Read It and Weep |
|
|
|
Tuesday, December 31, 2002
How to Not Get in to Princeton: The Pessimist's Guide to Graduate School Applications 1. Take care to give yourself no more than three weeks to do everything (filling out forms, contacting references, requesting transcripts and test scores, writing statement of purpose and research paper, adapting resume, gathering financial aid information, and mailing documents). There's no need to have time to evaluate your progress. 2. If applying online, make sure to choose the wrong program of study from the drop-down menu. Public Policy sounds like Public Affairs anyway; who cares if the one you inadvertently applied to is a mid-career degree you aren't even eligible for? 3. Have one of your references disappear within a week of the deadline. Make sure it's your only academic reference, as a professional reference could actually be replaced in that time frame. 4. Finish the aforementioned statement of purpose and research paper within an hour of the FedEx deadline. Don't worry about not getting to ask anyone for feedback; Microsoft SpellCheck should be enough. How many errors and leaps in logic can ten pages of text possibly contain, anyhow? 5. Spend a number of hours carefully formatting your resume, then remember at the last minute to add a description of the internship most relevant to your chosen course of study. Karma Bonus: Ask your friends if they know anyone else who has previously applied for the same type of degree who might have some advice; if they locate someone who then attempts to contact you, (a) ignore any communication you receive and (b) forget to respond. Friday, December 27, 2002
Some Choice Excerpts from the Responses to the Online Personal Ad I Recently Put Up I thought we might have somethings in common. At least enough for a good conversation. Parents are both from Scotland, I don't know if that is a good or bad thing ; ) but it is prolly where I get my looks and personality.[...] Some of my all time favorite movies, are "so I married an ax murderer", I like it because Mike Myers family in the movie reminds me of my family (I guess that sounds funny unless you have seen the movie). Braveheart, because I like to see stories of people not afraid to stand up to what they believe in. most women think I’m attractive, but that’s a different story. I’m obviously not into them. =o) I’ve finally decided to give this online thing a try. I’ve never been in a position where I felt comfortable having a relationship. Likes: giant tortoises, moody ballerinas with hairy legs and dreams of conquering the world, and silent films dubbed over with the sounds of llamas boxing. Well, maybe not. No offense to the giant tortoises...Just wanted to give you a little taste of my dorkiness. [...] (did I say I was a dork? Okay, also add that I'm a big ol' freak too...or at least, that's what my friends and family keep insisting). Hey dude wass up? I just wanted to say hi and i wanted to say that you seem like a realy cool guy and i'm looking to make new friends and see whats up on here.( yahoo) i am not sure what else to write.. hmm..i enjoy food, but am not fat. i am a big tea fan. i have an incredible fear of spiders. my favorite guilty pleasure is wine. it is terrible. i love wine. especially with cheese, crackers and salami. it is terrible, but so delicious. The secret to filling out the tanktop is vball, dancing, and most importantly...LOTS OF LAUGHTER! You're close (check), in my age bracket, (check), down to earth (check). These are excellent signs. I like sneaking into old apartment buildings (they have to be old), and wandering down the corridors, and finally going up to the roof and checking the view out. my favorite outdoor activity would be serveral things. i like to plant, water the grass, make sure that the lawn is neat. i like to walk, especially in the rain. i like being outdoors period. Friday, December 20, 2002
Y'Know, Stuff. I don't know. I've been falling into some random happinesses the past few days. Allow me to elaborate. Last week, I dropped my roommate off in NW Berkeley to pick up her car from the mechanic, and then I wandered over to the Berkeley Marina. It was just about five, and as has been common lately, the rain had taken a break and the sky was suffused with a golden light. The clouds were pink and blue and orange and gray, the hills behind me were glowing green, and San Francisco looked as sharp as I could ever recall. I ran across an old woman walking with two canes, and we chatted for a bit about how we'd both been headed home, then felt pulled to stop and look. I was wearing sandals and a T-shirt, but the cold didn't really bug me. As I headed back to the car, I pointed to the full moon (out already!) shining like a big round shiny thing, and we both smiled. The other day, I was in Berkeley (again), and I decided to treat myself to some gelato. (Yes, in the rain.) Surprisingly, the rose flavor is really, really good. It smells vaguely like perfume, but it's got such a rich, sweet taste. Must...go...back... And yesterday, I was at the library doing research on refugee resettlement for my interminable grad-school applications. On my way to check-out, I decided to take a look at the CD-rental area and O! My! Gracious! They've got The Sundays and REM and Smashing Pumpkins and all this other stuff I'd never seen before and I'm practically drooling over getting to burn copies of all of them. Hey, happy holidays, kids! Monday, December 16, 2002
Hell Is a Musical: Some Ridiculous Lyrics I Just Made Up Look at meeeeee! I need at-ten-tion! Check me ouuuuuuut! I'm do-in' stuuuuuff! Whose that guyyyyy? Methinks it's IIIIII! Your adoration is a start, but not enough! The Text of the Mass Email I Sent to Everyone I Visited on My Trip Once I Got Home Hello! If you're receiving this message, it means that I got a chance to visit you on my epic road trip. I had a great time and it was wonderful to see all of you. Thanks for (putting me up/taking me out to eat/distracting me from the grad-apps process/submitting a little something for my mysterious and sinister audiofiles). If you're on the cc list, I hoped to see you, but it didn't work out. That sucks. I'm sorry we didn't get to meet. Perhaps I'll see you soon. That would be nice. Regardless, I'm home now. Many of you asked me to let you know when I got home. Well, I got back about a week ago, but I've been busy since then with not-traveling and I think we all know how time-consuming that can be. But here I am. Safe and sound. Mike That's all I had to say of any substance. The rest of this isn't required reading, but it's cutesy and some people like that. (It may also seem a little like an egregious rip-off of the Harper's Index, but you'll notice there is frequently text AFTER the colon. Whoa!) days: 37 miles: 10,000 money spent on gas: $600-700 people visited: ~45 interviews recorded: ~40 nights of free lodging: 22 meals purchased for me: country-style, brunch-style, cafeteria-style, Italian, steak (2), Indian (2), Thai (3), home-cooked (4) freakiest regional dietary quirk: Minnesotans prepare burritos with white rice natural wonders visited: Lake Tahoe, Niagara Falls, the Rappahannock, the Houston freeway system, Big Bend Park songs karaoked (in descending order of successfulness): Neil Diamond, "Sweet Caroline"; Pink, "Get This Party Started"*; Suede, "Beautiful Ones" car troubles and source of said troubles: sliding off interstate (ice), spinning on interstate (more ice), unexpected swerving (steering mechanism), horrifying shudders (loose trackbar), towed** (draconian Cambridge street-cleaning regulations), naive perception that a tire MUST be flat because something is really not right (road quality in certain regions not to be mentioned) cities visited that I could see myself moving to: Minneapolis, Madison, Toronto, Boston, Philadelphia, Washington, Austin cities that almost made the cut: Ann Arbor, New York, Richmond (yes, really), San Antonio most and least time in one state: Texas (6.5 days), Indiana (42 minutes) books read: T. Coraghessan Boyle, The Tortilla Curtain; Alain de Botton, How Proust Can Change Your Life books-on-CD listened to: David Sedaris, Naked; Bill Bryson, I'm a Stranger Here Myself***; Edgar Allen Poe, Greatest Hits; F. Scott Fitzgerald, The Great Gatsby; Jonathan Franzen, How to Be Alone (essays) encounters with Border Patrol or INS: 5 times I was told "I haven't seen you since Gran Kitty died...five years ago!": 4 times hearing "I'm Terry Gross, and this...is Fresh Air!": innumerable grad schools visited: Minnesota, Wisconsin, Michigan, Syracuse, Harvard, Tufts, Princeton, Columbia, Johns Hopkins, Georgetown, Duke grad school rejected immediately and grounds for rejection: Wisconsin (Prerequisites: coursework in comparative politics, statistics, 12 additional credits from econ, business, or poli sci...), Syracuse ("It's an excellect department located within a mediocre university in a depressing city."), Harvard (international relations and international development are not the same thing), Columbia ("Students can expect to accumulate an average of $80,000 in debt." "I see. And what makes Columbia so special?" "We're in New York.") lucky timing: the Twin Cities (home of the nation's only four-party system) on Election Night, Toronto on Remembrance Day (Canada's Veterans Day--I stumbled across a parade of servicemembers going down a small side street in the rain), Boston during a three-day stretch of not being pummeled by severe weather, upper Manhattan at the tail end of street cleaning (= free street parking!), Washington during the Art-o-Matic festival, the McDonald Observatory (in west Texas) at the beginning of their twice-weekly Star Party, Phoenix just before rush hour, and of course getting to see so many of you on such short notice. overall assessment of trip: damn good * the party was actually ending at this point. ** "...and I had to WALK TWO MILES in the RAIN just to PAY FIFTY-FIVE DOLLARS to get it BACK." *** I urge you to send money to the Please, Mr. Bryson, Let Someone Else Read Your Books Aloud Because Hearing Your Voice For Six Hours Has Done Irreparable Harm to My Central Nervous System Foundation Sunday, December 08, 2002
The Last Day Sat-7: Drove from Utah (through Arizona and Nevada) to Oakland, a distance of exactly 700 miles, bringing my trip total to 10,000 miles in just over five weeks. Clever summary (which I swear will not be a cheap ripoff of the Harper's Index) is forthcoming. Chapter 4: The Almost-Last-Nine Days (a.k.a. My Dear God, Aren't You Tired Yet?) Thu-28: Following a Thanksgiving dinner with people I am not especially related to, I am deemed the Life of the Party for telling the naked-dead-guy-in-field riddle. (Hint: he wasn't alone.) Fri-29: Live from Huntsville, it's the Texas! Prison! Museum!, featuring Ol' Sparky, the actual electric chair used until 1982! (It smells like leather.) Sat-30: Danced to the Derailers at the Broken Spoke while drinking Lone Star Beer. It was a Very Austin Night. Sun-(Dec)1: Indian food, friend long-unseen, Frida...good day. Mon-2: Hey! It's the Alamo! Tue-3: Doubled pleasure with Big Bend Park and and McDonald Observatory, i.e. the best of Heaven and Earth. Wed-4: Avoided rush hour in Phoenix; wended through downtown Flagstaff. Thu-5: Glen Canyon Dam and Filet Mignon. Sweet life o' mine. Fri-6: Learned much about family history. Met the Cedar City Underground. (Apparently, even in Mormon Country there are progressive and openminded people and they cook really well.) Sunday, December 01, 2002
