof centerpieces. I just want to know if he chanted his Haftorah to "I Dreamed a Dream," Dudu Fisher style.
Tres: A lot of guys are obsessed with Bill Simmons, aka ESPN's "The Sports Guy." This weekend, in honor of Memorial Day, Bill shared some correspondence that he has received from his adoring fans. Here's my favorite:
Q: So I'm in the grocery store the other night buying ramen noodles 'cause that's literally the only thing I can afford to eat. Right after I had put the fourth huge case into my cart, a really cute girl approaches me and says, "Wow, that's a lot of ramen." For whatever reason, my immediate response is, "Yeah, I'm buying it for a local food drive for the homeless." Wouldn't you know it, but the girl finds this extremely sexy for some reason, and we continue to talk for a few minutes. Eventually, I ask her out, and we decide she will come to my place for dinner and a movie later on this week. What in the hell am I supposed to do? I have no money and a kitchen full of ramen noodles that are supposed to be for some mysterious food drive. Your thoughts?
-- Shane, Baltimore
SG: Yup, these are my readers.
Other, not quite as awesome, exchanges can be found in The Sport's Guy's Mega-Mailbag.
OMG...I was just about to end this post without calling your attention to the holy grail of Glee -- last week's flirtation with Lady Gaga. At this point, it's all pretty much been said. I'll just add this -- Quinn's outfit was kickass. Anyone who buys it for me will get a special prize.
In closing, one of these days I might get around to writing about the law. I'm starting to gather that bankruptcy court is a Dynasty-level soap opera. Stay tuned for more...
Thanks for welcoming me back into your lives! Love and Leotards, Y
Wednesday, May 5, 2010
Letters from The Legally Insane
In the spirit of Greenberg, the last movie I had the pleasure to see in an actual theatre, I have decided to post some complaint letters that I would send if only I had an address...
You can safely assume that, as I descend further and further into the grips of finals-induced insanity, the letters will get progressively stranger.
So, here goes:
Dear Gratingly Good-Looking and Annoyingly Touchy-Feely Couple on line in front of me at the DVD rental machine,
First, I hate you. Second, based on the current placement of your respective hands, it seems unlikely that whether you rent Iron Man or Transformers will have much of an impact on your evening. I highly doubt that you will see much of either film. That said, can you please speed up your decision making so that I can rent Notting Hill for the umpteenth time? I need to get to Ben & Jerry's before it closes.
Yours,
Y
You can safely assume that, as I descend further and further into the grips of finals-induced insanity, the letters will get progressively stranger.
So, here goes:
Dear Gratingly Good-Looking and Annoyingly Touchy-Feely Couple on line in front of me at the DVD rental machine,
First, I hate you. Second, based on the current placement of your respective hands, it seems unlikely that whether you rent Iron Man or Transformers will have much of an impact on your evening. I highly doubt that you will see much of either film. That said, can you please speed up your decision making so that I can rent Notting Hill for the umpteenth time? I need to get to Ben & Jerry's before it closes.
Yours,
Y
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
Greetings From Kamp
First, an apology. While I have not deluded myself to the extent that I believe you've all be waiting with baited breath for my next piece, I have abandoned this post for far too long and, for that, if it mattered to you at all, I am sorry. Second, the commentary I've been remiss in posting re-entered the cultural consciousness this week and is now timely again. So, thank you, Academy of Motion Picture Arts and Sciences, for giving John Hughes the recognition he so richly deserved.
As some of you may recall, some years ago I wrote a book review for The Current on David Kamp's United States of Arugala. Kamp is a contributing editor for Vanity Fair (always my glossy of choice despite Graydon Carter) whose "Arugala" is a gastronomic history of the nation featuring equal parts gossip and grain. Simply put, I loved the book and have since been pleased to learn that Jon Rieder has added it to his Sociology of Culture reading list.
Time passed and I thought little of Kamp until I saw the name Norman Rockwell on the cover of a Fall 2009 issue of VF. It seemed that Kamp had written a piece entitled "Why Norman Rockwell Matters" -- a defense of the famed American illustrator against his high-falutin art world critics. Now, I don't profess to be an art connoisseur. I like Jackson Pollock as much as the next girl, but I don't see why Rockwell incurs so much wrath. The man created a universe inhabited by people that each of us, on some level, encounters on a daily basis. His skill is undeniable and he forced us to examine ourselves as a wartime nation in a way that no other artist of his era could.
I started caring about Rockwell as an academic pursuit in Dr. Stone's 11th grade American History class. For our first assignment, I reviewed a comprehensive biography of Rockwell and became fascinated by his political paintings -- especially "The Four Freedoms" and "Ruby Bridges goes to School." As a junior at Barnard, I chose NR (as I now fondly refer to him) as the focus of my Colloquium in American Studies research. I took on Rockwell as propagandist -- a far less odious Leni Riefenstahl. What I found, is that NR was no more commercial than Andy Warhol -- but he receives a sliver of the love. In response to Kamp's article, VF's mailbag was filled with mixed takes on Rockwell, his contributions, and achievements. Read my take. Read Kamp's take. I'll post excerpts of both. I'm curious to hear what you think.
While I was happy to find that Kamp and I have a common interest, I didn't think he was stealing my ideas until I saw his piece on the late, great John Hughes.
Note: I don't actually think Kamp knows who I am, but, DK, if you do...send a note. I'd love to chat and help you with your inevitable article on the AAGPBL.
Anyhoooooo...
Vanity Fair recently featured a loving tribute to Hughes -- that inimitable auteur of teendom and class anxiety. Beyond Kamp's piece, the magazine featured interviews with frequent Hughes collaborators and his undisputed muse, Molly Ringwald. (Oh, how I wish I was her at the end of Sixteen Candles! Jake Ryan, swoon, what a dreamboat!)
