...that I'd like this picture. And that I'd link to it on a blog titled "Word-Fu". Even though it's a visual joke.
By the way, it's by someone named Russell Weekes. I found it on his webpage among other of his works (some of which I like and some of which I don't). I found the link initially thanks to kottke.org.
Monday, December 17, 2007
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Daily Coyote
I found this blog the other day via Cute Overload. Pictures and entries about one woman's experience raising an orphaned coyote pup in Wyoming. Enjoy!
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
“It is not down in any map; true places never are.”
I've been thinking about city layouts. It goes without saying that Paris is not laid out like New York or Portland or even London. But it seems like European cities (the ones I've seen so far) are distinctively different than US cities. European cities largely seem to grow up and out around initial markets or other central locations. They are a mess of streets zigzagging to and fro and especially in the larger ones, you cannot navigate without a map, or better yet, a book of maps. Londoners habitually carry with them something called an A to Z (don't forget to pronounce the Zed), and I now fully believe the story I had heard that London cabbies study for years before becoming such.
On my way to get bubble tea two days ago, I rode past Rue Nicolas Flamel. I didn't look thoroughly, but I'm pretty sure there weren't any sorcerer's stones there. I also passed Rue de Rohan, but didn't see any horsemen.
On my way to get bubble tea two days ago, I rode past Rue Nicolas Flamel. I didn't look thoroughly, but I'm pretty sure there weren't any sorcerer's stones there. I also passed Rue de Rohan, but didn't see any horsemen.
Monday, December 3, 2007
Velib'
One thing I've really enjoyed about Paris is fairly new to the city: the Velib' system. Velib' was introduced this June (or early July) by Mayor Betrand Delanoë as an alternative public transportation system in an attempt to reduce city traffic and pollution. It is, essentially, a nearly free public bike exchange. (Velib' comes from velo, bicycle, and libre, free, or libert&eaccute;, liberty.)
How does Velib' work? Funny you should ask. The Velib' system consists of numerous stations situated throughout Paris. Each station includes generally 8 to 25 specially designed bicycles parked at electronic docking stations and linked to a computer terminal that facilitates checking out bikes, finding nearby stations, and getting information. You check out a bike by signing up (with a bank or credit card) for a day-, week-, or year-long pass (1, 5, and 29 Euro respectively) at a terminal and then choosing a bike to check out with your pass. Once you free the bike from its dock, you can ride it anywhere in the city for half an hour before you have to return it to any available dock at any other station. If you're late, you get charged an incrementally increasing fee. If you never return the bike, you have two disadvantages: the bikes are distinctive so everyone will know that you stole one, and you'll be charged 150 Euro for your failure to return it.
Today I needed to go to Shakespeare & Co Bookstore before meeting V and some friends for rehearsal (more on that another time), so I grabbed a Velib' bike and took off north. The bikes are not particularly light and only have three speeds, but you can still get going fairly well with them if you push. And as long as you know (more or less) where you're going, you can make pretty good time. (If you don't, it's easy to get lost; Paris is not easy to navigate without a map.) It only took me about fifteen minutes to go the distance I needed, which was fine with me because it left me time to window shop (faire du lêche-vitrine, or to "window-lick" in French) a bit.
I've been thinking about Velib' a lot lately. I like the system--it has its quirks, but it's neat and clever and accessible. The bikes are already needing a bit of repair, but in general they're sturdy and versatile, equipped with head and tail lights, carrying basket, lock, bell, mud guards, and easily adjustable comfy seat. They're much cheaper than cars and they encourage greater commuter activity. They've been invaluable during the recent strikes (la/les grève;/s). And they create far less pollution than automobiles. Their short range is perfect for city commuting--you can typically get across half the city within your 30-minute free window, and then you can walk or wait for ten minutes to go further. Or if you really need it, you can take the metro, which in Paris is extremely efficient as long as the workers aren't protesting something.
According to Wikipedia, there are similar schemes active in a number of European cities. I'd really like to see this idea take hold in the US, though. I think it would be perfect for a lot of dense cities--New York (provided the bikes aren't stolen or vandalized), Boston, Washington, Seattle, all would be good candidates. Even smaller cities (either Portland, New Haven, etc.) could make good use of such a setup. It would reduce pollution, free up space in the streets by diminishing automobile traffic, and give people a much needed opportunity for exercise without having to buy, store, and protect their own bicycles. Has anyone run into US cities that do such a thing?
How does Velib' work? Funny you should ask. The Velib' system consists of numerous stations situated throughout Paris. Each station includes generally 8 to 25 specially designed bicycles parked at electronic docking stations and linked to a computer terminal that facilitates checking out bikes, finding nearby stations, and getting information. You check out a bike by signing up (with a bank or credit card) for a day-, week-, or year-long pass (1, 5, and 29 Euro respectively) at a terminal and then choosing a bike to check out with your pass. Once you free the bike from its dock, you can ride it anywhere in the city for half an hour before you have to return it to any available dock at any other station. If you're late, you get charged an incrementally increasing fee. If you never return the bike, you have two disadvantages: the bikes are distinctive so everyone will know that you stole one, and you'll be charged 150 Euro for your failure to return it.
Today I needed to go to Shakespeare & Co Bookstore before meeting V and some friends for rehearsal (more on that another time), so I grabbed a Velib' bike and took off north. The bikes are not particularly light and only have three speeds, but you can still get going fairly well with them if you push. And as long as you know (more or less) where you're going, you can make pretty good time. (If you don't, it's easy to get lost; Paris is not easy to navigate without a map.) It only took me about fifteen minutes to go the distance I needed, which was fine with me because it left me time to window shop (faire du lêche-vitrine, or to "window-lick" in French) a bit.