*Extra*: Select Quotes from Recent Discussions, Dialogues, and Disagreements "...It happens to all great empires. Look at Rome. They got lazy and the Goths took them over." "Wait, are you saying that female sportscasters are a sign of the end of American civilization?" "Well...yes." "Every time I listen to NPR and somebody mentions Russia's president [Vladimir Putin], they say it in such a strange way, it sounds like 'pootin'.' Gas problems?" [giggling] "Wow, we are 12." "Just like ten percent of the population is going to be homosexual, I believe that a certain proportion of the populace is going to be drug addicts." "That's a very...odd statement." "Hi Mike, this is Moe and Tara. [laughs] I mean, this is Moe. Hi Mike, this is Moe. Mike and Tara, this is Moe. [laughs] We got cut off a minute ago...." "Welcome to Philadelphia, or as I like to call it, BlackPeopleTown." [Entering Canada at Windsor (near Detroit)]: (Suspiciously) "You drove all the way from California just to enter Canada here?" (Annoyed) "No, I'm going from Michigan to New York State and Canada is just in the way." [Exiting Canada at Niagara Falls]: "What are you bringing into the United States?" [Pause] "Some postcards. And a fridge magnet." "What's your nationality?" "American." "What do you do for a living?" "Nothing." [Pause] "Go on ahead." "You know, you Southern belles give off this aura of being sweet and innocent, when really you're--" "Raunchy? Fuck yeah." "Wow, I haven't seen you since Gran Kitty died." "What was that, five years ago? Yeah. Wow." "We haven't seen you since Grandma died." "Yeah. It must have been five years now." "I don't think I've seen you since--" "Grandma Kitty died. Five years ago. Yeah, I've been out of touch." Chapter 3: Still Feelin' the Love--Another Nine Days Tue-19: Continued flogging Princeton; stopped en route to Washington and loaded up on Delaware postcards. (It's the First State! And the Diamond State! And the Corporation-Friendly-Tax-Laws State!) Wed-20: Was treated to an exclusive lowdown on SAIS thanks to a chatty (and eye-opening) professor; randomly caught free showings of Run Lola Run and The Fellowship of the Ring. (Hey, I've been movie-free for weeks now.) Thu-21: Invited to stay at a co-op; went with hosts to Art-O-Matic, an undergroundish free visual/performing arts show at an abandoned EPA building. For reasons not worth explaining here, the term "crotch camera" is permanently burned into my consciousness. Fri-22: Took in an exhibition at the National Gallery of trompe l'oeil art through the centuries and an exhibition at the Hirshhorn of Italian arte povera in the 1970s. Sat-23: Drove along the Rappahannock River (So. Very. Beautiful.), went to the Poe Museum in Richmond, had my first Cracker Barrel Experience, and co-karaoke'd "Sweet Caroline" to a rapt audience. Sun-24: Stayed with long-lost cousins at Duke, with whom I watched The Sopranos and talked family. Mon-25: Bought pumpkin butter (mmmm) at NC farmer's market; arrived in Nashville after only nine hours of travel. Tue-26: Saw friend's recently-purchased house; arrived in Tulsa after only 11 hours of travel and still managed to hold own in political debate. Wed-27: Welcomed warmly to Dallas. So begins the Texas leg. Sunday, November 24, 2002
*Extra*: States I Can Add to My Have-Visited Total After This Trip, Bringing Said Total to Thrity-Eight Nebraska Iowa Minnesota Wisconsin Michigan Arkansas Oklahoma Chapter 2: Good Times--The Next Nine Days Sun-10: Successfully re-entered United States; spent night at beautiful old hostel in Syracuse. Mon-11: Got hell out of Syracuse. Tue-12: Bar-hopped and Harvard-dissed in Boston. And long-lost-friend-seeing. Wed-13: Paid much less to retrieve towed car than originally expected; ate ice cream in rain and converted a PhD student to Amazing Race discipleship. Heh heh heh. Thu-14: Rocked Princeton and Bethlehem; ate fresh-baked banana bread. Fri-15: Attended uproarious show at Upright Citizens Brigade Theater; found street parking in Manhattan. FREE street parking, that is. Sat-16: Ran into friend on street in Manhattan. (It can happen!) Had best Japanese dinner of life thus far. Sun-17: Again with the seeing of long-lost friends and the receiving of home-cooked meals. (This time in Philly.) Mon-18: Visited Nation's Largest Enclosed Retail Space ("Yes, bigger than the Mall of America,") in King of Prussia, PA. Wednesday, November 13, 2002
White Kid in SUV with Veteran Plates Chapter 1: One Good Thing That Happened During Each of My First Nine Days on the Road Fri-1: Finally saw Lake Tahoe, thereby filling in the last space on my Native Californian card (good for a free frozen yogurt at any tanning salon, I hear). Sat-2: Discovered that when your car starts to slip on ice on the highway, steering into the skid does help you regain control, sort of. I executed a complete 360 and came to a halt between two cars parked on either side of the road. Sun-3: Had lovely lunch with long-lost cousins in Boulder. Paid for by kind aunt. Mon-4: Hey! Nebraska is kind of pretty! (And its university is easy to sneak into for the purpose of checking email.) Tue-5: Spent Election Day in the only state with a viable four-party system--Minnesota. Wed-6: Discovered roots in Iowa while visiting mother's family. Des Moines has been radio stations than SF. Thu-7: Spent time with three great friends in two highly-contrastive cities. Despite all fears, car not broken into. Fri-8: Due to abject begging, the counterperson at Motel 6 cancelled someone else's reservation, allowing me to have the last non-smoking room at at $10 discount. Sat-9: Got much-needed exercise from hiking around Ann Arbor and dancing ass off in gay Indian club ("with mind-blowing Hindi and Punjabi music"!) in Toronto. More to come! Wednesday, October 30, 2002
Popular How did I suddenly become popular? The last two weeks I've practically begged people to hang out with me, and now that I'm attempting to get my shit together and take off for points east in the next two days, suddenly I've got people asking me to go bowling/climbing/eating/dancing/walking/eating (again)/etc., and I can't say no. People! I am confused! Tuesday, October 29, 2002
I apologize for the lack of updates. I've been busy with attending an international careers symposium, applying to grad school, and planning my month-long road trip. (I'm going on a month-long road trip, in my recently-acquired car.) (I recently acquired a car, thanks to my parents' casting off the not-new.) (Thanks to my parents also for helping prepare me for the trip.) Your devotion deserves a reward: here's a little nugget-o-fun until I get organized. Diplomacy: The Art of Telling Someone to Go to Hell in Such a Manner That the Person Actually Looks Forward to the Trip At the international careers symposium I attended in Berkeley, there was a Q&A with representatives of various organizations that offer international internships. One of them was from the State Department, which I found especially fortuitous, seeing as I was (and am still) in the midst of applying for an embassy internship with them for next summer. One thing had me a little curious, though: the program requires that interns be continuing their studies immediately following the internship. My plan, to intern next summer and then begin a master's program in the fall, conforms to this requirement; however, as I am not currently a student, I wondered if there were any special steps I'd need to take in order to demonstrate my student status once I find out. So I asked. "The State Department does not require any proof of continuing enrollment," the representative stated. "We don't have the resources to check." Fair enough. Clear enough. Perhaps intrigued by my question, another potential intern mentioned that she would be graduating in the spring and would like to intern in the summer, but she did not have any immediate plans to apply for graduate school--meaning she may not be a continuing student after the internship. The representative reiterated the facts: "While continuing student status is a requirement, the deadline is November 1, by which time you would not have received acceptances to any graduate programs you may be applying to. We are unable to follow up on you and check whether you will be enrolled following the internship." Wow, OK, that's pretty damn generous. Then--this being Berkeley--three other students, in turn, each asked that same question, again. I have to give the representative his share of credit for civilly explaining the (abundantly clear?) situation each time, because I think I would have lost it after repeating myself once. The last student to ask kept pressing the question to the point that I started to imagine pressing her head in a vise until all the air came out. Once she was satisfied with his answer (the same answer he'd given four times already, let's recall) as an edge of disgust was creeping into his voice, I was able to relax. Sort of. Unfortunately, I got on the elevator with her a few minutes later. She was chattering to a friend in that proud and knowing tone that always accompanies ignorance, culminating in the declaration: "I didn't get it at first, but I figured out he was totally telling us to lie!" I didn't say anything, but I'm sure I practically radiated hate waves. My mind was so clear: You are applying for a diplomatic post. Diplomacy is ALL ABOUT picking up on the encoded messages in polite statements and passing information discreetly. You are dead in the water. Shut up and go away. On the up side, I'm much less concerned about the competition: 3,000 applications for 900 posts. If she's the standard, I have nothing to worry about. Wednesday, October 16, 2002
What I Did During the Second Full Week of My Fall Vacation by Mike, Age 24.5 Item #1: My parents called up to say they'd bought a new car, a Honda CR-V, which means that they now have three cars between the two of them and would I like to take the well-worn Jeep off their hands? I hesitated at first, since I am defiant about living car-free, it's hard to park around here, I don't want to be responsible for its defacement blah blah blah...wait a minute! I could do that driving cross-country thing that seems so popular with the kids today! And check out various graduate programs while I'm at it! (Hmmm, maybe I'd better pick the car up before then, so I can run some errands here in town. And go out hiking and exploring. And stay out in SF after midnight.) The only snag is that I don't want to leave until after the Berkeley International Affairs Graduate School Fair (see below) next week... Then I'm going to a wedding on November 10... Thanksgiving is November 21... well, crap. That doesn't give me any more than two free weeks at a time until December. Not a good time to check out Minnesota and Wisconsin. Item #2: Last week I shadowed my (now ex-)roommate* Sarah, who is in the master's program in public policy at Berkeley. I was curious; I have a tendency to discount something out-of-hand if the name of it sounds too dry to me, but I had an inkling it might be of interest. It was, but what most captivated me was the lunchtime discussion group on international affairs, which is apparently a sorely-missed (by some students) part of the policy/governance landscape. I did a little more background research and reflected on my desire for a deeper political and economic education, and I thought to myself: International Affairs! Of course! Here I'd been thinking about doing a master's in geography (because it's safe and familiar), but wanted something with a more professional orientation, and it was right under my nose! I checked out APSIA and grew more intrigued. I told Sarah about my revelation and she replied, "It makes perfect sense for you! It's like the marriage of geography and public policy!" And damned if interdisciplinary isn't my middle name! So I'm fairly excited that Berkeley is hosting a whole mess of events next week to do with international careers and graduate programs. Item #3: I've spent entirely too much time online as of late, reading and posting to forums discussing things like music trivia, cultural literacy, and other silly pursuits. (See if you can figure out who I am!) Item #4: Yoga! Iyengar and Ashtanga! Different styles! Different instructors! One of whom was like a drill sergeant! During whose class I somehow injured my back! Which now hurts like hell! Fucker! Item #5: I've gone to some of the SF Open Studios: for three weekends in October every year, the approximately five billion artists in San Francisco open the doors to their studios and the public gets to see and buy work from up-and-coming avant-gardistes. I would love to get involved in the art community somehow, but I just don't know where to start. Item #6: I've expanded my cinematic horizons and watched Rashomon and American Mullet on the big screen. Each is compelling in its way. Item #7: Just, you know, hanging out. Going out. Talking to people. I went to a party Saturday night and met my roommate's friend's coworker's college friend, who happens to also be my ex-roommate's girlfriend's classmate (as well as my ex-roommate's high-school friend's ex-girlfriend). For those keeping score of degrees of separation (DOS) at home, that would be Mike-Rex-Will-Henry-Cindy; Mike-Albert-Debbi-Cindy; and Mike-Albert-Martin-Cindy. * It was kind of sad: she had just gotten settled into the house, but her girlfriend and her commute necessitated that she move to a solo apartment closer to campus--in the middle of the semester. Talk about tough. Friday, October 11, 2002