On Sunday night, the Oscar broadcast featured a sketch of similar note with Ducky, Ferris, The Nerd, and Kevin McAllister all making appearances. (Kudos to Adam Shankman and the Oscar producing crew for extricating Macauley Culkin from whatever crack den he currently inhabits. Though, in all fairness to Macauley, I could be wrong about the crack den. He is more likely living in a Cryogenics Lab as the man looks exactly like he did twenty years ago. Creepy.)
I know. I know. You're wondering what any of this has to do with me. Well, if you must know, over a year before Hughes passed on, I wrote a paper on his legacy for my Popular Culture at the University of Melbourne. Yes, I took a Pop Culture class. Yes, Clueless was on the cover of the reader. Contain your jealously. In said paper, I called Molly Ringwald's hair the flaming totem of a generation. Too glib? Who asked you?
So, you heard it here first kids. David Kamp is stealing my ideas. Just thought you'd like to know.
Oh, and Oscar fashion this year sucked. More on that later...if I can ever find my way out of Vera Farmiga's ruffles.
As some of you may recall, some years ago I wrote a book review for The Current on David Kamp's United States of Arugala. Kamp is a contributing editor for Vanity Fair (always my glossy of choice despite Graydon Carter) whose "Arugala" is a gastronomic history of the nation featuring equal parts gossip and grain. Simply put, I loved the book and have since been pleased to learn that Jon Rieder has added it to his Sociology of Culture reading list.
Time passed and I thought little of Kamp until I saw the name Norman Rockwell on the cover of a Fall 2009 issue of VF. It seemed that Kamp had written a piece entitled "Why Norman Rockwell Matters" -- a defense of the famed American illustrator against his high-falutin art world critics. Now, I don't profess to be an art connoisseur. I like Jackson Pollock as much as the next girl, but I don't see why Rockwell incurs so much wrath. The man created a universe inhabited by people that each of us, on some level, encounters on a daily basis. His skill is undeniable and he forced us to examine ourselves as a wartime nation in a way that no other artist of his era could.
I started caring about Rockwell as an academic pursuit in Dr. Stone's 11th grade American History class. For our first assignment, I reviewed a comprehensive biography of Rockwell and became fascinated by his political paintings -- especially "The Four Freedoms" and "Ruby Bridges goes to School." As a junior at Barnard, I chose NR (as I now fondly refer to him) as the focus of my Colloquium in American Studies research. I took on Rockwell as propagandist -- a far less odious Leni Riefenstahl. What I found, is that NR was no more commercial than Andy Warhol -- but he receives a sliver of the love. In response to Kamp's article, VF's mailbag was filled with mixed takes on Rockwell, his contributions, and achievements. Read my take. Read Kamp's take. I'll post excerpts of both. I'm curious to hear what you think.
While I was happy to find that Kamp and I have a common interest, I didn't think he was stealing my ideas until I saw his piece on the late, great John Hughes.
Note: I don't actually think Kamp knows who I am, but, DK, if you do...send a note. I'd love to chat and help you with your inevitable article on the AAGPBL.
Anyhoooooo...
Vanity Fair recently featured a loving tribute to Hughes -- that inimitable auteur of teendom and class anxiety. Beyond Kamp's piece, the magazine featured interviews with frequent Hughes collaborators and his undisputed muse, Molly Ringwald. (Oh, how I wish I was her at the end of Sixteen Candles! Jake Ryan, swoon, what a dreamboat!)
On Sunday night, the Oscar broadcast featured a sketch of similar note with Ducky, Ferris, The Nerd, and Kevin McAllister all making appearances. (Kudos to Adam Shankman and the Oscar producing crew for extricating Macauley Culkin from whatever crack den he currently inhabits. Though, in all fairness to Macauley, I could be wrong about the crack den. He is more likely living in a Cryogenics Lab as the man looks exactly like he did twenty years ago. Creepy.)
I know. I know. You're wondering what any of this has to do with me. Well, if you must know, over a year before Hughes passed on, I wrote a paper on his legacy for my Popular Culture at the University of Melbourne. Yes, I took a Pop Culture class. Yes, Clueless was on the cover of the reader. Contain your jealously. In said paper, I called Molly Ringwald's hair the flaming totem of a generation. Too glib? Who asked you?
So, you heard it here first kids. David Kamp is stealing my ideas. Just thought you'd like to know.
Oh, and Oscar fashion this year sucked. More on that later...if I can ever find my way out of Vera Farmiga's ruffles.
Monday, February 8, 2010
It ain't Oprah, til' it's Oprah
So, he is human after all. For awhile there, he had me going. The needlepoint precision, the Alexis Carrington shoulders, the ability to appear in four television commercials at once. Peyton appeared to be the Bionic Man -- until late in the 4th quarter of yesterday's big game. Down by 7, having been knocked from his perch by an onside kick that can only be described as chutzpah-dic, Peyton did the unthinkable. On the verge of tying the game, he threw a Brett Favre Special -- a Pick 6 to end what had, until that moment, been a high stakes gunfight.
No one could have predicted it. It was so unlike him. Something a less polished quarterback would do. Not Peyton. Not the golden boy.
So goes the story that people will be telling of last night's Super Bowl at water coolers around the world.
The questions abound as to the impact on Manning's legacy -- and what this means for Indianapolis' future. Can everyone just take a breath? He threw an interception. It happens. To lesser quarterbacks, it happens a lot. The man is not yet 34 years old and is in seemingly excellent health. In my opinion, the book on Manning's legacy is far from closed.
Yes, it's true. I wasn't on the Saints bandwagon. But today's story should be about them. Who Dat? Nation is finally getting attention for something positive. People are talking about New Orleans in terms other than destruction, racism, and, that amalgam of them both, the Ninth Ward.