I've been thinking about Velib' a lot lately. I like the system--it has its quirks, but it's neat and clever and accessible. The bikes are already needing a bit of repair, but in general they're sturdy and versatile, equipped with head and tail lights, carrying basket, lock, bell, mud guards, and easily adjustable comfy seat. They're much cheaper than cars and they encourage greater commuter activity. They've been invaluable during the recent strikes (la/les grève;/s). And they create far less pollution than automobiles. Their short range is perfect for city commuting--you can typically get across half the city within your 30-minute free window, and then you can walk or wait for ten minutes to go further. Or if you really need it, you can take the metro, which in Paris is extremely efficient as long as the workers aren't protesting something.
According to Wikipedia, there are similar schemes active in a number of European cities. I'd really like to see this idea take hold in the US, though. I think it would be perfect for a lot of dense cities--New York (provided the bikes aren't stolen or vandalized), Boston, Washington, Seattle, all would be good candidates. Even smaller cities (either Portland, New Haven, etc.) could make good use of such a setup. It would reduce pollution, free up space in the streets by diminishing automobile traffic, and give people a much needed opportunity for exercise without having to buy, store, and protect their own bicycles. Has anyone run into US cities that do such a thing?
Friday, November 30, 2007
Habits, Addictions, and Old Comforts
One of the funnier things about living in another country, I've been learning, is discovering what you miss about your own country. Since I moved to the UK in September, I'd been feeling a large sense of relief at "escaping" the US. I was excited to experience a new culture and to be free of the confines of my own at least enough to see better what they were. I felt I had missed something by not going abroad during my junior year of college, and now I was making up for it. (I was, and still am, also pursuing love and romance with an amazing woman.)
I was, I'll admit, a little disappointed at the less-than-exotic feel of England at first. The language wasn't very different and the culture didn't seem so either, to begin with. I could get many of the same foods--I could even go into a Burger King or a Starbucks if I felt so inclined. But everyone around me spoke like a movie villain, which in itself was pretty cool. It was also sometimes absurd, as when a perfect posh British or Cockney accent spewed from the mouth of a 3-year-old. But I'm sure the same is felt by Brits coming to the United States.
Still, in England, there were some things I started to miss: bubble tea (which I've really been missing since I left Portland, OR), for one, and, surprisingly, salt and vinegar potato chips (sorry, crisps). The English are huge fans of salt and vinegar crisps (sorry, chips), but none of the varieties I found used very strong vinegar--always malt or cider or occasionally balsamic, none of which had the right bite. (Boo, pout, tantrum, etc.)
Ironically, now that I'm in Paris with V, I've been missing something I discovered in the UK: namely, Fentiman's Curiosity Cola. It's fantastic! Delicious and addicting! And it hits a bit of a weak spot in me, i.e., my taste for gourmet sodas. What's strange, though, is that it has got me drinking Coca-Cola again (somewhat). I stopped in the States because I stopped liking it, and because it made my stomach uncomfortable and gave me heartburn, and because I had begun to read about the negative aspects of high-fructose corn syrup. But Fentiman's addiction plus the discovery that in Europe, Coke is made with sugar rather than corn syrup, has got me opening up to it again. But I'm not sure I'm very happy about this. I'd rather be drinking Curiosity Cola. Heh.
But it's also interesting to note that despite my relief at moving outside of the US (which is partly relief at escaping a sphere of movement that had become too confining for me at the moment), I find myself taking little bits of pleasure in chance encounters with "American" things--a Snickers bar on the shelf in a magasin, a snippet of conversation in US English, and most especially Thanksgiving dinner. I think this is largely the comforting effect of familiarity--of receiving small reminders of an old home that I no longer live in (for now), and needed to leave, but that is still in some ways home, if only because it and I have so much connection.
I was, I'll admit, a little disappointed at the less-than-exotic feel of England at first. The language wasn't very different and the culture didn't seem so either, to begin with. I could get many of the same foods--I could even go into a Burger King or a Starbucks if I felt so inclined. But everyone around me spoke like a movie villain, which in itself was pretty cool. It was also sometimes absurd, as when a perfect posh British or Cockney accent spewed from the mouth of a 3-year-old. But I'm sure the same is felt by Brits coming to the United States.
Still, in England, there were some things I started to miss: bubble tea (which I've really been missing since I left Portland, OR), for one, and, surprisingly, salt and vinegar potato chips (sorry, crisps). The English are huge fans of salt and vinegar crisps (sorry, chips), but none of the varieties I found used very strong vinegar--always malt or cider or occasionally balsamic, none of which had the right bite. (Boo, pout, tantrum, etc.)
Ironically, now that I'm in Paris with V, I've been missing something I discovered in the UK: namely, Fentiman's Curiosity Cola. It's fantastic! Delicious and addicting! And it hits a bit of a weak spot in me, i.e., my taste for gourmet sodas. What's strange, though, is that it has got me drinking Coca-Cola again (somewhat). I stopped in the States because I stopped liking it, and because it made my stomach uncomfortable and gave me heartburn, and because I had begun to read about the negative aspects of high-fructose corn syrup. But Fentiman's addiction plus the discovery that in Europe, Coke is made with sugar rather than corn syrup, has got me opening up to it again. But I'm not sure I'm very happy about this. I'd rather be drinking Curiosity Cola. Heh.