Funsies! While biking along the SF Embarcadero just past twilight a few days back, I noticed that there are a lot of people who like to go running (a) along a bike path (b) after dark (c) while wearing black. @$*(!%# morons. I think what I want to study is International Affairs, with a concentration in migration. (Who, me? Decide?) My parents called up yesterday to mention that they're getting a new car, which means they'll have one left over and would I like to use it? Perhaps for a cross-country drive in the near future? Oh, hell yeah. The House just may be all filled up soon. Sarah's leaving, but there's a Kevin moving in the weekend, and a recently-interviewed Meredith just might hop in and complete the place. Being unemployed does not mean having all the time in the world. I've been able to exercise...twice this week. Navel-gazing really cramps my back. Wednesday, October 09, 2002
Mike's Unemployment Semary: A Week in My Jobless Life [an asterisk (*) marks those anecdotes of more than passing interest] Tuesday, 1 Oct___ Paper Chase. Spent the morning watching Psycho Beach Party (it's so good, it defies description) and sifting through the many piles of papers that have piled up in my room. In piles. I tend to bring home every single sheet of paper (fliers, newspapers, cookie fortunes, etc.) I acquire throughout the day and rarely throw anything out, so it gets to be something of a mess. My roommate Dawn came in at one point and immediately noticed the still-sealed bills in my "important" pile. "You don't open your mail?" she asked, shocked. No, I don't. It's a bad habit. I come home late, I'm tired, I check the mailbox, everything goes on the pile. I get to it later. I recently missed a wedding shower and missed a credit-card payment due to this heinous practice. End of story. But rent Psycho Beach Party, available only in independent video stores. Housecleaning. It was my turn. As much fun to describe as to perform. Email Purge. Related to the aforementioned lazy tendency, I have a backlog of 600 messages in my Yahoo! account and have been precariously close to my 6 MB limit. So I've been going through and deleting everything that is no longer of any importance, concurrently updating my address book (I always meant to...) with various people's announcements. Have we established I am lazy, shiftless, and inclined to procrastinate? Good. Let's move on. Sangria. Met my co-concertgoer (see below) and some of my ex-coworkers at Andalu, a (fairly schmancy) tapas bar for happy hour. Nothing really remarkable, except that the hostess muttered "Table for six, without reservations!" after we walked in. Oh, honestly: it's 6 o'clock on a Tuesday and the place is empty. Please. The sangria was great. Go for the drinks, ignore the service. Bottom of the Hill. Went with Marie to a smallish concert headlined by +/-, which those of you who have been reading know is a spinoff of Versus, recent holder of Most Favored Band status in these here parts. The opening band, eE, were unremarkable apart from being composed of fairly meek-looking Asian guys--at the end of their set, the bassist yelled "Support the Asians! Buy our album!"--and having the hardest-working drummer this side of Cowboy Mouth (whom I did not see yesterday, but whatcha gonna do?). *Homeward Bound. The show ended just after midnight, and I happened to get to the BART station two or three minutes after the last East Bay train left. I will never understand the logic in the BART schedule (everything must end by 12:30!), which effectively eliminates transbay transit after midnight and virtually ensures that drunk drivers are on the Bay Bridge every weekend. Luckily, I guess, there's one other option: take Muni to San Francisco's Transbay Terminal (TT, baby!) and wait for the hourly AC Transit A-line bus, which then deposits passengers in downtown Oakland to find the rest of the way home for themselves. Whereas daytime buses stop inside the Terminal, the A-line stops in a crescent-shaped driveway out front...the better to underscore your late-night misery. Pass by the TT between 1 and 4 on any given night, and you'll see a dozen or two forlorn-looking creatures waiting for that bus. It's cold. Everyone's tired. Not a pleasant milieu. With half an hour to wait, I elected to go inside to look at the transit maps. Yes, I am both a transit nerd and a map nerd; I am quite aware of it. Thank you. Returning outside, I was greeted by three police cars, an ambulance, and a large pool of blood on the sidewalk. The bus arrived a couple of minutes laterand the woman across the aisle filled me in: "This crazy man, white or Hispanic--I couldn't tell--was sitting on the bench with a whole load of stuff and a bicycle next to him. This other man--black guy--comes up to him and asks whose bike it is, since he wants to move it aside and sit down. The first guy flips out and pulls a knife from out of nowhere and stabs the other guy in the neck!" I froze, yet continued to listen to her talk about how, if she's out walking late at night, normally she goes out of her way to avoid passing black men but will walk right by a white man without a second thought, though she knows as a black woman that it's not right. (I later relay this tidbit to a black female friend who immediately concurs.) She and I ended up sharing a cab from downtown Oakland to our respective homes. I try to watch Happy Together. Wednesday, 2 Oct___ Movietime. It takes me an hour to bike from my house to downtown Berkeley, drop off videos, and bike back home. *Contra Costa Times. I had arranged to spend the afternoon with my friend Gary, who is interning with the City of Pittsburg. We had, until my resignation, been employed at very different places in the urban planning spectrum and I was curious to see what he was doing and had learned. We met at Concord BART (ah, BART) at noon, and for the next six hours he showed me around Concord, Pleasant Hill, Martinez, Pittsburg, Bay Point, and Antioch, delivering a seemingly unending stream of information about what was going on where, who the major players were, what sneaky deals were being made, and what he'd seen and dealt with. Simultaneously I'm amazed by how much information he has absorbed over the past year and annoyed at how little I felt I'd learned in my position. Partly it's the nature of consulting, where one's attentions are divided among many clients (City of X; Y County; Metropolitan Z Authority), none of which one can feel proprietary about. But part of it is also that as a lower-level consultant, I was rarely the one in contact with the community. Crunching abstract numbers and making up descriptions of locations I had not seen did nothing for me. It makes more sense now, but in college I majored in geography with the idea that I would be out in the field, observing for myself. Still, we had a good time. We stopped at an Afghan bakery, where he paid $1.50 for a loaf of bread the size of...well, an afghan. We rolled through new subdivisions still under construction, feeling the bizarre unwelcomeness of an uninhabited-yet-exclusive-"community." We sat in a new railroad station and discussed our experiences taking the overnight train in various locales. A good time was had, in the name of planning. Evening. Bad TV was watched, including the New NEW Twilight Zone. Oh, Ione. Thursday, 3 Oct___ Brunch. Cat came by to take me out for pizza at Arizmendi and ask me to edit her residency-application essay (she's hoping to practice orthopedic surgery). So I did. My fabulous life. We talk for a moment about how this commercial area is full of people midmorning on a weekday and each realize that we'd assumed that just about everyone works an office job. They could be police, we said, or professors, or freelance tech workers, or unemployed tech workers, or just well off. So many non-9-to-5 options! Art Opening. The California Council for the Humanities is sponsoring a big push through local libraries around the state to get people to read and discuss The Grapes of Wrath. I'm down for it. The Oakland Public Library has assembled an odd suite of events around this project, one of which was a photography exhibit of the work of two black Oaklanders. The artists' reception was today, so seeing as I'm drawn to art + artists + free food, I gave it a look-see. There's something very tiresome about being surrounded by middle-aged pretentious-yet-aware white people at "ethnic" events, and I hope to God I don't ever become one of them. Iyengar Yoga. My first class ever (thank you, free Club One membership!), and what did we attempt? Vertical splits. [Stand with your back against a wall. Lean forward until you can put your hands on the ground. Now put one of your feet up where your head just was. Easy, isn't it?] The terms "downward-facing dog," "sit-bones," and such have already enriched me. Two Men, One Name. Coming home from yoga, I had a message from Rick and Ricky, my pals from the improv class I took last spring. Apparently they'd invited me to see a play with them and I'd never responded. Yes, this is another example of my horrible, horrible email habits. Friday, 4 Oct___ Email Purge. I am so not done yet. Hiking. My fellow D&B unemployee Heather and I went off to Tilden for an afternoon of hiking and merriment in the sun. When we met, she had spilled coffee on her shirt and I had cut myself while shaving. It's nice to start the day on even footing. I then proceeded to give her Very Bad Directions on the way to the park, getting us lost three or four times. We celebrated the day with Zachary's pizza, and it was good. QYP. I went to the Queer Young Professionals group at the Pacific Center and listened to other people talk about not being certain about their jobs. Felt better. Had a couple of Snicker Doodles. Went out to Bison Brewing Co. afterwards and tried french fries seasoned with ginger (yum!). Saturday, 5 Oct___ Fun. Spent the day riding rollercoasters with John, Mel, and Wayne at Great America, then went to see my absolute favorite immensely-desirable singer (and raving nutbar), Grant-Lee Phillips, at the Great American Music Hall with Marie. I did not notice the nominal coincidence until afterward. (Kristin Hersh and John Doe [from LA punk outfit X] also performed, and they were good.) Good day. Came home, watched the season finale of The Shield, slept happy. Sunday, 6 Oct___ Mass. I've been aware for a while that I haven't been completely spiritually fulfilled by my life, and I've started taking steps to work on that. I went to reconciliation for the first time in...oh, six years? and poured out my confusion and frustration. I'm trying to go to Mass more often now, to get back into the swing of regularly taking time to reflect, to ask for help, to face other people who believe in something. So we're getting through the homily (normally the midpoint, for those of you keeping score at home) and I'm not feeling well. Kind of dizzy. Maybe I should go. No, I'll stick it out. Oh, wait, what's going on? A baptism? Shit. For twins. Mother of mercy. Maybe I'll stay for the Prayers of the Faithful. Maybe the Lamb of God. I'll just slip out after the Eucharist. Ahhh, transubstantiated wine and bread. I can wait for the Closing Prayer. Or the Sending Hymn. Oh, look, I'm still here. I'll just swing by Albertson's on my way home. Whew! Finally home. What time is...oh, crap! It's after 1 already? I have to be at the Castro Street Fair (estimated travel time: 45-60 minutes) at 2! *Castro Street Fair. Volunteered for the Harvey Milk Institute. Stood at the gate, yelling "Three dollar donation! Gets you a dollar off all drinks all afternoon! Benefits 23 community organizations!" (If Joe Public donates, he gets a sticker to present at the drink booths. Simple. Fun.) Of course, that gets pretty boring over the course of three hours, so I added some other stuff to see if people were paying attention. "I don't know how else to love you!" "Because puppies shouldn't have to die!" "Little Timmy's operation was going so well!" "It hurts me not to yell!" "I'm single, unemployed, and I live in Oakland!" "Exposed midriff tax!" "Three dollars gets you a dollar off all drinks, a classy orange sticker, and brief but satisfying human contact!" "I refuse to believe you can just walk on by, you heartless hussy!" and so on. Some got it, smiled, and plunked money in the bucket. Time passed more quickly. Perhaps someone will remember me for my wit and squire me away to an enchanted new life. *After Party. When I finished my volunteer shift, the fair was almost over. I moseyed about for a bit, then stopped to consider whether to head home. (It's Sunday night! There is good TV to be watched!) The moment I was about ready to get up and go, I ran into Bret and Brian: more friends from the improv class (and a damned cute couple). They invited me into a bar with them for drinks. I was a little reticent, since I don't really do bars, and they're a couple, and it would be awkward, but...what