So, I'm gonna head down to the Big Easy, at least in spirit, and be happy for a city that has waited to taste victory for far too long. And, thanks to Drew, Reggie, and some other guy named Payton -- it's just as sweet as a beignet from Cafe Du Monde.
Nota Bene:
If, like Dockers, Coke, and CareerBuilder.com, Jason Sehorn had known that pants were optional at the Super Bowl, he might not have given up that touchdown in 2001. Just a thought...
No one could have predicted it. It was so unlike him. Something a less polished quarterback would do. Not Peyton. Not the golden boy.
So goes the story that people will be telling of last night's Super Bowl at water coolers around the world.
The questions abound as to the impact on Manning's legacy -- and what this means for Indianapolis' future. Can everyone just take a breath? He threw an interception. It happens. To lesser quarterbacks, it happens a lot. The man is not yet 34 years old and is in seemingly excellent health. In my opinion, the book on Manning's legacy is far from closed.
Yes, it's true. I wasn't on the Saints bandwagon. But today's story should be about them. Who Dat? Nation is finally getting attention for something positive. People are talking about New Orleans in terms other than destruction, racism, and, that amalgam of them both, the Ninth Ward.
So, I'm gonna head down to the Big Easy, at least in spirit, and be happy for a city that has waited to taste victory for far too long. And, thanks to Drew, Reggie, and some other guy named Payton -- it's just as sweet as a beignet from Cafe Du Monde.
Nota Bene:
If, like Dockers, Coke, and CareerBuilder.com, Jason Sehorn had known that pants were optional at the Super Bowl, he might not have given up that touchdown in 2001. Just a thought...
Wednesday, February 3, 2010
Peyton's Place
Yesterday was a big day for pop culture media. Not only were this year’s Oscar nominations announced at 5:30 AM Pacific Time, but it was also Super Bowl Media Day – a Miami based circus with Peyton Manning in the center ring.
Over the past decade, Manning has become one of America’s most popular athletes. He has whored himself out to everyone from Visa, to DirecTV, to Oreo and, with the recent downfall of a certain unnamed golf wunderkind, he might just be the most likable guy in sports.
You see, Manning’s talent is immense and undeniable, but he remains a man, or, more precisely, a good ole boy, of the people. Unlike his stuffy New England counterpart Tom Brady, Peyton doesn’t take himself all that seriously. Not only does he don a Bjorn Borg sweatband to pound DoubleStufs with brother Eli and Donald Trump, but he happily displays his goofy “dance moves” in front of Justin Timberlake and the world in those insufferable Sony ads. While Brady comes off as a tool who is only interested in his chin dimple and getting home to Gisele, Manning is the loveable guy next door – a decent-looking doofus who happens to have a God-given gift.
I spent several years trying to hate Peyton. I labeled him a thorn in the Jets’ side and resented his talent. But in this almost perfect season, Manning has proven himself irresistible to love. Despite the inexplicable inward turn of his chest (don’t tell me you haven’t noticed), he is climbing the ranks on my favorite QB list. What I have found most impressive about Peyton is the grace with which he handles himself in front of the press. I have no doubt that this is a skill he picked up from his parents, Archie and Olivia.
This week has seen a deluge of articles on the Manning family, their relationship to New Orleans, and their undisputed NFL dynasty. Archie is so beloved in the Big Easy that, despite having one of the League’s worst records for a starting quarterback, he remains New Orleans’ favorite son. The family’s housekeeper spoke out recently about Olivia’s down-to-earth nature and class. In fact, Mrs. Manning recently hosted the wife of current Saints quarterback Drew Brees for a meal in her home. Baby brother Eli has managed to keep his wits and his cool despite playing in the most hot-tempered sports market on earth and Cooper Manning, who without a career-ending injury may have hit the NFL as well, is a community pillar and respected businessman.
Certainly it is possible that Peyton may one day suffer from a Tiger-like fall from grace, but I doubt it. One of the things I respect most about him is his loyalty to those who have gotten him to where he is today. He is utterly appreciative of his fans in Indianapolis and with good reason. He is the king of Lucas Oil Land. Think about it. Manning has single-handedly brought more excitement to the (pretty boring) city than anyone in history. Sure, Reggie Miller was fun to watch in his day. But the Pacers never came close to creating the kind of fervor that the Colts inspire nowadays. And, yes, others have made contributions to the team’s success. Dungy, James, Harrison, Addai, and Wayne have all had an impact. But these princes of the gridiron are almost afterthoughts in King Peyton’s Court. Afterthoughts to everyone but the king himself. Manning, unlike many of today’s egocentric players, always plays up the contributions of his supporting cast and plays down the almost supernatural efforts of his own.
So despite the overexposure and the chest concavity, I’m rooting for Peyton to nab his second Super Bowl ring. Besides, I really hate Jeremy Shockey.
Over the past decade, Manning has become one of America’s most popular athletes. He has whored himself out to everyone from Visa, to DirecTV, to Oreo and, with the recent downfall of a certain unnamed golf wunderkind, he might just be the most likable guy in sports.
You see, Manning’s talent is immense and undeniable, but he remains a man, or, more precisely, a good ole boy, of the people. Unlike his stuffy New England counterpart Tom Brady, Peyton doesn’t take himself all that seriously. Not only does he don a Bjorn Borg sweatband to pound DoubleStufs with brother Eli and Donald Trump, but he happily displays his goofy “dance moves” in front of Justin Timberlake and the world in those insufferable Sony ads. While Brady comes off as a tool who is only interested in his chin dimple and getting home to Gisele, Manning is the loveable guy next door – a decent-looking doofus who happens to have a God-given gift.