But it's also interesting to note that despite my relief at moving outside of the US (which is partly relief at escaping a sphere of movement that had become too confining for me at the moment), I find myself taking little bits of pleasure in chance encounters with "American" things--a Snickers bar on the shelf in a magasin, a snippet of conversation in US English, and most especially Thanksgiving dinner. I think this is largely the comforting effect of familiarity--of receiving small reminders of an old home that I no longer live in (for now), and needed to leave, but that is still in some ways home, if only because it and I have so much connection.
Friday, November 23, 2007
Thanksgiving in Paris
The first big thing V and I have done since I moved over to Paris eleven days ago was to plan a Thanksgiving dinner for our (read: chiefly her but also becoming my) friends. In theory, it seemed kind of complicated to me: I had in my mind visions of Sinister House galas, twenty-five people spread out across living room and kitchen happily devouring a plethora of pot-luck meals, and I didn't really know how we could equal that glory, especially in our smaller dining space (which is not small by Parisian standards, but is easily dwarfed by the SH kitchen, which dwarfs many things, including elephants). Thankfully, V insisted a week before I moved over that if we were to do it at all, we needed to plan it now.
So Thanksgiving it was going to be. I felt that we couldn't fit many people in the house (the dining table only holds 6 to 8) and imagined an intimate dinner with 5 or 6 close friends chatting face to face across the table. But the guest list expanded as we created it and we discovered that there were no less than 14 people we couldn't not invite. So be it--we could figure out space later.
Initially, too, we tried to arrange for a pot-luck affair in order to divvy up the cost and labor of foodmaking, but since many of our friends don't get out of work until at least 7pm and for some reason the French government hasn't set aside holiday time for Thanksgiving, this didn't work out. In the end, our friend Nusha, a pastry chef in training, made the desserts (wow, did she ever!) and V and I planned and cooked the main meal with a bit of later help from Nusha and Marie.
To sum up so far: the initial idea, a small potluck dinner for 6 doubles in size and becomes a feast for 13 (1 couldn't make it) cooked by 2 with dessert by a 3rd.
Now, I know my stepmother frequently manages large gourmet meals for family and guests completely on her own, but she's a very practiced and dedicated amateur chef. I love cooking, but I do not have her experience or skill. So what surprised me tremendously, after researching recipes (thanks, AllRecipes.com!), was how amazingly doable a Thanksgiving feast is (given, of course, time).
Granted, desserts would have required a good deal of additional planning, and perhaps another day of preparation, but in the end, the process wasn't bad. I made the cranberry sauce (actually, sauce aux airelles because we couldn't find cranberries) the night before because it was easy and needed chilling. I also cut up some baguettes for stuffing and laid them out to air-dry a bit. Thursday, while Virginia was at work, I made the rest of the stuffing (celery, onion, herbs & spices, chicken stock) and began to prep the mashed potatoes. When V got home, she set about making corn bread and I seasoned the turkey and set it in the oven. Then she finished the potatoes while I cleaned. Nusha came over and made a salad and then I made gravy.
By this time, most of the guests had arrived and were getting hungry so we let the turkey out of the oven to play with some carving knives before serving everything. Along with the several bottles of wine that showed up with the invitees, we had a pretty savory meal. Thirteen people crowded around two tables stretched between dining and cooking areas, the room filled with banter and conversation.
Chef's Review
As I noted above, most of the recipes came from AllRecipes.com, and practically all of them were both good and fairly uncomplicated.
Cranberry sauce is pretty much just cranberry sauce--the recipe I found didn't differ significantly from the one printed on the backs of Ocean Spray cranberry packs, and we only added orange zest at the end because we could and to account for the slightly sweeter taste of the airelles. (I added a little extra sugar at first because V found a source on the Web that suggested airelles were a bit sourer than cranberries. In retrospect, I think this wasn't necessary. Also in retrospect, more flavor might be pulled from the orange zest if it's added before cooking the cranberries.)
The mashed potatoes were excellent: light, fluffy, and full of flavor. Virginia got amazing compliments on them and many questions about what went into them.
The homemade stuffing turned out well, but possibly could have used some more salt or broth to flavor it. Maybe if we had found space inside the turkeys....
The turkey was probably the best Thanksgiving turkey I've ever had. Due to issues of availability and oven size, we used two 3kg birds, frozen and prestuffed with some sort of giblet-and-chestnut mixture. They thawed easily and cooked simultaneously in 1h40m. I think their small size helped them cook well without losing too much moisture; the herb and oil rub specified by the recipe became a sauce that we used to baste the birds, and probably also contributed a lot to their moistness. And the flavors...wow.
The gravy was also good, but it started off very liquidy and reducing it took a long time. We shortened the process by adding in a "dry roux" (thanks, Nusha!), basically a tablespoon or so of butter and the same of flour mixed together, moistened with a few spoonfuls of the gravy, and then mixed in. I used chicken stock instead of turkey, but added pan drippings from the turkey for extra flavor.
Only the cornbread disappointed me and V, though no one else offered complaint. It was a decent recipe but not spectacular, just slightly too salty and powdery, not sweet enough for me and too sweet for Virginia. We chose the recipe because we couldn't find vegetable shortening in the stores here.
Even with 13 people, we still have leftovers, though by now they're down to some remaining stuffing and a little bit of turkey. Last night we took care of most of the meat by making a delicious turkey pot pie. (That's your cue to get jealous.)
So Thanksgiving it was going to be. I felt that we couldn't fit many people in the house (the dining table only holds 6 to 8) and imagined an intimate dinner with 5 or 6 close friends chatting face to face across the table. But the guest list expanded as we created it and we discovered that there were no less than 14 people we couldn't not invite. So be it--we could figure out space later.