the hell. Two of their other friends (whom I also thought were a couple [fifth wheel alert!], but thankfully weren't) were there as well. I tried to strike up conversation with the less friendly-looking one (because I love a challenge?) by commenting on his resemblance to a certain movie star.... First lesson: Being physically likened to John Malkovich is not universally considered a compliment. Oh, well. Conversation at a standstill. Maybe I'll just make my way over to the bathroom for a minute.... Second lesson: drunk guys in a crowded bar setting will seize on any defining characteristic (say, wearing a fishing hat [I was standing in the sun for three hours earlier, if you'll recall] or... having a butt) to touch you while you're passing by. (Yes, this is a new lesson; I normally never get hit on. Don't know why; never bothered me.) I come back over to where my group is and sit down. The guy on the other side of me (we'll call him E) begins chatting immediately. We discuss the economic plight of Humboldt County's working class (he lives there; I was just recently working on the County's General Plan)... Third lesson: Apparently, one can make small talk out of anything. ...and E tells me about how his friend F (who was in the bathroom at the moment and whom I had thought was attractive until seeing him up close) gets violent when he's drunk because he's Native American... Fourth lesson: I will never be amazed at people's capacity to spout prejudicial non sequiturs. ...and eventually guesses that I am 32 years old. Later, after E and F leave and I am talking to G and H (other strangers)... Fifth lesson: Though besically meek and introverted, I grow emboldened in bar settings and can draw strangers to my side for conversation. ...they guess 28 and 36.... Sixth lesson: Bad lighting and drunken interlocutors can make this 24-year-old feel much, much older than he needs to. H (an architect/urban designer) and I talk about his hometown, my vision of an urban services nightmare: New Orleans... Seventh lesson: Fine. Everything always comes back to urban planning. This is why I need time off. ...and throughout the conversation he makes highly unsubtle attempts to paw at me... Eighth lesson: I really need to put my foot down harder, sooner. ...and blames it on being drunk.... Ninth lesson: Bullshit. Bret, Brian, Mike (Malkovich), and I all claim to want to head for home, then wander over to another bar, where we have a rather engaging debate about Kate Bush, Tori Amos, and Parker Posey. The night ends. I have consumed one beer and some ketchup-smothered fries, and I am quite relaxed as I take Muni to BART to the downtown Oakland taxi stand.... Tenth lesson: Taxis are addictive. Monday, 7 Oct___ *DMV. I had made an appointment to get a replacement driver license, since (a) I've tried fruitlessly to update my address via internet and by mail, with no results, (b) I'm tired of having to show a picture of me-at-16-years-old to ID-checkers, who squint and stare at me to establish a resemblance, and (c) it's preferable to doing any grad-school/career/cleaning work at home. I take a bus to the DMV, which I'm sure has a vein of irony shot through it somewhere, but let's not dawdle. As I'm sitting on the bus, the man in front of me puts his elbow atop the back of the seat next to him and scratches the back of his head with his (rather long) nails. Right in my face is a...giant wound--like someone stuck a meat cleaver between his radius and ulna and the resulting damage is just too wide to even consider stitching up. Of course I stare. It's grotesque, but not crippling. Suddenly, he turns around and asks "Do you have the time?" (It's 11:15.) He reeks of alcohol and sweat (I notice a paper-bagged bottle of something-or-other in his lap) and I wait for him to disembark. (The smell!) Thankfully, he does...but one stop before me. I get off and walk toward the DMV. At the last moment, I turn and see him lumbering toward the building. I feel weird. After I take care of business, I head for the bus stop (preparing to go home at fix myself a nice, cheap unemployed lunch), then notice the Temescal Branch Library not 100 feet away. I capriciously make it a mission to see all the Oakland libraries in the near future, then head inside. Later, I wander out, sit of the bench, and crack open The Grapes of Wrath (you know already). A large form sits down on the bench next to me. "Do you have the time?" Same oddly singsong voice. (It's just after noon.) I can't look at him. When the bus comes, I make it a point to sit in a row not directly behind any open seats. I feel weird. Afternoon. Watched TV and laid on the floor. It's so good. Yoga. Went again. Much easier routine this time. Could see myself doing this more often. Recursive? Spent the evening thinking about my week and sketching this thing. Tuesday, October 01, 2002
Unemployed: the First 4 Days 2 long-lost friends (one from college, one from elementary school*) bumped into on street 5 videos rented** 2 street fairs (one a family-friendly celebration of all things Berkeley; the other an unfamiliar celebration of all things leather/fetish+) attended 3.25 episodes of The Shield marathon (on FX) watched 3 trips to Berkeley 3 trips to San Francisco 5 books checked out of library++ 1 very weird episode wherein I am lying on a massage table (covered only by a low-riding white sheet) and the masseuse suddenly asks, "Are you married?"# 10 appointments/meetings/events added to personal calendar 5 callers Saturday night 5 callers Sunday night 200 old emails deleted 1 package of salmon jerky purchased 4 hours spent biking 1 wedding shower missed 0 weekly chores completed * (!) ** including Office Space, which has (if nothing else) validated (again) my decision to take that job and shove it + Yes, I volunteered. No, I'm not into "that stuff." ++ 3 about graduate education, 2 about travel in Mexico # remainder of conversation: Me [dry throat, scratchy voice]: Uh...no. She [smiling craftily]: Took you a minute to respond, I see. Me: I'm gay. She: Oh. [pause] I just thought you were attractive. Thursday, September 26, 2002
Disturbing Commercials* (#1) Woman A: Oh, crap. [looking at B] Do you have a pad? Woman B: Here, try O.B. Woman A: I don't do tampons. Woman B: But O.B. is different! It's like all [blah blah blah] and stuff. Once you switch over, you never go back. It's like riding a bicycle! Ewwww! = = = = (#2) Office Guy A: Hey man, you look different today. Did you get a haircut? Office Guy B: Nope. [smiles] Office Guy A: New suit? Office Guy B: Nuh-uh. Office Guy A: You shaved? Office Guy B: Nope. Office Guy A: You're sure you didn't get a haircut? Office Guy B: Not a haircut. [still smiling] Office Guy A: Something's different about you. Voice-Over: [Office Guy B] asked his doctor...about Viagra. Ewwww! And also, Ewwww! *Freely adapted. (But the punch lines are real.) Sunday, September 22, 2002
They're Balloons! For a Party! (Note: Party stories are never, ever interesting. You have been warned.) My new roommates and I had a housewarming party this past Saturday night to show off The House to our friends. Two of them, however, had just moved into town and (between the two of them) brought a mother (!) and a girlfriend (who was feeling ill and retired quickly). The third new roommate is a pal of mine from college and a number of our friends overlap...which means I found myself throwing what was more or less an anniversary party for my first housewarming (which, you are astutely guessing, had been scheduled just before and took place just after 11 September 2001), featuring many familiar faces. I was a little nervous, since my last party (nearly six months ago; birthday-oriented) had been kind of awkward and strained. (I was really tired. Hadn't planned it well.) This time around, though, everything fell into place. As I found myself telling people afterward, it's hard to go wrong when you've got two caterers and a DJ in-house. Plus my roommate's sister brought her dog to the festivities (awww, Addie!) and we broke out the piñata that came with the house (full of stale Chiclets and a joy to behold). I'm personally fascinated by watching personalities clicking, too. At about 1 a.m., as things were starting to wind down, I was sitting in the kitchen talking with two friends. I did a quick mental count and was shocked to realize that there were 14 people still in the house, yet there was no indication that there was anyone around but for the three of us. I'd always been vaguely aware of how much room there was in The House, but damn! No wonder parties feel small in there and people like to stick together: it's an imposing space! Anyhow, yeah. Good party. All right. Friday, September 20, 2002
Cher and Cher Alike I picked up a free CD of recent dance hits at the East Bay Pride festivities about...oh, three weeks ago, but I hadn't really gotten to listen to it until today at work. It contains the usual mix of good and bad, as can be expected on a giveaway. One of the the good ones is the first single off Cher's latest album (Living Proof. I have no idea if it's any good. Sorry.), and I have to admit I like it. I'm not normally into such cheesy stuff, but it just fit the mood. Then a med-student friend called me to gripe and I discovered--to my joy--that the song's title adds a little spice to casual conversation, when sprinkled in liberally. Let's observe: Caller: I'm so glad I'll be working among men. Women in medicine are just so mean to each other. Me: That's a different kind of love song! Caller: God, what am I saying? I must have multiple-personality disorder! Me: That's a different kind of love song! Caller: I just can't be a general surgeon. I just can't deal with ass. Me: That's a different kind of love song! Caller: At least you've dated for more than a couple of months, right? Me: Well, what do you mean by a couple? Caller: Two. Me: Oh, then yes-- Caller: ...A couple. Of months. Not like dating a couple, like a menage a trois, or anything! Me: That's a different kind of love song! Caller: Oh, and we had to use a foley on this one guy. Me: A what? Caller: A foley--oh, you know, a catheter. Me: That's a different kind of love song! Caller: Yeah, and I realized I'm so glad I'm not a man or a lesbian, 'cause on a woman it's just so hard to find anything down there! Me: It's a different kind of love song! Caller: It totally is! Oh, fun! Meet the Parens, or Appositively Ridiculous: an Explanation, of Sorts* I know, I know. I use a lot of parentheses in my writing. In moderation, they can add zest to a text. When overemployed, they are recast as the mark of a writer who can't follow a linear train of thought. I'm guilty of the latter more often than I care to admit. But the truth is that there must be someone else to blame! I'm not going to shoulder the responsibility of ordering my ideas in a way intuitive to the reader! You're here because you want to see what I have to say, not what you expect from me. (Of course, if you expect discursive ramblings lacking in thoughtful conclusions, maybe you should...y'know...give me a sign that I've become predictable.) OK, and that--that was an appropriate interjection, was it not? Yeah, I thought so. See, the truth is that my mind is a playground buzzing with activity, and all these different topics and points and connections are competing for my attention. If ignored for even a few seconds, they are likely to give up and go away, and then I'm left with the empty, troubling feeling that there once was a thought there, which for reasons of its own, dematerialized. If I try to order these thoughts and points and such, it's just like...well, to use my favorite simile, it's like herding cats. I think this might tie in to why I'm so into maps: it's so non-linear. Bits of information are sprinkled around, and further ideas are communicated through the overall impression of the image. I've always imagined communication media being hierarchical in how much information can be sent and processed at a time. (I'm limiting this to language only, since music and image--and touch, for that matter--are harder to quantify in terms of data.) When someone is speaking to you (or when you're listening to a recording), all that is available at a time is the word you are hearing. When reading printed matter, the entire page is there to be scanned (and re-read, if necessary)** at once. I imagine the next level of cognition is taking in all the words and ideas of a book simultaneously, and frankly it blows my mind and makes me think there's a religious element of this line of thinking that I'm not considering. (If you have any suggested readings, please comment!) Yet when I'm reading, I prefer to be taken somewhat linearly down the plot's path. I know what foreshadowing is, and I know that most people involuntarily guess at outcomes, but I like being surprised. (Spoilers suck, kiddies.) I'm always on the lookout for new information, new ideas, new ways of thinking. Of course, I suppose if I actually stopped for a bit and tried to process what I take in, and formed opinions and questions about it, then maybe I'd be a little more comprehensible in turn. Maybe I'd have more direction and ambition. Maybe I'd contribute more. But who wants that? *In case you're curious, a Google search on "positively" reveals that there are a lot of people out there who don't have any idea how to use an adverb. In other news: fall is coming, tempers flare in the Middle East, and the sun is a mass of incandescent gas. **Although I suppose one could consider electronic text or sign language, which can be presented one word at a time (like audio)--but printed text is much more commonly what we consider "reading"...and (to cheat a bit) this discussion is about parentheticals, not footnotes, right? Thursday, September 19, 2002