I spent several years trying to hate Peyton. I labeled him a thorn in the Jets’ side and resented his talent. But in this almost perfect season, Manning has proven himself irresistible to love. Despite the inexplicable inward turn of his chest (don’t tell me you haven’t noticed), he is climbing the ranks on my favorite QB list. What I have found most impressive about Peyton is the grace with which he handles himself in front of the press. I have no doubt that this is a skill he picked up from his parents, Archie and Olivia.
This week has seen a deluge of articles on the Manning family, their relationship to New Orleans, and their undisputed NFL dynasty. Archie is so beloved in the Big Easy that, despite having one of the League’s worst records for a starting quarterback, he remains New Orleans’ favorite son. The family’s housekeeper spoke out recently about Olivia’s down-to-earth nature and class. In fact, Mrs. Manning recently hosted the wife of current Saints quarterback Drew Brees for a meal in her home. Baby brother Eli has managed to keep his wits and his cool despite playing in the most hot-tempered sports market on earth and Cooper Manning, who without a career-ending injury may have hit the NFL as well, is a community pillar and respected businessman.
Certainly it is possible that Peyton may one day suffer from a Tiger-like fall from grace, but I doubt it. One of the things I respect most about him is his loyalty to those who have gotten him to where he is today. He is utterly appreciative of his fans in Indianapolis and with good reason. He is the king of Lucas Oil Land. Think about it. Manning has single-handedly brought more excitement to the (pretty boring) city than anyone in history. Sure, Reggie Miller was fun to watch in his day. But the Pacers never came close to creating the kind of fervor that the Colts inspire nowadays. And, yes, others have made contributions to the team’s success. Dungy, James, Harrison, Addai, and Wayne have all had an impact. But these princes of the gridiron are almost afterthoughts in King Peyton’s Court. Afterthoughts to everyone but the king himself. Manning, unlike many of today’s egocentric players, always plays up the contributions of his supporting cast and plays down the almost supernatural efforts of his own.
So despite the overexposure and the chest concavity, I’m rooting for Peyton to nab his second Super Bowl ring. Besides, I really hate Jeremy Shockey.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Tourists: Milk 'em for all they're worth...
I know what you're thinking..."She abandoned us." After months of begging for comments and insisting that we read her inconsequential thoughts on the world, she cast us aside in pursuit of better things. Maybe you're right. I'm not going to argue. But can't we put the past behind us? Winter Break shook me from my routine, but I'm here now and I'm ready for duty.
So...submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I hereby present: A Vignette.
If any of you are ever fortunate enough to go to Italy, think twice before ordering a latte. Rather, think twice before ordering a latte if you're looking for a caffeine fix. You see, ordering a latte in Italy will yield you a nice hot glass of steamed milk. If you'd like espresso with that, be sure to order a Caffe Latte. That's one Euro I'll never get back.
On that (EU Treasury) note, contrary to my cinematically derived notions, Italian taxi drivers do not all look like Robert De Niro. Many do, however, share his occasional gumption. As I sought a ride from Stazione Termini to the Trevi Fountain (yes, that same landmark of film at which Lizzie and Gordo shared a kiss in "The Lizzie Maguire Movie"), one driver quoted me a price of 30 Euros. Knowing that I was getting the tourist treatment, I walked away only to be pursued by another driver offering me a deal at 20 Euros. Still skeptical, I finally found a driver willing to abide by the law and the meter ("moneh b'vakasha," anyone?) and -- God bless him -- the total fare? 8 Euros.
Later on that day while wandering the Villa Borghese, essentially Rome's Central Park, I saw a jogger donning a C.C. Sabathia t-shirt. My point in sharing this tidbit with you? Good taste is international.
Since I've segued into sports, I'm sure you're all itching for my two cents on the NFL playoffs. Against my better judgment, I find myself rooting for Peyton -- overexposure and all. The Saints bandwagon is just a little too crowded for me.
Lest you think I've no sympathy for the swampiest city, N'awlins will get to take credit for the Mannings either way.
To close, in the spirit of my last post and just in case you were wondering, today I'm wearing a new pair of Levi's 632 high rise skinny jeans (Urban Outfitters). Take that, AllTumbleDown...
Arrivederci, Y
So...submitted for the approval of the Midnight Society, I hereby present: A Vignette.
If any of you are ever fortunate enough to go to Italy, think twice before ordering a latte. Rather, think twice before ordering a latte if you're looking for a caffeine fix. You see, ordering a latte in Italy will yield you a nice hot glass of steamed milk. If you'd like espresso with that, be sure to order a Caffe Latte. That's one Euro I'll never get back.
On that (EU Treasury) note, contrary to my cinematically derived notions, Italian taxi drivers do not all look like Robert De Niro. Many do, however, share his occasional gumption. As I sought a ride from Stazione Termini to the Trevi Fountain (yes, that same landmark of film at which Lizzie and Gordo shared a kiss in "The Lizzie Maguire Movie"), one driver quoted me a price of 30 Euros. Knowing that I was getting the tourist treatment, I walked away only to be pursued by another driver offering me a deal at 20 Euros. Still skeptical, I finally found a driver willing to abide by the law and the meter ("moneh b'vakasha," anyone?) and -- God bless him -- the total fare? 8 Euros.
Later on that day while wandering the Villa Borghese, essentially Rome's Central Park, I saw a jogger donning a C.C. Sabathia t-shirt. My point in sharing this tidbit with you? Good taste is international.
Since I've segued into sports, I'm sure you're all itching for my two cents on the NFL playoffs. Against my better judgment, I find myself rooting for Peyton -- overexposure and all. The Saints bandwagon is just a little too crowded for me.
Lest you think I've no sympathy for the swampiest city, N'awlins will get to take credit for the Mannings either way.
To close, in the spirit of my last post and just in case you were wondering, today I'm wearing a new pair of Levi's 632 high rise skinny jeans (Urban Outfitters). Take that, AllTumbleDown...