Initially, too, we tried to arrange for a pot-luck affair in order to divvy up the cost and labor of foodmaking, but since many of our friends don't get out of work until at least 7pm and for some reason the French government hasn't set aside holiday time for Thanksgiving, this didn't work out. In the end, our friend Nusha, a pastry chef in training, made the desserts (wow, did she ever!) and V and I planned and cooked the main meal with a bit of later help from Nusha and Marie.
To sum up so far: the initial idea, a small potluck dinner for 6 doubles in size and becomes a feast for 13 (1 couldn't make it) cooked by 2 with dessert by a 3rd.
Now, I know my stepmother frequently manages large gourmet meals for family and guests completely on her own, but she's a very practiced and dedicated amateur chef. I love cooking, but I do not have her experience or skill. So what surprised me tremendously, after researching recipes (thanks, AllRecipes.com!), was how amazingly doable a Thanksgiving feast is (given, of course, time).
Granted, desserts would have required a good deal of additional planning, and perhaps another day of preparation, but in the end, the process wasn't bad. I made the cranberry sauce (actually, sauce aux airelles because we couldn't find cranberries) the night before because it was easy and needed chilling. I also cut up some baguettes for stuffing and laid them out to air-dry a bit. Thursday, while Virginia was at work, I made the rest of the stuffing (celery, onion, herbs & spices, chicken stock) and began to prep the mashed potatoes. When V got home, she set about making corn bread and I seasoned the turkey and set it in the oven. Then she finished the potatoes while I cleaned. Nusha came over and made a salad and then I made gravy.
By this time, most of the guests had arrived and were getting hungry so we let the turkey out of the oven to play with some carving knives before serving everything. Along with the several bottles of wine that showed up with the invitees, we had a pretty savory meal. Thirteen people crowded around two tables stretched between dining and cooking areas, the room filled with banter and conversation.
Chef's Review
As I noted above, most of the recipes came from AllRecipes.com, and practically all of them were both good and fairly uncomplicated.
Cranberry sauce is pretty much just cranberry sauce--the recipe I found didn't differ significantly from the one printed on the backs of Ocean Spray cranberry packs, and we only added orange zest at the end because we could and to account for the slightly sweeter taste of the airelles. (I added a little extra sugar at first because V found a source on the Web that suggested airelles were a bit sourer than cranberries. In retrospect, I think this wasn't necessary. Also in retrospect, more flavor might be pulled from the orange zest if it's added before cooking the cranberries.)
The mashed potatoes were excellent: light, fluffy, and full of flavor. Virginia got amazing compliments on them and many questions about what went into them.
The homemade stuffing turned out well, but possibly could have used some more salt or broth to flavor it. Maybe if we had found space inside the turkeys....
The turkey was probably the best Thanksgiving turkey I've ever had. Due to issues of availability and oven size, we used two 3kg birds, frozen and prestuffed with some sort of giblet-and-chestnut mixture. They thawed easily and cooked simultaneously in 1h40m. I think their small size helped them cook well without losing too much moisture; the herb and oil rub specified by the recipe became a sauce that we used to baste the birds, and probably also contributed a lot to their moistness. And the flavors...wow.
The gravy was also good, but it started off very liquidy and reducing it took a long time. We shortened the process by adding in a "dry roux" (thanks, Nusha!), basically a tablespoon or so of butter and the same of flour mixed together, moistened with a few spoonfuls of the gravy, and then mixed in. I used chicken stock instead of turkey, but added pan drippings from the turkey for extra flavor.
Only the cornbread disappointed me and V, though no one else offered complaint. It was a decent recipe but not spectacular, just slightly too salty and powdery, not sweet enough for me and too sweet for Virginia. We chose the recipe because we couldn't find vegetable shortening in the stores here.
Even with 13 people, we still have leftovers, though by now they're down to some remaining stuffing and a little bit of turkey. Last night we took care of most of the meat by making a delicious turkey pot pie. (That's your cue to get jealous.)
Monday, October 29, 2007
Flip!
My first post from England (shameful: I got here 2 months ago) and it's to say I'm leaving. Decided to move in with Virginia in Paris; now I'm plotting logistics. She'll be out late Tuesday night, we'll go up Wednesday to stay with Julia and Angus in Gloucester, return to London on Sunday, stay the night so that she can get out early in the morning (she'll take a small bag of our stuff with her). Then I'll go back up to stay with J & A for the week, take half of my things over to Paris on the weekend, return on Sunday in time to meet up with my old friend Richard in London Monday and/or Tuesday and/or Wednesday. Then I'll retrieve the rest of my stuff from Gloucester or Reading (wherever it happens to be) and head over to Paris later in the week.
At least, I hope that's how it'll work ;-). Planned events often take unexpected twist. But really, all should be okay--the biggest trouble, I think, is transporting my belongings, which seem to have grown since I came over. Damn.
At least, I hope that's how it'll work ;-). Planned events often take unexpected twist. But really, all should be okay--the biggest trouble, I think, is transporting my belongings, which seem to have grown since I came over. Damn.
Friday, July 13, 2007
Journey
I'm flying to London today to spend a long-awaited two weeks with Virginia. I'll also be visiting some family friends and Julia and her counterpart, Angus.
I'm flying Air India, and finalizing my packing now, before leaving for work. (Crap. Where did my car keys go?)
I'll talk to you all in August when I return!
I'm flying Air India, and finalizing my packing now, before leaving for work. (Crap. Where did my car keys go?)
I'll talk to you all in August when I return!
Sunday, July 1, 2007
After-dinner Conversation
Gmail Chat with Gary Ploski
7/01/07 at 9:43 PM
me: So you know, I just made some awesome guacamole.
Sent at 9:43 PM on Sunday
me: And what's more, I used a recipe from the Nile delta region. I made guac like an Egyptian!