(Yep, Still Working.) For about a week now (40 hours billed time!), I've been working on a PowerPoint® presentation summarizing a report on the natural resources and hazards in [Local Government We're Contracted with (hint: rhymes with "bumbled flounty")]. I'm pretty sure I could have had most of it (excluding the figures I have yet to receive from the graphics department*) done in two days, but I keep getting distracted and not-working. (It's the whole Impending Freedom thing, I'm sure.) The thing is, I could just turn it in as-is and not have to have it hanging over me any more. Knowing my boss, one of two things will happen: regardless of how it looks, he'll accept it graciously and I'll never see it again (because he loves it as-is or because he will shuffle it off to someone else to finish; makes no difference to me)...or regardless of how it looks, he'll scribble comments (change this, add that, delete this, etc.) all over it--per his whim--and I'll just do what I'm told. The key is that it doesn't matter how well I put it together...he'll just do whatever he does, regardless. Yet I can't pass it on to him until I'm absolutely satisfied with it--even though my name will never be linked to it, and after two weeks or so, it will never again be looked at. Blah blah blah, whose priorities are misplaced...who cares? I'm leaving. *which absolves me of anything resembling a deadline, of course Arrr! Ye Be Celebratin', Matey? Happy Talk Like a Pirate Day!* *Maybe that's what's been missing from my life: Dave Barry's column. Wednesday, September 18, 2002
It's the "Mastery" Bit That Amuses Me... By default I've been telling people that I will most likely be applying soon for a master's program in geography. For those of you who have already guessed that I am incapable of making a firm decision about anything that doesn't involve a menu, I am also considering religion, linguistics, journalism, Latin American studies, and public policy. I'm sure there are others I can't think of right now. Maybe I'll just burn my way through a degree program every few years. Professional student, mmmm. Tuesday, September 17, 2002
But What About Meee? I recently realized that manymany of my friends are becoming teachers or lawyers. It was nice when I graduated college and a big chunk of them headed off to med school, because I could say to myself, "That's nice for them. I prefer sleep." Others went into computer careers. Also not for me. I don't know what kind of processor my system has. I don't know how much RAM, ROM, or rum it has (but I'll have a double of the latter, m-hm-ha). I don't know if it has a USB port, and I don't care. But now. I know people teaching kindergarten, fifth grade, eighth grade, ninth grade, and community college, plus a general elementary teacher, two school-based AmeriCorps members, and I'm sure I'm missing some others. This wouldn't be so troubling if I didn't keep hearing the refrain from various directions: "Mike, you'd be a great/awesome/really good teacher!" I take it as flattery. On the surface, it's easy to say no: I've never felt drawn to working with kids, I don't like getting in front of people and lecturing (much less handing out discipline), the pay is insulting, the work takes over your life, you start to think like your charges...ugh. But deeper, there's that What If that anyone who knows me is familiar with. It's eerie, it's scary, and...I don't know. Four of my friends are starting law school this year. Two have just graduated (one of whom is getting married, and I'm not getting into that), and a few more are somewhere in the mix. (Hi, Grace!) Good. Great. I only briefly flirted with the idea of a law degree a couple of years back, but that was over before it started. I really have no interest in memorizing legal arcana and frankly I don't think all that quickly on my feet. Yet there's something about seeing all these people entering a program that will prepare them (intellectually and perhaps practically) for a professional career they feel passionate about that makes my own attempts at just picking a course of study feel somewhat feeble by comparison. So I'm...stuck. And while I'm wishing to high heaven that self-absorption could be the answer- -it doesn't seem likely. Rats. Monday, September 16, 2002
Titles for Bits That I Haven't Written and Will Likely Never Write, but My, Aren't Those Titles Clever and Evocative! On the Outs Writerly Knowing Me, Knowing You Feh Despite Everything Wistful, Willful, Winsome List: Again with the Muttering... Fancypants Anonymous Hate Hate Hate PoMo NoGo Kids: the Next Generation Something I Meant to Mention Earlier I Reverse Neutral Drive I like what my friend Tara (Mrs. W to you) said this weekend, about different economic classes having different concepts* of time: that people in poverty are focused on the present, middle-class people save for the future, and the rich try to continually relive their (storied, of course) past. Fun little thought. Now...me. Am trying to sort out all sorts of things (work, not-work, direction, desire, creative output) and one thing I've noticed, looking back on the six months of blog (happy semiversary!) that I've amassed, is that when I write at work (which is the majority of the time), it often seems morose or petulant...and I think it's because I'm writing at work, and I'm hurried, and I try to tackle ideas too big for the time I can allot to them. I wonder how it will change once I'm writing at home more. (Once I'm writing more, period. I have delusions about freelancing already and yet I have no portfolio to speak of.) I will start writing more. I will start exercising more. I will start volunteering more. I will not curse myself for going in with my roommates on digital cable, which means I now have a dozen movie channels plus the East- and West-Coast feeds of HBO. Nope. Oh, and since you're wondering: I feel great about my decision to leave The Job. I just wish I had had the sense to realize that I will not be alone among my friends in Unemploymentland. *Or conceptions? Maybe that's it. Thursday, September 12, 2002
Into the Great Wide Open I'm capricious. Not news, I know. But it fascinates me (if no one else) what exactly drives me to make certain decisions. For example: I quit my job this morning. Well, OK, I "tendered my resignation"...since "quit" sounds like I screamed and stormed out, whereas reality was much more prosaic: I arrived at the office early, wrote up a memo, dropped it in my boss's inbox, went to my desk and listened to Radiohead's "Optimistic"* on repeat for an hour while writing up the introduction to a report summarizing citizen feedback to a public workshop in Yuba City. My boss came in, asked me to his office, and we discussed what I want out of a job, which is not what this firm can offer. (I actually found myself saying "I could lie and say I want more money," which of course shot down any possibility of staying on with a raise, as was perfectly possible.) But what was my reason for leaving? I've blathered to and with my coworkers about a variety of things over the past few months: the management doesn't know what's going on with the projects (true), the management has no social skills (may be true, but I've had fewer bad experiences than my coworkers), there is no mentorship and low morale (documentably true), I want to work closer to home (true), I don't like sitting in an office (true-ish), I don't like sitting in a dark, cramped office (has since been remedied), I don't care about the work (dawned on me recently), I want to work with people instead of sitting in front of a computer all day (a recent epiphany), and so on. But what finally pushed me over... I was working at home yesterday (yes, it was September 11, and yes, my boss was magnanimous enough to let me work at home), looking over a few hundred comments from an "open house" we had held in Yuba City a few weeks back: my job was to distill them into a coherent opinion (as tangentially mentioned above). The opinion I got: we, as an outside firm, know next to nothing about the City and how dare we come in and try to impose a new Plan on the area without any familiarity of what already stands. (Granted, there were a number of positive comments. That was a relief. Almost makes me feel like changing my mind, not being so thin-skinned, etc. Almost.) Then it struck me: I really hate being a consultant. I have no connection with the communities I work for. I've spent a total of two afternoons in Yuba City, and have talked to only a handful of officials. As a geographer, I want to go and see and do, and as things stand, that's not what I'm doing. Will I regret this? It's likely. I cast a wide net when it comes to second-guessing. The doubts are already there: You still get paid even if you goof off for half the day. You still get paid if you goof off all day. What about money? The boss (inexplicably) likes you beyond your professional abilities. Where else are you going to take time off whenever you want? Your coworkers are fun, gregarious, and young. San Francisco is ripe for your exploration. So maybe I'm a fool for not staying. But I wouldn't bet on it. *Something about the refrain: "If you try the best you can/ If you try the best you can.../ The best you can is good enough" felt pretty damn resonant today. Tuesday, September 10, 2002
Quitting: a Quandary I don't really care either way about my job. It's not sucking the life out of me, but it's not really fulfilling or interesting and I'm pretty sure it won't lead to anything better. I've been telling people for a few months now that I'm going to quit and look (at my leisure) for something better. Maybe even take a couple of weeks to travel, seeing as I have a bit of savings. I've been making more noise than usual recently. Last week, I had an interview with the City of Berkeley for a job with better salary and benefits than I have now. And hours. Oh, and duties. Oh, and a better location (I'd be able to bike to work!). From the sound of the interview, I appear to have a very good shot at being offered the position. And yet, I don't know. While it would be masterfully cool to tender my resignation for my current job and in short order receive this new offer, I can't make the plunge. Maybe I need the security. Maybe it's the way so many people wrinkle their brows and say, "In this economy...." Maybe the Berkeley position will fall through and it'll take a long time to find something else that I deem appropriate. Maybe it's an odd sense of guilt about voluntarily leaving something (a living wage, a comfortable desk job) that is out of the reach of most Americans. Maybe (and worst of all) I just can't shake a sense of loyalty to the company that underpays me, that offers nothing in the way of mentorship, and that I leave (too late) at night, more often than not feeling bored, drained, or confused. So, for the time being, I'm staying put. (But when that offer comes, I'm outta here.) Monday, September 09, 2002