Arrivederci, Y
Sunday, December 20, 2009
Skirting the Issue (or...In the Jeans?)
Here it is folks, another middle of the night post from your (hopefully) favorite insomniac law student. My sleep schedule is so messed up right now, I hope that my circadian rhythms don't get thrown out of whack. Note: I don't actually know what circadian rhythms are, but they sound important, so I'd like them to stay regulated.
Anyhow, as many of you know, after a five year hiatus, I've recently begun wearing jeans again. The decision to do so was sort of spur of the moment, semi-prompted by my costume for Law Revue, as I'd long ago come to realize that what we wear doesn't define our relationship with religion. And, while I still believe that fervently, I find myself laying awake tonight contemplating jumping (modestly, of course) back on the skirts bandwagon.
Don't get me wrong, I love jeans. They are infinitely more comfortable than most skirts. (The years that I spent telling people that I found jeans uncomfortable, I was clearly deluding myself.) Wearing jeans makes getting dressed in the morning much, much easier. Jean skirts just don't have the same level of versatility. Plus, jeans look awesome. They are the deserving MVP of fashion and, if I do go back to skirts full-time, I will miss them dearly. And yet, I still find myself missing my skirt-wearing self.
I know that we should not wear our true selves on our sleeves, or in this case, our hemlines, but in the past weeks, I have felt myself changing in multiple ways that I am not particularly fond of, and I am wondering if my wardrobe change is a partial culprit. At this point, I must STRESS that none of what I write here is a judgment of the choices of others. I wish, wish, wish that I were a strong enough person that I did not require an outward reminder of the kind of person that I want to be, but alas, it seems that I am too weak for that. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of outlines, exams, and study groups. I have barely made time to eat, much less go to shul, daven, do any kind of substantive chesed, or learn. And, for the first time in my life, my day-to-day social circle is not made up of individuals for whom these things are concerns. I absolutely love my law school friends. They are a group of unique, kind-hearted, smart, witty, and passionate individuals from whom I am constantly learning. But, for the most part, they are completely unfamiliar with the insular world in which I have been coddled for the past 23 years. It has been all too easy for me to slink into this law school world -- a world that is new, exciting, and fun -- and relegate my yiddishkeit to the back burner. I do not feel as though I am being duplicitous. I speak openly with my friends about kashrut, shabbat, and other aspects of my life -- when appropriate. But when the conversation doesn't take a decisively ethnic turn, I am finding myself all too happy to pretend that my religious life is just one of the many aspects of my self -- rather than the central aspect of my being that it truly is. The worrisome thing is that all this pretending is leading me to realize that I have cast aside some things that are important to me for the sake of fitting in.
Just to be clear, wearing skirts is not particularly important to me. I do not think that skirts are inherently more "tznius" than pants. And I certainly do not think that they are ANY kind of indicator of religiosity or commitment to halacha. But, I am wondering if I, in my compromised state, perhaps need the outward symbolism of the skirt to nudge me back to where I want to be religiously. Perhaps, if I recommit myself to putting a skirt on in the morning, I will be more conscious of other decisions that I make throughout the day. At the very least, I will be doing one thing, albeit a superficial one, to put Judaism in my mind as I set out into the world. I am disappointed that I find myself needing this particular prodding, but I am trying to be proactive in preventing an even more severe deviation from the lifestyle that I love and that I am committed to.
To end, I have to say that all of this makes me feel awfully hypocritical. I do not want to be a part of something that perpetuates the message that "you are what you wear." Nothing could be further from what I believe. Do you think there are other, more substantive, choices that I could be making? I really do want to hear from you. Most of you reading this are my nearest and dearest and I value your thoughts. So, spill.
Thanks for listening/reading and, as always, thanks for your friendship.
Much love, Y
Anyhow, as many of you know, after a five year hiatus, I've recently begun wearing jeans again. The decision to do so was sort of spur of the moment, semi-prompted by my costume for Law Revue, as I'd long ago come to realize that what we wear doesn't define our relationship with religion. And, while I still believe that fervently, I find myself laying awake tonight contemplating jumping (modestly, of course) back on the skirts bandwagon.
Don't get me wrong, I love jeans. They are infinitely more comfortable than most skirts. (The years that I spent telling people that I found jeans uncomfortable, I was clearly deluding myself.) Wearing jeans makes getting dressed in the morning much, much easier. Jean skirts just don't have the same level of versatility. Plus, jeans look awesome. They are the deserving MVP of fashion and, if I do go back to skirts full-time, I will miss them dearly. And yet, I still find myself missing my skirt-wearing self.
I know that we should not wear our true selves on our sleeves, or in this case, our hemlines, but in the past weeks, I have felt myself changing in multiple ways that I am not particularly fond of, and I am wondering if my wardrobe change is a partial culprit. At this point, I must STRESS that none of what I write here is a judgment of the choices of others. I wish, wish, wish that I were a strong enough person that I did not require an outward reminder of the kind of person that I want to be, but alas, it seems that I am too weak for that. The past few weeks have been a whirlwind of outlines, exams, and study groups. I have barely made time to eat, much less go to shul, daven, do any kind of substantive chesed, or learn. And, for the first time in my life, my day-to-day social circle is not made up of individuals for whom these things are concerns. I absolutely love my law school friends. They are a group of unique, kind-hearted, smart, witty, and passionate individuals from whom I am constantly learning. But, for the most part, they are completely unfamiliar with the insular world in which I have been coddled for the past 23 years. It has been all too easy for me to slink into this law school world -- a world that is new, exciting, and fun -- and relegate my yiddishkeit to the back burner. I do not feel as though I am being duplicitous. I speak openly with my friends about kashrut, shabbat, and other aspects of my life -- when appropriate. But when the conversation doesn't take a decisively ethnic turn, I am finding myself all too happy to pretend that my religious life is just one of the many aspects of my self -- rather than the central aspect of my being that it truly is. The worrisome thing is that all this pretending is leading me to realize that I have cast aside some things that are important to me for the sake of fitting in.