Sent at 9:44 PM on Sunday
me: Sigh. Nobody around to appreciate my puns.
Seriously, though, I did make some pretty good guac.
*For those who are interested, I diced a medium/large pearl onion (perhaps half the size of a golf ball), two or three decent-sized cloves or garlic, two and a half Hass avocados (one half was rotten), and a green jalapeno and mashed them all together till I had a nice lumpy, gooey consistency. Then I squozed [sic]** in the juice from one lime and added salt and pepper to taste, and mixed thoroughly. I suppose if you like tomatoes in your guac, you could add two diced medium Roma tomatoes here. I don't, so I didn't.
**It's a verb. Just ask my mother. She's an editor.
***Fine, I admit it. I got the whole idea from a Trader Joe's "guacamole kit" that I bought for $2.50 today. But it's a simple thing to put together and it had ideas that went beyond my own for making yummy avocado paste, and all the necessary ingredients came in one little container.
7/01/07 at 9:43 PM
me: So you know, I just made some awesome guacamole.
Sent at 9:43 PM on Sunday
me: And what's more, I used a recipe from the Nile delta region. I made guac like an Egyptian!
Sent at 9:44 PM on Sunday
me: Sigh. Nobody around to appreciate my puns.
Seriously, though, I did make some pretty good guac.
*For those who are interested, I diced a medium/large pearl onion (perhaps half the size of a golf ball), two or three decent-sized cloves or garlic, two and a half Hass avocados (one half was rotten), and a green jalapeno and mashed them all together till I had a nice lumpy, gooey consistency. Then I squozed [sic]** in the juice from one lime and added salt and pepper to taste, and mixed thoroughly. I suppose if you like tomatoes in your guac, you could add two diced medium Roma tomatoes here. I don't, so I didn't.
**It's a verb. Just ask my mother. She's an editor.
***Fine, I admit it. I got the whole idea from a Trader Joe's "guacamole kit" that I bought for $2.50 today. But it's a simple thing to put together and it had ideas that went beyond my own for making yummy avocado paste, and all the necessary ingredients came in one little container.
Tuesday, June 26, 2007
Monday, June 18, 2007
Heroes
*SPOILER WARNING* This post contains many many spoilers about the TV show Heroes. If you are interested in watching but have not seen it, do not read this post.
Virginia has led me to watch the NBC drama Heroes, which follows the emergence of a bunch of individuals with superpowers around the world (well, chiefly the United States and Japan). I just finished the first (and thus far only) season last night; my overall opinion: decent show, decent story, some interesting characters and very interesting powers, but major plot and character development flaws. I really wonder how the writers missed so many of them. For instance:
1) Claire Bennet should not have been alive in the future. By surviving, she ruins the whole "Save the cheerleader, save the world" bit, which is huge in the early story and big in the end as well. My logic: Sylar eats heroes' brains to gain their powers. Claire can regenerate from any injury. If Sylar gains her power, he becomes invulnerable and when Hiro runs him through with a katana, he does not collapse, and thus survives the final confrontation and manages to force Peter Petrelli to blow up New York. However, he has to kill her to gain her power. When everyone thinks she's dead, this works, but as soon as we find her in hiding somewhere, we know that Sylar didn't kill her and therefore didn't gain the ability to regenerate and should have been killed in the showdown in New York. (It is possible that, with Sylar's escape at end of season, he is still on the loose as he was in the Future, and thus can still cause some of the trouble that happened in the Future--but since there has been no explosion in New York, the Future we saw will not come to pass in the same way, so this argument doesn't fly very far without further support, and anyway it becomes, as one of my teachers likes to put it, "a case of intelligent people making good guesses," which means that there isn't really enough information presented in the work itself to draw useful conclusions.
2) Peter Petrelli should probably have begun exhibiting a bunch of random powers, and definitely should have randomly stopped time/teleported. He absorbs the powers of others around him, and he met Future Hiro early on, before he had any control of his abilities, so he probably should have randomly expressed Hiro's powers, just as he did with others he met.
3) There was a fourth (and fifth and sixth) way to solve the "Do I blow up New York" problem. Nathan did not have to die. Peter knows how to fly, and despite his apparent whining, can actually deliberately control his powers, and knows it--he flies to save Claude Raines, he turns invisible at will, he learns to use telekinesis and even perhaps stop time (when attacked by Bennet and the Haitian), and he can regenerate at will now. He has learned the key to mastering his powers. He may not completely have it, but certain ones he knows well already. So even if he can't figure out how to control the radiation power he absorbed from Ted, and I don't buy that he can't, but even if, he can fly under his own power and he can teleport. The latter is a risky option because he has never tried it and doesn't know how to control it, but he has flown under his own will several times, and could easily fly high into the sky, explode, regenerate, and return to earth. And speaking of regeneration, we should remember that he, Claire, and Nathan all know Peter can regenerate like Claire now. Claire, in fact, has regenerated from mortal injuries several times, including one in which an object punctured her brain. She remained dead until the object was removed, at which point, she recovered. Same happened to Peter with the shard of glass. So a little bullet? Shouldn't cause any problem. All three characters in this crucial scene know this fact. Claire can easily shoot Peter to stop his power, then remove the bullet and let him recover, once again calm. Or, to be extra safe, Nathan can fly Peter somewhere far away and safe, or high into the sky, remove the bullet, and leave. Then, if Peter still can't control his radiation power, he can explode safely, away from a major population center.