La La La So what did I learn during my weekend in LA? 1. LA is really nice in small doses. (It was my first visit in two years, hey hey.) 2. If some guy at a party overhears you saying you went to Berkeley, and he makes a big stink about how Berkeley students are all weenies (?) because he's a big-shot Stanford grad and doesn't believe that any sane person would turn down Stanford to go to Berkeley: wait a few hours and he'll be on his knees in front of the commode because he drank too entirely fucking much and deserves what comes back to him. 3. Being able to wake up and wander a hundred feet out to the beach from your friend's apartment is really cool. 4. When driving is seen as an occasional treat--not a grinding routine--battling traffic for an hour in order to see a friend in hotter-n-hell Valencia ("The fourth-safest city in California!") is a joy. Especially if she throws in a professional backrub for the effort. 5. "Gourmet ice cream" is not the same thing as gelato. No way, nohow. 6. For Southwest Airlines, LUV is more than just a stock symbol. It's a $29 fare. And how I feel about said fare. 7. It's good to consider timing when choosing flights. Even if you're happy to be taking Friday off, flying out at 8:30am means getting up much too early for a non-workday. Flying back at 3pm on Sunday means the day is a wash (although you will get home in time to go biking and then catch that episode of The Simpsons you missed during the regular season). Changing even one reservation means paying more than the original round-trip cost (see above) and is generally frowned upon. 8. There's nothing quite like taking a Saturday-night tour of the elementary school where your friend teaches eighth grade. Nothing like it. 9. Downtown bites. And the parking! You know it's bad when plugging $2 into a parking meter for one hour is the best option available. 10. The Los Angeles County Museum of Art is damn cool. Of course, being next to the La Brea Tar Pits makes for a power team which cannot be denied. 11. You can't really ever write off that guy that you spent an amazing evening with once three years ago (and who then returned to his home 3000 miles away and left you wondering if anything more could ever possibly happen between you two, and who on the phone comes across as something akin to disinterested--maybe more like amicable-but-nothing-more...) because you could meet up with him again and discover that some mutual interest remains, albeit you are still separated by 400 miles and aaaargh, this is confusing. Monday, August 26, 2002
The Big List of Things I Could Honestly Say I Am "Interested in" or "Intrigued by" a work in progress The Arts Latin America soccer gay culture pop culture religion spirituality language mapmaking men women (in a different way) origami seasonal-affective disorder civil rights human rights demographics human failings cultishness utter catastrophe country-rock/altcountry time: perception, measurement, denial and evasion of the passage of Texas comedy improvisation ritual public service categorization graphic design festivities/celebration dialogue among strangers novelty in general India, Hindi, and Hinduism Pico Iyer Joan Didion Lorrie Moore Michael Nava's Henry Rios books insanity New York City persons who have a "favorite animal" and how they chose it transportation Europe vs. America Will Turkey be accepted into the European Union? How "European" is it? human migration the works of David Foster Wallace the Stations of the Cross aging mobility, esp. social eloquence the backlash against political correctness, which at the outset was really just supposed to be the introduction of less-offensive terminology into sociological discourse, right? Britpop bells taboos (sex! nudity! sex! asking people to think! sex!) fate why some people like reggae and why it drives me up the wall diplomacy/politeness self-discipline and where mine went the color brown California: the popular myth, the contentiousness of its regions, its Central Valley, why I keep coming back, where else I could possibly live, stuff like that porn and why I have no interest in it how vanilla I really am self-disclosure shoe-gazing, navel-gazing, solipsism, me-ing, and all the rest love, lovers, loving knowing when to stop why brands matter deserts/water dark, dark eyes "I don't know, what do you want to do?" my future my career my voice how incredibly hard it must be to sit down and write a novel, and whether I'll ever summon up the focus to try waiting/anticipation people who don't really give a shit and appear quite happy with their lives beliefs (non-religious) how to make my life more interesting for when I'm older and would like to have outrageous stories to tell (and how to limit the things I try to those that will allow me to grow old enough to look back at fondly) youth, of course nudity, baby extroversion, a.k.a. How the Other Three-Quarters Live people who claim that their biological sexes doesn't match their gender identities and how they rectify that the amalgamation of LGB and T, seeing as they're very different things psychology (as an alloy) Jacob Vargas what my life would be like if I had the conviction that I am pretty damn lucky and I could be a lot more self-assured (not to mention compassionate toward others who aren't so fortunate) community service biking my parents balancing independence and community-orientation dancing disease irreversible injury (amputation, blindness, etc.) the gaps in my memory this list my affection for lists hair class in America, and why we say it doesn't exist names empty spaces feedback Tuesday, August 20, 2002
Hi, Gene! My office is set up such that my personal area has three walls, one of which is three feet short of the ceiling (in order to allow more light in from a shared bay window). The fourth side is half closed with a waist-high counter. While it is fairly private, noise carries easily and anybody walking by has a full view of the interior area. I was clipping my nails in my office, and a couple of my coworkers commented that they disliked the sound and urged me to go to the bathroom to do it in private. I didn't really understand their argument about it being a personal and private action, but I complied with their wishes. What struck me as odd about it was that as I walked in this morning, one of the complainers (I'll call her Prudence) had been flossing in her office, fully visible to anyone in the hallway. I pointed out that I found that distasteful as well. "But you can't hear it," she countered. True, but it's unpleasant to watch and in my mind it conjures up the image of flecks of spittle being flung about. Yuck. I seized this opportunity to discuss the fact that I had observed a certain handshake-happy senior officer (not in the vicinity) in the act of pointedly not washing his hands after using the restroom. What, I asked, would be the best, most tactful way to avoid his outstretched paw in the future? I received no concrete response, but another coworker (let's say Luna) opined that bringing such a topic up was an equally icky move. "Don't share that," called out Prudence, "ignorance is bliss!" "No!" I responded. "Ignorance is dangerous! Silence equals death!" It's a matter of public health, right? The upshot, for those of you who are concerned about such things, is that Prudence and I mutually apologized (sealed with a hug)...although I guess she's not writing about it on her blog. Oh, me. Monday, August 19, 2002
Origami I went to the Oakland Museum Sunday to check out the Ruth Asawa art exhibit. Although I'm not normally a big fan of sculpture, I was really impressed by her work: twisted wire that resembled desert brambles while merging stars and circles; crocheted wire that reminded me of pottery, curtains, and intestines all at once; a multitude of face masks painted in arbitrary skin colors. All amazing. What's more, the exhibit included a section illustrating how she was actually the matriarch of a large and diversely artistic family: it included a section showcasing her daughter's intricate and beautiful origami, her grandson's paintings, her husband's personalized envelopes...and a framed newspaper article featuring by a large photo of a halfpipe wave. The story detailed how a family of five had been at the beach when their little girl had been sucked in by the undertow; as they tried (one by one) to retrieve her, they were eventually all getting pulled under. Ruth Asawa's son, who had been surfing nearby, managed to save them all with his board. I know the question What is Art? has been asked many times and in many contexts, but this was one of those cases when it struck me particularly hard. Her son hadn't created anything tangible like his relatives had, but a memento of his act of preserving life was hanging in a gallery alongside their creations. It made me a little dizzy to think about. Thursday, August 15, 2002
This Week in History 25 years ago, Elvis died. 20 years ago, TMBG formed. How did the world get along in the intervening five years? Ponderous. OK, I need lunch. Tuesday, August 13, 2002
I Cannot Promise This Will Make Sense I've been spending a goodly amount of time staring off into space recently. I'm sure it's good for me. It's a very relaxing activity. I guess one could argue that it's not so good when I'm at work, as it would cut into my productivity. (At which point I'd probably laugh.) Yeah, apart from when I'm crossing the street, I can't say it's any real danger. Sure, people may assume I'm thinking deeply about something, when in reality my mind is really blank, but then I'm used to people thinking I'm deeper than I actually am. OK, maybe I'm marvelling at some random quirk of language, but that's only on occasion. For example, I love verbs. I love idiomatic expressions and the bizarre verb-forms they use. I dwelt for a minute this morning on all the meanings of the word used. There's the past tense of to use, of course. And the adjective But there's also to be used to, as used (hee!) in the previous paragraph, which means "to be accustomed to," which really doesn't have a direct relation to to using something, not to mention that used is pronounced [just], instead of [ju:zd]* like the past participle. Then, of course, there's the wild kooky phrase used to be, which translates to "once was but no longer is" and is even more aberrant because it's a verb phrase with no infinitive form! (Which is probably related to its being tense-specific, but come on....) Then there's to utilize, which is one of a whole slew of ugly backformation verbs (which are made by lopping off the end of a noun and result in a completely redundant word) that plague our language. Unfortunately, I'm somewhat inconsistent in my approach, seeing as I routinely change "utilize" to "use," but I confess I have suggested "administrate" when we all know "administer" would do. Hey, "to administrate" was in the dictionary! I thought that made it acceptable! (Short answer: nope.) Oh, and another fun verb is "to eke." Coming soon: Cultural Right #2: The Right to List Your Comrades' Faults. *If you don't understand, you need a short course in the International Phonetic Alphabet. Or you need to not care, which is probably the easier option. Sing-Along Time! (These are just parodic lyrics; I stand by my commitment to never introduce poetry to this site.) There is this thing I have to write E-I-E-I-R! For gov-ern-men-tal o-ver-sight E-I-E-I-R! With an Environmental Impact here And a Mitigation Measure there Here a Notice of Preparation There a Reasonable Alternative Everywhere a Significant Irreversible Environmental Change Which Would Be Involved in the Proposed Project Should It Be Implemented! Oh, my job is such de-light! E-I-E-I-R! Monday, August 12, 2002
Photo Ops I Have Recently Missed -A Port-A-Potty centered on a 10'x10' platform, floating in the middle of Lake Merritt -The view from the Piedmont School and Park, which reinforces that money does indeed bring happiness -Nancy Pelosi, Congresswoman! -Ozomatli, the band I really like that plays music of genres I otherwise do not much care for -Opening day of the Berkeley Arts Festival, with approximately nobody in attendance (ouch) Thursday, August 08, 2002
Raccoons Raccoons! In my backyard! Raccoons! Scampering around Oakland's streets! Raccoons! Roadkill in Berkeley! I've seen a lot of them lately. It's just...new to me. Monday, August 05, 2002
Zzzzzzzzzzzzz I slept a lot this weekend. I also went to the Santa Clara County Fair to see Ozomatli and marvel at the human spectacle of thousands of people gravitating to a free event featuring fried/frosted foods, shaky carnival rides, livestock, crap-for-sale*, and patriotic performance pieces. If you ever get your hands on David Foster Wallace's A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again, the essay "Getting Away from Already Being Pretty Much Away from It All" has a great description of the Illinois State Fair that applies to most every fair I've been to and is humbling in its illumination of the many different worlds America encompasses (and that I perpetually forget exist). *Somehow I couldn't bring myself to spend the $1 required to obtain a green teddy bear with "MINNEASOTA" stitched across the back. Friday, August 02, 2002