Just to be clear, wearing skirts is not particularly important to me. I do not think that skirts are inherently more "tznius" than pants. And I certainly do not think that they are ANY kind of indicator of religiosity or commitment to halacha. But, I am wondering if I, in my compromised state, perhaps need the outward symbolism of the skirt to nudge me back to where I want to be religiously. Perhaps, if I recommit myself to putting a skirt on in the morning, I will be more conscious of other decisions that I make throughout the day. At the very least, I will be doing one thing, albeit a superficial one, to put Judaism in my mind as I set out into the world. I am disappointed that I find myself needing this particular prodding, but I am trying to be proactive in preventing an even more severe deviation from the lifestyle that I love and that I am committed to.
To end, I have to say that all of this makes me feel awfully hypocritical. I do not want to be a part of something that perpetuates the message that "you are what you wear." Nothing could be further from what I believe. Do you think there are other, more substantive, choices that I could be making? I really do want to hear from you. Most of you reading this are my nearest and dearest and I value your thoughts. So, spill.
Thanks for listening/reading and, as always, thanks for your friendship.
Much love, Y
Tuesday, December 15, 2009
Insomnia Speaks
So...I can't sleep. I know, I know...Those of you who have lived with me are probably shocked by this turn of events. Just bear in mind that it is 3 AM and not 3 PM. I'm sure that if it were 3 PM, I'd be out cold.
Anyway, after watching several "fanvids" that I should never admit to watching on YouTube, I decided to scour my own Facebook page in search of something that requires editing. In my scouring, I came upon the only "Note" that I ever posted. Remember that "25 Things About Me" craze that swept the web last year? Well, never one to let a trend pass me by, I, too, created one of those lists. And, shocker, I've re-posted it below.
My apologies that this is going to be a re-read for some of you -- but creativity is in short supply at the moment.
One last thing: While I am well aware that I beg for comments far too often (cough, Avishai called me a comment slut, cough), I could really use the morale boost during this particular stretch of finals. The Federal Rules of Civil Procedure are really starting to wear me down. So, pretty please?
Melatonin Wishes and Ambien Dreams, Y
25 Things...
(Originally posted to Facebook in February 2009)
By now you know the rules...
1. I am obsessed with my family. I love and admire both my parents and siblings more than words can adequately express.
2. My friends make fun of the overtly gushy way I often express my appreciation of them. What they don’t realize is that I haven’t even begun to get at just how much they mean to me.
3. I sleep way too much. I slept for fifteen straight hours twice – this week.
4. The first real concert I ever went to was a Faith Hill-Tim McGraw joint show. Yes, I am embarrassed.
5. I still harbor dreams of co-anchoring Sportscenter and being the first female sportscaster to be universally adored by men.
6. My favorite food is cereal. It is not uncommon for me to go through a box a day.
7. Josh and Donna from The West Wing are my all-time favorite TV couple. Cory and Topanga run a close second.
8. I firmly believe that an NFL quarterback’s talent is inextricably linked to his physical appearance. For examples, see Favre, Brett and Brady, Tom.
9. Whenever I don’t want to teach people how to pronounce my name, I tell them that my name is Ellie. This is particularly helpful in Starbucks, Anthropologie, and on the continent of Australia.
10. On the subject of names, my karaoke alias is Gail. Gail’s favorite night at karaoke was when a mysterious fellow, whom her friends have since nicknamed “Alfredo”, rushed the stage and kissed her.
11. My first singing solo was at my kindergarten class’s Chanukah dinner. I was given the task of singing “Light One Candle for the Maccabee Children” because I was the only one in the class who could read the verses.
12. As a proud Feit family member, I am forever indebted to The Office for making the paper business cool.
13. My 2nd grade Little League team was the Colorado Rockies. I was one of two girls on the team. I had purple Converse sneakers to match my uniform.
14. When I worked at Camp HASC, I was twice the subject of the staff "mussar shmooze." Once for having a water fight with boys and once for watching movies with boys. Oops.
15. I was cast as a prostitute-like character in each of my three high school musicals. I’m not sure what it was about me that Ms. Goldberg thought spelled promiscuity.
16. I do not know how to ride a bike. Whenever I go down to Kiawah, I need to rent an adult tricycle.
17. I love making lists. I wrote an essay about making lists for my Creative Writing class at Melbourne Uni. My professor was a dead-ringer for Harvey Keitel. I couldn’t get through class without craving a Royale with Cheese.
18. I collect “I Love Lucy” paraphernalia. I can’t remember when I started or why. I can recite the entire Vitameatavegimin speech by rote.
19. The first thing I ever read out loud was a Cascade dishwashing detergent ad in Good Housekeeping magazine.
20. When I was in 11th grade, my choir sang at President Bush’s Chanukah party. We were later mocked on SNL’s Weekend Update. I’m still not sure which part of that story is cooler.
21. Despite facing vehement opposition in both Kiawah and Belarus, I still think that “Dave” is an awesome movie.
22. In seventh grade, my friends and I used to ditch our basketball clinic to watch Dawson’s Creek in the JCC Lounge. Once, during a 2-hour episode, we forgot to go outside for our carpool. When my friend’s dad went to the gym to look for us, the basketball coach told him we had stopped coming to clinic months ago. Needless to say, we were busted. I still blame my pitiful free-throw percentage on James Van der Beek.
23. On my thirteenth birthday, Ilana Feuer and I bought tickets to Starship Troopers and snuck into the R-rated Cruel Intentions instead. We were soon kicked out of the theater by a man in a green sweatshirt. Bastard.