4) Candace. Future Sylar says that he "met a girl named Candace who allowed him to become president," meaning that he found Candace, killed her, ate her brain, absorbed her power, and can create illusions at will. He also says that he made everyone think that he was the cause of the explosion in New York City by using her powers. The implication is that he covered the fact that Peter exploded, made himself look like Nathan Petrelli or made himself invisible, and then turned that to his advantage. Thus, he has to have met Candace before in order to kill her, and time-wise this seems to have to fall into the space before his battle at the Plaza. But he never meets with Candace, there's no opportunity, and D.L. and Nikki/Jessica take her out almost immediately before they enter the battle. If they hadn't been there, Candace's job was still to guard Micah on the 42nd floor of Linderman's office building, so she wouldn't have left and would likely not have met Sylar. Yes, it is possible that events could happen in another way, but this is a probable unwinding of them.
6) Peter Petrelli, nice guy with cool powers, is not handled well. His power is to mimic the powers of those around him, and to be able (eventually) to recall these powers at will. He first exhibits this power in a very uncontrolled fashion, flying w/o meaning to while his brother is present, regenerating when Claire is around, reading minds next to Matt Parker, but being unable to restrain or direct any of these abilities, or even recall them consciously later. (This power is a very nice mirror to Sylar's absorbing power--Sylar's is violent and predatory; Peter's is symbiotic, or at the least commensalistic.) Initially, Peter cannot choose whose powers to absorb, and cannot choose how or when to express those powers. Throughout the series, it is stated that "heroes" are emerging all over the place, and implied that many are keeping themselves secret due to fear of prejudice or scrutiny or danger. Conceivably, Peter could wind up near to one or several such people without realizing it, and absorb powers from some unknown source, rather than simply absorbing plot-relevant powers from plot-relevant characters. Why doesn't he? Also, Peter learns awfully quickly to control his powers somewhat, but then, in the final showdown, he seems to feel that he cannot handle himself. From a character standpoint, I understand some of this--he has always been the little brother, always relied on his older brother and his parents' support. But if you show him growing out of that successfully, as is done with Peter after he meets Claude Raines, you cannot suddenly take it back when it is convenient for a plot climax, as was done with the season showdown.
Execution:
Sylar should not have lived. He was done as a character, in my opinion. And he was stabbed through the stomach and then sliced open across the belly. And we know he's vulnerable now that he has not had access to Claire's abilities. & Why didn't Hero finish the job?
Virginia has led me to watch the NBC drama Heroes, which follows the emergence of a bunch of individuals with superpowers around the world (well, chiefly the United States and Japan). I just finished the first (and thus far only) season last night; my overall opinion: decent show, decent story, some interesting characters and very interesting powers, but major plot and character development flaws. I really wonder how the writers missed so many of them. For instance:
1) Claire Bennet should not have been alive in the future. By surviving, she ruins the whole "Save the cheerleader, save the world" bit, which is huge in the early story and big in the end as well. My logic: Sylar eats heroes' brains to gain their powers. Claire can regenerate from any injury. If Sylar gains her power, he becomes invulnerable and when Hiro runs him through with a katana, he does not collapse, and thus survives the final confrontation and manages to force Peter Petrelli to blow up New York. However, he has to kill her to gain her power. When everyone thinks she's dead, this works, but as soon as we find her in hiding somewhere, we know that Sylar didn't kill her and therefore didn't gain the ability to regenerate and should have been killed in the showdown in New York. (It is possible that, with Sylar's escape at end of season, he is still on the loose as he was in the Future, and thus can still cause some of the trouble that happened in the Future--but since there has been no explosion in New York, the Future we saw will not come to pass in the same way, so this argument doesn't fly very far without further support, and anyway it becomes, as one of my teachers likes to put it, "a case of intelligent people making good guesses," which means that there isn't really enough information presented in the work itself to draw useful conclusions.
2) Peter Petrelli should probably have begun exhibiting a bunch of random powers, and definitely should have randomly stopped time/teleported. He absorbs the powers of others around him, and he met Future Hiro early on, before he had any control of his abilities, so he probably should have randomly expressed Hiro's powers, just as he did with others he met.
3) There was a fourth (and fifth and sixth) way to solve the "Do I blow up New York" problem. Nathan did not have to die. Peter knows how to fly, and despite his apparent whining, can actually deliberately control his powers, and knows it--he flies to save Claude Raines, he turns invisible at will, he learns to use telekinesis and even perhaps stop time (when attacked by Bennet and the Haitian), and he can regenerate at will now. He has learned the key to mastering his powers. He may not completely have it, but certain ones he knows well already. So even if he can't figure out how to control the radiation power he absorbed from Ted, and I don't buy that he can't, but even if, he can fly under his own power and he can teleport. The latter is a risky option because he has never tried it and doesn't know how to control it, but he has flown under his own will several times, and could easily fly high into the sky, explode, regenerate, and return to earth. And speaking of regeneration, we should remember that he, Claire, and Nathan all know Peter can regenerate like Claire now. Claire, in fact, has regenerated from mortal injuries several times, including one in which an object punctured her brain. She remained dead until the object was removed, at which point, she recovered. Same happened to Peter with the shard of glass. So a little bullet? Shouldn't cause any problem. All three characters in this crucial scene know this fact. Claire can easily shoot Peter to stop his power, then remove the bullet and let him recover, once again calm. Or, to be extra safe, Nathan can fly Peter somewhere far away and safe, or high into the sky, remove the bullet, and leave. Then, if Peter still can't control his radiation power, he can explode safely, away from a major population center.