Than You've Ever Been I was out to lunch with some coworkers today; as we're heading back to the office, the new guy (aka the Geo-Temp, aka the Red-Headed Stepchild*) hits me up for a little conversation, and I hear a sentiment that's become familiar, but rarely so bluntly quotable: "You're from Modesto? I have a friend from Modesto. Maybe you know him...oh, except he's a few years younger than you. He's 24." I admitted the truth, and threw in (proudly?) that I am the youngest in the office. He didn't seem too surprised, but you never know. Now, being 24 is something I'm still getting used to, and being mistaken for much older than I am is something I should definitely already be used to ("It's the beard," another coworker offered helpfully), but I wonder if I'll ever catch up to my perceived age and look as I should...or will this continue until I look Old before my time? I pretend to not be concerned about my appearance, but...ugh. I've always had an odd fascination with memoirs and nostalgia; the scenes in TV and movies where the Old Person pulls out pictures of him- or herself as a sexy and vivacious twentysomthing as the grandkids (or whatever surrogates for youth are at hand) gape at the Marked Difference between Then and Now always get to me. It really makes me want to go out and get as many pictures of now-me taken as possible, to capture my youth in preparation for the Era of Fond Memories. In a less superficial vein, similar yearnings stir me toward quitting my job and doing something more adventurous, more outdoor/hardier/youth-rewarding. I know that I'll be able to work in an office at any point in my life and that there are some opportunities that fade with time. I'm just so used to earning and spending at my current level that it's hard to own up to the possibility that what I end up doing instead may pay less. I don't know if I have the discipline to adjust my budget.** My longview dictates that I never want to go into credit debt. That's a heady consideration. There are also insurance and other seemingly-piddling issues that I can't seem to get around. Caution squashes all. What gives? Am I too old inside? Where are my prunes? *I honestly love that phrase and want to shower the coiner with much unabashed affection. Call me, you bastard! **Hell, I can't even set aside the time to track whether I'm following anything that could be considered a budget. Thursday, August 01, 2002
Pretty Hate Machine! Feast your eyes on the latest addition to my daily blog ritual: Girls Are Pretty--the blog for the sociopathic horoscope-zombie in all of us! Part of the reason it so tickles my fancy is that the author's name reminds me of a charming incident from back in the day.... I was volunteering at the Boys and Girls Club with my friend Emily (who is small and jumpy--not exactly a seductress, for the record). One day, this wizened old woman who was always around (but whose purpose there was never entirely clear) came up to her and screeched, "Hey, Pretty Girl! I see all the boys watchin' you! Struttin' your stuff around! Yeah, they like it! Pretty Girl!" Needless to say, Emily was completely creeped out and it didn't help that the woman referred to her as "Pretty Girl" for the remainder of our time there. Happy Did I Really Live in South Carolina for a Whole Year? Day! Wednesday, July 31, 2002
Non-Heroics Suppose you weren't feeling well and decided to stay home from work, but as the day progressed you found yourself feeling somewhat better, and decided to arrange to have dinner with a friend (let's call him MC) briefly in town... Suppose that friend suggests contacting another mutual friend (let's call her CM) to make it a sort of group dinner, with some logistical quirks: you live in the East Bay (and work in the West Bay, but you aren't at work today!), MC lives in the South Bay but works (temporarily) in the East Bay, and CM lives and works in the West Bay... Suppose there's a moderate likelihood CM couldn't make it, you determine meet in the East Bay, say, Berkeley, since it's convenient for the two of you... Now, suppose you meet MC at the appointed time (say, 5:30) to find him on the phone with CM, who has decided to meet you two after all and is just leaving home... Suppose CM eschews public transit in favor of her car (during rush hour) because she "prefers to drive"... Suppose CM arrives 45 minutes later and in the intervening time, while you two haven't gotten horribly hungry, you've elected to eat somewhere more than a leisurely walk away for your meeting place... Suppose CM has a lot of shit in her car (a rather long-lived Saab having required much maintenance as of late--and neither you nor MC has a car available, having both taken public transit to the meeting-place), it's a bit of a squeeze to get two people in... Suppose you were to take a detour across the Berkeley campus (after the guard at the gatehouse confirms it is indeed possible) and you find the gate in the middle of campus is down and will not open... Suppose CM puts the car in reverse and hears an odd grinding sound... Suppose she takes a look under the car and discovers that the front axle has completely rusted through and irreparably snapped in half... Suppose CM can appreciate the good fortune to have this inevitable event occur with two friends present, in an open but nearly traffic-free road, on flat land (instead of on the way down one of San Francisco'a notoriously steep hills upon which she'd been driving earlier, through heavy traffic, alone)... Suppose CM calls her parents (one of whom still has the vehicle registered under his name) and discovers that in their frugality, they had just the previous month elected to reduce her insurance to basic liability (i.e. no towing coverage)... Then suppose the three of you split up (montage-style) to watch over the car (while shuttle-bus drivers shoot dirty looks at you for blocking them), check to see if the nearby car-rental places are open (they aren't), and ask the university's parking and transportation staff for help (which they can't really provide, beyond the number of a local towing company... Suppose CM doesn't know whether to have the car junked out-of-hand or see about the possibility of repair, and none of you can think of a place to leave the car that doesn't require a local parking permit (without which the tickets will pile up heinously), not to mention what to do with all the tons of personal effects that have accumulated in the Saab... Suppose the tow truck arrives, you manage to get everything valuable stored in bags in the car's trunk, and the driver knows a neighborhood in West Berkeley that doesn't require perking permits... Suppose also that all three of you can't ride in the cab of the tow truck... Suppose as well that it is now around 8:00 and you're hungry and starting to feel sick again... Suppose you plan to leave everything in the car for the time being, meet up at the local interurban rail station after the car is dropped off, eat quickly (ah yes, dinner), and head for the airport in order to find a rental car company that's actually open, rent a car, drive up to where the old car is sitting, help CM transfer her belongings from the old car to the rental, and get dropped off at home afterward... Suppose that all that goes off without a hitch, except... Suppose also that MC's cell phone is almost dead and he is going to be separated from you and CM and this will definitely complicate matters if you don't get in touch after the car is dropped off... Suppose that at 9:00 in downtown Berkeley the only options for quick eats are greasy Chinese food and a spicy burrito shop (you choose the latter) and your stomach is crying out for antacids... Suppose finally that when you arrive at the airport, you discover that CM does not have a credit card with her and (while MC can have his credit card authorized for the rental) it's still illegal for CM to be added as a secondary driver if she cannot produce a credit card of her own, even though they're all the way over in the west end of the West Bay... (Time check: 11:00. Your planned bedtime: 9:30.) Suppose that after fifteen or so minutes of negotiations, it turns out that a VISA-linked ATM card can be accepted for imprinting... Suppose also that though she is less than a month shy of her 25th birthday, they will not waive the $20/day "underage" rental fee, which for financial reasons instantly makes it more appealing to rent for one night instead of a week... Suppose that the rental staff also manage to misprint the contract three times, requiring both MC and CM to drag out their credit cards for a re-imprinting each time... Suppose that leaving the airport at night is fairly difficult, given that there is no direct, marked route to the transit stop at which MC will be dropped off and what appears to be the right road turns out to be a choice between a freeway onramp (no!) or entering a one-way the wrong way (NO!), and freaks out CM beyond all necessity... Suppose "burbling" is a good description of your stomach's current state... Suppose that after recovering all valuables from the miserable old car, you zip over to a local 24-hr grocery store, stock up on generic (grocer-brand) antacids, and find yourself at home at midnight, with CM's eternal gratitude... Supposing all that happened yesterday...why does it feel like so long ago today? Thursday, July 25, 2002
But What's Really Funny... So I've just had two new roommates move in, completely cleaned out my room for the first time in a year, gone to the East Coast for a week (with only a few days' anticipation), started dating someone without any real reason, been on the radio, started dreaming for the first time in who-knows-how-long, won a free membership to a hip and inconvenient gym, embraced the joy of summer in the Bay Area, and gotten back in touch with a number of people I'd left by the wayside, and I still can't think of anything to write about. Wednesday, July 24, 2002
M 'n M Michael Jackson and Mariah Carey: Just two wigged-out semi-black oversexed popstars, or two halves of the same kooky coin? M In Men in Black II*, Michael Jackson has a cameo playing up to his alien-freakazoid reputation, wherein he begs for employment with MiB: "Please! I could be Agent M!" In the video for "Honey," Mariah's personal nickname for her "secret agent persona" was Agent M.** Tommy, Can You Hear Me? Michael: Currently accusing Tommy Mottola, chairman of Sony Music, of being a racist and sabotaging his last album. Mariah: Formerly married to Tommy Mottola, also sports a tricky relationship with the record executive. Recent Flops Michael's Invincible: Not well-received. Mariah's Glitter: Biggest punchline of the past 12 months. Psychosis Michael: Let's be charitable. The last 12 years have not been good to him. Mariah: A breakdown, said the publicist. It was just a breakdown. No more questions. "I'm Not Gonna Spend My Life Being a Color" Michael: You've heard it all. The joke is dead. Mariah: Her father is black Venezuelan. Her mother's Irish. She plays it both ways. Just in case you were wondering. Wholesome? Sleazy? Michael: Even in his heyday, the crotch-grabbing thing...it lost him some points. Ask the mothers of America. Mariah: Once you've committed to making a video wherein the main attraction is you washing a car with your boobs, you can never escape the "ghetto hoochie" moniker. Don't bother to deny it. Really. The Verdict Hmmm. I think I'll let Cintra do the talking. In short, falling to your own fame will tweak your brain. And these two? A binary star system: they orbit each other, everything else orbits them. *Not recommended. **Thank you, Pop-Up Video. Monday, July 22, 2002
Clear Signs the World Really Did End in the Year 2000 and I Am Now in Hell June 8, 2001: Suck.com* goes on permanent "summer vacation," proving that (at least on the Web) nothing good can last. August 16, 2001: I go to a job interview, completely blow it, and realize in the process that there is no way I would want to work there. Worse, I sense that I will be offered the job regardless. August 17, 2001: I am offered the job. August 22, 2001: Faced with the prospect of living with my parents or burning through my savings, I accept the job. January 14, 2002: On a whim, I attempt to audition for the Blue Man Group. After proving that I meet the physical specifications, I am asked to mimic basic drumming moves, whereupon I and the bored audition-holders discover that I possess no rhythm whatsoever. March 24, 2002: A Beautiful Mind wins the Academy Award® for Best Picture. Memento is not nominated. April 5, 2002: I turn 24. July 22, 2002: I am still at the job and completely uncertain of future plans. The worst of it, I think, is turning 24. Conversations with others experiencing the Terrible Two-Dozens have confirmed that it is a miserable and vexing age. No longer able to pass for "college-age" but still having to pay an extra $20 per day for car rentals, it's an uncomfortable squeeze: I'm a legitimate adult, but I'm not really prepared to run forward with it. My career ambitions are still uncertain and there really isn't any structure I can look to for guidance (excepting the shimmering dream of grad school--whenever adulthood gets too oppressive, there's always option of grad school!)...what's a boy to do? *Media and cultural criticism. Not porn. Friday, July 19, 2002