24. I am inconsistent in my use of proper punctuation marks. Note the errant use of quotation marks in this list as an example. Also, I favor the dash and the semi-colon over traditional sentence structure.
25. I made up a story about what happens to Gordon Bombay and Charlie Conway’s mom after the end of The Mighty Ducks. D2, despite being a far superior movie, ruined my plans.
Anyway, after watching several "fanvids" that I should never admit to watching on YouTube, I decided to scour my own Facebook page in search of something that requires editing. In my scouring, I came upon the only "Note" that I ever posted. Remember that "25 Things About Me" craze that swept the web last year? Well, never one to let a trend pass me by, I, too, created one of those lists. And, shocker, I've re-posted it below.
My apologies that this is going to be a re-read for some of you -- but creativity is in short supply at the moment.
One last thing: While I am well aware that I beg for comments far too often (cough, Avishai called me a comment slut, cough), I could really use the morale boost during this particular stretch of finals. The Federal Rules of Civil Procedure are really starting to wear me down. So, pretty please?
Melatonin Wishes and Ambien Dreams, Y
25 Things...
(Originally posted to Facebook in February 2009)
By now you know the rules...
1. I am obsessed with my family. I love and admire both my parents and siblings more than words can adequately express.
2. My friends make fun of the overtly gushy way I often express my appreciation of them. What they don’t realize is that I haven’t even begun to get at just how much they mean to me.
3. I sleep way too much. I slept for fifteen straight hours twice – this week.
4. The first real concert I ever went to was a Faith Hill-Tim McGraw joint show. Yes, I am embarrassed.
5. I still harbor dreams of co-anchoring Sportscenter and being the first female sportscaster to be universally adored by men.
6. My favorite food is cereal. It is not uncommon for me to go through a box a day.
7. Josh and Donna from The West Wing are my all-time favorite TV couple. Cory and Topanga run a close second.
8. I firmly believe that an NFL quarterback’s talent is inextricably linked to his physical appearance. For examples, see Favre, Brett and Brady, Tom.
9. Whenever I don’t want to teach people how to pronounce my name, I tell them that my name is Ellie. This is particularly helpful in Starbucks, Anthropologie, and on the continent of Australia.
10. On the subject of names, my karaoke alias is Gail. Gail’s favorite night at karaoke was when a mysterious fellow, whom her friends have since nicknamed “Alfredo”, rushed the stage and kissed her.
11. My first singing solo was at my kindergarten class’s Chanukah dinner. I was given the task of singing “Light One Candle for the Maccabee Children” because I was the only one in the class who could read the verses.
12. As a proud Feit family member, I am forever indebted to The Office for making the paper business cool.
13. My 2nd grade Little League team was the Colorado Rockies. I was one of two girls on the team. I had purple Converse sneakers to match my uniform.
14. When I worked at Camp HASC, I was twice the subject of the staff "mussar shmooze." Once for having a water fight with boys and once for watching movies with boys. Oops.
15. I was cast as a prostitute-like character in each of my three high school musicals. I’m not sure what it was about me that Ms. Goldberg thought spelled promiscuity.
16. I do not know how to ride a bike. Whenever I go down to Kiawah, I need to rent an adult tricycle.
17. I love making lists. I wrote an essay about making lists for my Creative Writing class at Melbourne Uni. My professor was a dead-ringer for Harvey Keitel. I couldn’t get through class without craving a Royale with Cheese.
18. I collect “I Love Lucy” paraphernalia. I can’t remember when I started or why. I can recite the entire Vitameatavegimin speech by rote.
19. The first thing I ever read out loud was a Cascade dishwashing detergent ad in Good Housekeeping magazine.
20. When I was in 11th grade, my choir sang at President Bush’s Chanukah party. We were later mocked on SNL’s Weekend Update. I’m still not sure which part of that story is cooler.
21. Despite facing vehement opposition in both Kiawah and Belarus, I still think that “Dave” is an awesome movie.
22. In seventh grade, my friends and I used to ditch our basketball clinic to watch Dawson’s Creek in the JCC Lounge. Once, during a 2-hour episode, we forgot to go outside for our carpool. When my friend’s dad went to the gym to look for us, the basketball coach told him we had stopped coming to clinic months ago. Needless to say, we were busted. I still blame my pitiful free-throw percentage on James Van der Beek.
23. On my thirteenth birthday, Ilana Feuer and I bought tickets to Starship Troopers and snuck into the R-rated Cruel Intentions instead. We were soon kicked out of the theater by a man in a green sweatshirt. Bastard.
24. I am inconsistent in my use of proper punctuation marks. Note the errant use of quotation marks in this list as an example. Also, I favor the dash and the semi-colon over traditional sentence structure.
25. I made up a story about what happens to Gordon Bombay and Charlie Conway’s mom after the end of The Mighty Ducks. D2, despite being a far superior movie, ruined my plans.
Monday, December 7, 2009
An Exercise in Procrastination
Blogging on speed...as I've procrastinated enough today to warrant a year's supply of Strattera.
1. Bruce Springsteen wants to meet me. For those of you who don't believe it, see Yosef's comment on my November 25th post.
2. The Nice Jewish Girls? article from Details was by far my most popular GChat status ever. Special thanks go out to JB for discovering it. And yes, there will be a much longer blog post about it in the future. Talk to me after December 21st.
3. Jenny is doing awesome work over at The Atlantic. And yes, I loved my Cabbage Patch Kids doll.
4. I still don't know how to ride a bike...and Target loves me anyway.
5. The FrumSuit. What sexy Jewish girls will be wearing at the beach this summer.
6. None of you have given me any ideas about where to go in Rome yet. Get on that.
7. Teddy Roosevelt was a Columbia Law School dropout. If I fail my finals, at least I'll be in good company.
1. Bruce Springsteen wants to meet me. For those of you who don't believe it, see Yosef's comment on my November 25th post.