4) Candace. Future Sylar says that he "met a girl named Candace who allowed him to become president," meaning that he found Candace, killed her, ate her brain, absorbed her power, and can create illusions at will. He also says that he made everyone think that he was the cause of the explosion in New York City by using her powers. The implication is that he covered the fact that Peter exploded, made himself look like Nathan Petrelli or made himself invisible, and then turned that to his advantage. Thus, he has to have met Candace before in order to kill her, and time-wise this seems to have to fall into the space before his battle at the Plaza. But he never meets with Candace, there's no opportunity, and D.L. and Nikki/Jessica take her out almost immediately before they enter the battle. If they hadn't been there, Candace's job was still to guard Micah on the 42nd floor of Linderman's office building, so she wouldn't have left and would likely not have met Sylar. Yes, it is possible that events could happen in another way, but this is a probable unwinding of them.
6) Peter Petrelli, nice guy with cool powers, is not handled well. His power is to mimic the powers of those around him, and to be able (eventually) to recall these powers at will. He first exhibits this power in a very uncontrolled fashion, flying w/o meaning to while his brother is present, regenerating when Claire is around, reading minds next to Matt Parker, but being unable to restrain or direct any of these abilities, or even recall them consciously later. (This power is a very nice mirror to Sylar's absorbing power--Sylar's is violent and predatory; Peter's is symbiotic, or at the least commensalistic.) Initially, Peter cannot choose whose powers to absorb, and cannot choose how or when to express those powers. Throughout the series, it is stated that "heroes" are emerging all over the place, and implied that many are keeping themselves secret due to fear of prejudice or scrutiny or danger. Conceivably, Peter could wind up near to one or several such people without realizing it, and absorb powers from some unknown source, rather than simply absorbing plot-relevant powers from plot-relevant characters. Why doesn't he? Also, Peter learns awfully quickly to control his powers somewhat, but then, in the final showdown, he seems to feel that he cannot handle himself. From a character standpoint, I understand some of this--he has always been the little brother, always relied on his older brother and his parents' support. But if you show him growing out of that successfully, as is done with Peter after he meets Claude Raines, you cannot suddenly take it back when it is convenient for a plot climax, as was done with the season showdown.
Execution:
Sylar should not have lived. He was done as a character, in my opinion. And he was stabbed through the stomach and then sliced open across the belly. And we know he's vulnerable now that he has not had access to Claire's abilities. & Why didn't Hero finish the job?
Friday, June 1, 2007
Of Dwarves and Toilets
This weekend I'm visiting my mom, who lives in Maryland, and my sister and her boyfriend, who live in Arizona and are visiting Mom. I meant to leave this morning after renewing my driver's license, but due to delays at the DMV and delays at home (I forgot about a parking ticket and several other things that had to be dealt with before I left), I didn't get on the road until about 3:30 this afternoon, and finally made it down to Mom's house at 10:30 this evening. I hit traffic over the George Washington Bridge, which isn't unusual but is often slow, and I hit traffic going onto the New Jersey Turnpike (toll booth) and traffic leaving the toll booth (merging and construction). Plus I got tired a couple times. So a 5-hour drive became a 7-hour drive, and on the way I had some nice mundane adventures on the john. (Don't worry, I'm not going to tell you about my bowel movements.)
Really, what it was is that I sat down on the toilet in one of the stalls at the Vince Lombardi Rest Stop (yes, New Jersey names their rest stops--there's one named for Walt Whitman, who probably convulsed in his grave on hearing about it--or, really, given that it's Walt, thought it was fine because life's pretty wonderful)--I sat down on the toilet to mind my business, and after a short while the toilet flushed. "Oh!" I thought, startled. "I hadn't noticed this was an automatic toilet." I adjusted myself a bit for comfort and the toilet flushed again, as if to say "Yup, that's me. Automatic Toilet." I looked over my shoulder at the infrared sensor. No expression. I looked back ahead of me and the toilet flushed again. And again. And again. Then it waited a few minutes and flushed again. And waited. And flushed. And waited. And flushed. All told, it must have drained itself at least 7 or 8 times while I was sitting there--initially an annoying experience, but eventually pretty funny. Now, though, as I think about it, I'm pretty sure the toilet was out to get me.
After I made it to my mom's and had spent ample time hugging people--Auds, who I hadn't seen in a year (:'-(), Santiago (her boyfriend), Grady (mom's close friend and current housemate, and someone who has known Auds and I since we were pre-adolescents), and Mom herself--all of us except Grady were hangin' out in Mom's room and we realized that we had been missing a few of the names of the Seven Dwarves. (Don't ask where that topic came from; I don't remember.) So we remembered a bunch of them. Here a few of the ones we recalled (first, the heightened vocab originals):
Somnolent
Infuriated
Medicinal
Medicated
Prozac
Flaccid (the Dwarf who can't get it up)
Viagra
Vicodin
Froggy (an inside joke referring to a dance Auds & Santiago made up called Froggy on the Moon, which is really quite hilarious if you're me or Audrey or Santiago or Mom or Dad or probably Virginia or Bret, but outside of that group may just seem weird)
Schleppy
Schmo
And on that note, my friends, I am going to write my love a note to tell her I arrived safely and then I am going to bed.
Really, what it was is that I sat down on the toilet in one of the stalls at the Vince Lombardi Rest Stop (yes, New Jersey names their rest stops--there's one named for Walt Whitman, who probably convulsed in his grave on hearing about it--or, really, given that it's Walt, thought it was fine because life's pretty wonderful)--I sat down on the toilet to mind my business, and after a short while the toilet flushed. "Oh!" I thought, startled. "I hadn't noticed this was an automatic toilet." I adjusted myself a bit for comfort and the toilet flushed again, as if to say "Yup, that's me. Automatic Toilet." I looked over my shoulder at the infrared sensor. No expression. I looked back ahead of me and the toilet flushed again. And again. And again. Then it waited a few minutes and flushed again. And waited. And flushed. And waited. And flushed. All told, it must have drained itself at least 7 or 8 times while I was sitting there--initially an annoying experience, but eventually pretty funny. Now, though, as I think about it, I'm pretty sure the toilet was out to get me.