The 2002 Miss California Pageant, or Race, Politics, Religion, Family, Arias, and My Sister's Own Personal Hell Pre-Show: Miss Californias 1997 (a striking white woman in a long dress) and 1998 (a bleached-blond black woman in a knee-length skirt) come out on stage, smiling. They run us through all the program's sponsors, pausing to snark on the lack of an automotive sponsor back when they competed, and give us a brief outline of what is to come. They also introduce us to the contestants in what I think is called the California Distinguished Teen competition, but I don't really care, seeing as one of the girls is already wearing the tiara and they STILL try to make us wait a few minutes before confessing who won. Ten minutes of down time. Well, hey, they have to set up. OK, fine. My parents take turns explaining to me how over the past three days, during the preliminaries, the dance sequences were all the same each day--likely to give the contestants lots of practice for tonight, the big night. (I'll state right now that they also provided running commentary over the next three hours. Imagine watching what I'm describing while wearing headphones tuned simultaneously to NPR and the Golf Channel, and you'll get the idea.) (I'll also mention now that MsCA's '97, '98, and '01 did little performances to distract us while the stage was being set up behind the curtain, but I can't remember who did what when.) Then it begins. The contestants march onstage carrying candles as an instrumental of "The Battle Hymn of the Republic" plays, culminating in a thunderous "Glory, glory, halleluuuujah!" as the young women take their places. I marvel. In this era of church-and-state controversies, where singing "God Bless America" is practically a political act, they kick it off with, well, a hymn. About holy war. Without any actual mention of America in it. Miss CA is not a public organization, and I am not in Kansas anymore. However, I'm pretty sure I'm not the only friend of Dorothy here, based on the vibes I'm getting from the male dancers--one of whom is twirling a baton--they're using to supplement the contestants onstage. Wow, there's a tortured metaphor chain. So yeah, there's a medley of tunes about the military, which refers at least to the army, navy (Sadly, "In the Navy" is not the chosen tune, but this is more than made up for at swimsuit time), and air force before my ears shut down. The Miss CA Dancers (about twenty women and five men, dressed in fatigues, some carrying what appear to be fake rocket launchers) do some pretty neat moves up front while the contestants (there are 51 of them, by the way) swing their arms, stomp their feet, and grin madly (all in sync) in the background. I picture their first pratice for this sequence being a fairly miserable affair, with no music in the background and stage directors shouting at them from all angles to put more gumption into what is really a silly-looking move when out of context. The contestants are all announced individually. My father notes that C (my stepsister, and the reason I'm here) doesn't wave, whereas all the other contestants do. My stepmother huffs that waving seems pretty corny to her anyway. This pretty much sums up everything you need to know about my family. Miss California 2001 appears, a vivacious woman with short blond hair who probably jumped and screamed when crowned last year. That would've been fun to see. (She won on her fourth try, and apparently that's not uncommon in pageant culture.) She's apparently our MC for the first couple of hours. Without skipping a beat, she starts off the show by announcing the top ten contestants--the semifinalists. Each of the first nine reacts pretty much the same way: widens eyes, hugs whoever's nearby, skitters up front, hugs some more. Then MsCA'01 is called over to the side of the stage. There's been a mistake! The second semifinalist announced was supposed to be Miss Greater Bay Area, not Miss Greater East Bay! MsGEB slinks back to the crowd of non-semifinalists as I hear myself gasp and say "How heartbreaking!" It truly is. A murmur runs through the audience. But the show must go on. They announce the tenth and final semifinalist, and my Demogra-Vision flashes on with the news that a) she's black, and b) the other nine are overwhelmingly blond. This is how I see the world. It probably drives people crazy to hear me. They jump right into the talent portion. #1: Aria. #2: Showtune. #3: Baton-twirling, to the tune of Ricky Martin's "The Cup of Life." My eyes start watering--one, because I fucking love that song (it managed to not get overplayed in this country), and two, because I'm happy not to see another singer. Here's the thing. Yes, it takes great talent to sing really well, but it doesn't really offer much to the audience in the way of a visual. You have a bunch of people singing two-minute voice-showcases, it all kind of blurs together. #4 sings a tepid song called "A New Life," with the tune brazenly ripped off from Carole King's "So Far Away." It's bad. I miss the showtune. And there are few musical styles I hate more than showtunes (reggae is one, but that's all the ammo you get). #5 is another aria. All right, already. Oh, wait, it's time for an intermission. Already. Intermission-talk from my parents: Blah blah blah, they should let all eleven announced finalists compete (the undeserving will get knocked out anyway), whose fault do you think it is, etc., etc. Too much speculation for me. How did I end up sitting between them? Twenty-odd minutes later, we're back. The executive director of the Miss California Scholarship Organization (I'll call him Mr. Miss for short) begins to make his way onstage, trips over a wire, and falls flat on his face. My stepmother had just told me about the parents' brunch they'd attended the other day, wherein Mr. Miss had made a joke about some of the staffers being from Nevada--he called them wetbacks and said it was OK "because they'd had their shots"--and she was royally pissed off about it. (She continued to talk through the night about alerting the media and asking my advice since I'd worked for Amnesty International and I'd tried to explain that we dealt with political prisoners, not tacky slurs, but...yeah.) So not much sympathy from us. I weighed the pros and cons of flinging my water bottle onto the stage, but relented after admitting to myself that I'd likely hit a judge or someone in the orchestra pit. Mr. Miss gave a short conciliatory speech about the mix-up. Whatever. Stage moms everywhere are fainting. The world is not otherwise over. Back to talent. Four more songs and a ballet performance. The last contestant, Miss Hi-I'm-Black-Please-Stop-Staring, gave a pretty rousing show of "Your Daddy's Son" from Ragtime, but Dad was whispering the whole time about how much better she was at the preliinaries, so I couldn't fully enjoy it. We are distracted for a while by a professional male tap dancer whose name I tried really hard to remember since he was damn good and damn funny, and he did impressions (including Savion Glover, whom I spent a couple of minutes explaining to my parents, Michael Jackson, Fred Astaire, and Michael Flatley). The swimsuit competition begins to the tune of "Let's Get Soakin' Wet" from the Queer as Folk soundtrack. I am beside myself with glee, as I wonder how many other people in the theater were aware of that connection. MsCA'01 is grandstanding like all get-out and it's as silly as the opening was pompous and I love it. As the Top Ten parade around in front (in swimsuits and high heels. WTF? This is so lecherous and undignifying--I'm glad to hear that C would rather have just done sit-ups onstage), the remainder of the contestants pose with inner tubes, floppy hats, rubber duckies, beach balls, and other beach accoutrements. The overall effect is cool, but I can't help thinking those not in the Top Ten are essentially window-dressing for the remainder of the evening. They somehow soldier on, smiling. Oh, is it time for another intermission? OK. (Half an hour passes. I hear later that someone fell off the stage and that had to be dealt with quietly.) Evening gown competition. Can we just skip this? It's basically the same as swimsuit (oh, my bad, "physical fitness"), with more clothes and different music. Miss California 2000 comes out on stage, a sunny-looking Asian woman who still appears bewildered by the incredibility of it all. I find myself wondering what happened to Miss California 1999, as she's the only winner of the past five years not to make an appearance. While we wait for the judges' results, MsCA'00 regales us with a story of how she was finishing her senior year at Stanford and her sister dared her to enter the local pageant (Miss Los Altos Hills--and by the way, I would really like to see a map of all the local jurisdictions that feed to MsCA, because it sounds more heinous than the worst congressional district: there are "cities" and "counties" and "greater areas" and damn, it's weird). She won, then won MsCA and then had to defer her first year of med school at UCSF, and she's just so sweet I wonder if we couldn't have just given her the title again, age limits and voting rules be damned. The results are in: MsCA'00 summarily dispatches five of the semi-finalists. They're kind of quick about changing gears, I notice. Interviewing begins, and it's basically what you expect. One question about the finalist's platform, one random. The only interesting platform question has to do with Miss Young Black Woman (she made it to the final 5! I like her!) and the ed-advocate nonprofit she and her mother founded. "We're in it for the money." A good answer, I thought, but everyone around me declared her sunk. The random questions prove more interesting, and what I'd heard is true--there is a right (wink, wink, nudge) and a wrong answer to each one. My favorite was [not completely verbatim, but the cadence was the same]: Q: How do you feel about the recent court decision that the Pledge of Allegiance is unconstitutional? A: It's horrible. Ours is a nation UNDER GOD, and it was founded as a nation UNDER GOD, and we will always be a people UNDER GOD, and how dare they claim otherwise! The audience cheered, just as they did on the cloning/stem cell research question when the finalist invoked God. I then picture one of them cracking, yelling "God, this sucks," and stalking offstage as the Pavlovian audience claps and cheers, oblivious to context. Is it time for another intermission? Oh, hey! Tap Guy is back! Tap tap tap tap slide-slap toe-tap. Tappity tappity toe-tap. Now I'm thinking about that episode of The Simpsons with Little Vicki and...oh, never mind. Mr. Miss has appeared. The five finalists are lined up. Everyone else (still smiling) in the background. Fourth runner-up: The black one! [Dammit! I liked her!] Third and second: Who cares, I couldn't tell them apart. I think one's a blonde, one's a brunette. First runner-up: Miss Greater Bay Area, whom you'll recall was nearly not announced, due to the earlier screw-up. She seems nice. But then, most of them do. Which makes the winner MISS CONTRA COSTA COUNTY! She who sang that insipid "A New Life" song. I instantly take points off for that. Otherwise, she's Barbie. Vaguely plastic-looking. Whatever. Good luck in October. The tiara is taken from MsCA'01, and it's all over. Just kidding. There's a coronation gala immediately following (scheduled for 10 pm to 1 am) and an awards brunch the next morning (9 am to noon), but there's no way in hell I'm recapping that tedium. Seriously, these young women deserve cash for what they've gone through all week--hardly eating, spending sixteen hours at a time in the theater rehearsing, no outside contact except for a designated half an hour per day in an area that seems strangely reminiscent of a petting zoo. The coronation gala = 0. The only remotely interesting item to report from the awards brunch was (apart from a very strong suspicion that Mr. Miss was drunk off his goat) that the fourth runner-up won Miss Congeniality. Yay, her! |