2. The Nice Jewish Girls? article from Details was by far my most popular GChat status ever. Special thanks go out to JB for discovering it. And yes, there will be a much longer blog post about it in the future. Talk to me after December 21st.
3. Jenny is doing awesome work over at The Atlantic. And yes, I loved my Cabbage Patch Kids doll.
4. I still don't know how to ride a bike...and Target loves me anyway.
5. The FrumSuit. What sexy Jewish girls will be wearing at the beach this summer.
6. None of you have given me any ideas about where to go in Rome yet. Get on that.
7. Teddy Roosevelt was a Columbia Law School dropout. If I fail my finals, at least I'll be in good company.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The Pop-Ed Page
After a particularly illuminating conversation about the virtues, or lack thereof, of the NYT's Op-Ed page (Thanks for lunch, Beens!), I've decided that if I can't use the Sulzberger Soapbox as a forum for expressing my views, this is the next best thing. However, being in the midst of finals, blogworthy thoughts are hitting my brain at the speed of Adrian Peterson (http://sports.espn.go.com/nfl/news/story?id=4710315) and I am lacking the time with which to record them. As such, I resort to NK for inspiration yet again and am here to grace you with 7 thoughts about pop culture this week. Okay, some of them aren't about pop culture, but I'm counting on you to play along.
1. Ding, dong the witch is dead. Teri's fateful secret is finally revealed on this week's episode of Glee -- which sucked by the way. Even I am finding it difficult to suspend enough disbelief to keep on watching. Mr. Schu can't be in the yearbook picture because he slept on a mattress that can't be returned? Weak. Emma is suddenly on Team Teri? And Team Ken, for that matter? Weaker. The producers can make it up to me with some Will-Emma action before the show goes on hiatus. And that's how Sue "c"s it.
2. The Elin-ator. It seems that Tiger's wife has pulled a Lorena Bobbitt of sorts. An athlete hasn't fallen this far from grace since...well, ever. And, while at first, I was impressed with her ballsy-ness, I've since realized that violence is never the answer. She should take a note from Ivana Trump and employ the "Don't get mad, get everything" philosophy. It seems that she has already roped Tiger into some thrice-daily marriage counseling routine. If that's not tantamount to castration, I don't know what is.
3. In other news, Chabad in now aiding in the effort to train bomb-sniffing dogs in Montana. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/05/us/05religion.html?em
My only question is this: Does anyone know if Max Baucus put on tefillin today?
4. I just ordered my first ever item from etsy.com...and it was inspired by Sarah Palin. Is it a gift for my dad? Obviously.
On the topic of SP, Jonathan "Scary Spice" Berliner had the opportunity to meet her this past week in his adopted hometown of Richland, WA. When she didn't sign his book, he returned it. In a comment on a previous post, Jon let us know that this blog is one of his graveyard shift must-reads. I'm shocked to find out that "Going Rogue" didn't make the cut.
5. Getting to seven is harder than I thought. Appreciation for Navah's consistent work is growing. Check her out at sevendailyreasons.blogspot.com.
6. The professional football season is slowly creeping to a close and it is causing me more distraction than ever. Why couldn't things have been this interesting last season -- when I didn't care about finals at all? When they say that the MVP race is heating up, they mean because Brett is hot, right?
7. I'm looking for suggestions of things to do during a stopover in Rome...on Christmas Eve. I've got 10 hours to kill in the Eternal City. Ready, Set, Go.
Later, Gators.
(Oops. Sorry Nav. I didn't mean to insult you...or Tim Tebow.)
1. Ding, dong the witch is dead. Teri's fateful secret is finally revealed on this week's episode of Glee -- which sucked by the way. Even I am finding it difficult to suspend enough disbelief to keep on watching. Mr. Schu can't be in the yearbook picture because he slept on a mattress that can't be returned? Weak. Emma is suddenly on Team Teri? And Team Ken, for that matter? Weaker. The producers can make it up to me with some Will-Emma action before the show goes on hiatus. And that's how Sue "c"s it.
2. The Elin-ator. It seems that Tiger's wife has pulled a Lorena Bobbitt of sorts. An athlete hasn't fallen this far from grace since...well, ever. And, while at first, I was impressed with her ballsy-ness, I've since realized that violence is never the answer. She should take a note from Ivana Trump and employ the "Don't get mad, get everything" philosophy. It seems that she has already roped Tiger into some thrice-daily marriage counseling routine. If that's not tantamount to castration, I don't know what is.
3. In other news, Chabad in now aiding in the effort to train bomb-sniffing dogs in Montana. http://www.nytimes.com/2009/12/05/us/05religion.html?em
My only question is this: Does anyone know if Max Baucus put on tefillin today?
4. I just ordered my first ever item from etsy.com...and it was inspired by Sarah Palin. Is it a gift for my dad? Obviously.
On the topic of SP, Jonathan "Scary Spice" Berliner had the opportunity to meet her this past week in his adopted hometown of Richland, WA. When she didn't sign his book, he returned it. In a comment on a previous post, Jon let us know that this blog is one of his graveyard shift must-reads. I'm shocked to find out that "Going Rogue" didn't make the cut.
5. Getting to seven is harder than I thought. Appreciation for Navah's consistent work is growing. Check her out at sevendailyreasons.blogspot.com.
6. The professional football season is slowly creeping to a close and it is causing me more distraction than ever. Why couldn't things have been this interesting last season -- when I didn't care about finals at all? When they say that the MVP race is heating up, they mean because Brett is hot, right?
7. I'm looking for suggestions of things to do during a stopover in Rome...on Christmas Eve. I've got 10 hours to kill in the Eternal City. Ready, Set, Go.
Later, Gators.
(Oops. Sorry Nav. I didn't mean to insult you...or Tim Tebow.)
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