After I made it to my mom's and had spent ample time hugging people--Auds, who I hadn't seen in a year (:'-(), Santiago (her boyfriend), Grady (mom's close friend and current housemate, and someone who has known Auds and I since we were pre-adolescents), and Mom herself--all of us except Grady were hangin' out in Mom's room and we realized that we had been missing a few of the names of the Seven Dwarves. (Don't ask where that topic came from; I don't remember.) So we remembered a bunch of them. Here a few of the ones we recalled (first, the heightened vocab originals):
Somnolent
Infuriated
Medicinal
Medicated
Prozac
Flaccid (the Dwarf who can't get it up)
Viagra
Vicodin
Froggy (an inside joke referring to a dance Auds & Santiago made up called Froggy on the Moon, which is really quite hilarious if you're me or Audrey or Santiago or Mom or Dad or probably Virginia or Bret, but outside of that group may just seem weird)
Schleppy
Schmo
And on that note, my friends, I am going to write my love a note to tell her I arrived safely and then I am going to bed.
Wednesday, May 23, 2007
Absence
Virginia returned to Paris on Sunday (arrival Monday) and for the past few days I have been feeling listless, unmotivated, bored at best and sometimes down and blue. We've been chatting via Gmail and talking briefly on the phone--today we had our first opportunity for longer conversation during my lunch break. Hearing her on the phone was wonderful, but I miss her physical presence. We're both a little scared about this whole experience, too. For me, this is the first time I've really really been in love and had a solid foundation for a long distance relationship, and that, oddly, makes me more frightened: I don't want to lose Virginia. Deep down I know I won't, and I know we'll make it through whatever sort of long distance relationship we have--but surface worries and my definite lack of solutions that encompass all of my major worries right now (how do I get to be near V again, how do I get a solid job that pays me well, how do I make that job a teaching job that furthers my professional ambitions) make for a rough time.
Thankfully, V and I have already arranged our first visit. I'm going to London and Paris to see her during the last two weeks of July (13 to 30), and she's going to show me around. Yay! We've also been following the very practical and reassuring advice of Julia and Angus, who carried on a 2-year LDR across the Atlantic before marrying, which made it possible for her to emigrate to Gloucestershire to be with him. (That wasn't the only reason they married. They recently visited me for graduation, and it was a lot of fun to see how in love they are, and how much fun they have with each other. It was inspiring.)
Thankfully, V and I have already arranged our first visit. I'm going to London and Paris to see her during the last two weeks of July (13 to 30), and she's going to show me around. Yay! We've also been following the very practical and reassuring advice of Julia and Angus, who carried on a 2-year LDR across the Atlantic before marrying, which made it possible for her to emigrate to Gloucestershire to be with him. (That wasn't the only reason they married. They recently visited me for graduation, and it was a lot of fun to see how in love they are, and how much fun they have with each other. It was inspiring.)
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Emo Philips
Long ago, many many eons ago, my father rented a video (yea, back when VHS was dominant and audio cassettes still walked the earth, though they were a dying breed) of a comedian by the name of Emo Philips performing at Harvard's Hasty Pudding Theatre. To call Emo Philips odd would be, well, accurate. It'd also be a huge understatement. Needless to say, we (and several of my high school friends) enjoyed his performance thoroughly. I think I watched that video something like ten times before we returned it.
On a lark tonight I got my coworker, Seth, to look up Emo Philips on YouTube. Here are the results of his search. May you all enjoy them as much as I did, or at least come away with a deeper understanding of the strangeness that lurks in my family.
On a lark tonight I got my coworker, Seth, to look up Emo Philips on YouTube. Here are the results of his search. May you all enjoy them as much as I did, or at least come away with a deeper understanding of the strangeness that lurks in my family.
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
Birthday Opera
A few weeks ago (3/28/07), Virginia took me out to dinner and the opera for my birthday (which was 3/26/07). Neither of us had been before, so it was a new evening for both of us. We ate at a very nice Chinese/Japanese restaurant near Lincoln Center called Empire something-or-other. Delicious food! We shared shrimp shiu mai and a honeydew bubble tea that tasted like it was made with fresh honeydew melon. (Mmmm!) We each ordered a different entree. Mine was a chicken dish with slices of mango and a mango sauce; Virginia's was (I think) some sort of Empire or Imperial chicken or maybe Phoenix something; both were delicious.
Afterward, we walked four blocks to Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera House, the architecture of which is stunning. (One thing I must say in New York's favor is that it is filled with beautiful, modern architecture. I don't put those two descriptors together lightly, either--usually, I am very turned off by what passes for architecture these days. But this city, being one supposed center of everything, seems to get the good architects at their best, so that even if there are boring skyscrapers and ugly buildings, they fade into the background behind the structures that surround them.) The Met is, I think, five stories tall at least, and its exterior sides and roof (except for the front) are constructed of pale gray stone. The front of the building is clear glass supported by several evenly spaced black posts or frames (probably metal) that run from ground to roof. The first floor has a ceiling, mostly, except for part that is open to two large grand staircases that ascend to the second floor. The second floor and above are open--without ceiling at the front half or so. The third, fourth, and fifth floors do not stretch to the front of the building, but rather gracefully hug the walls and the area outside the auditorium. The whole thing is lit by many glass chandeliers designed to look like three-dimensional snowflakes or crystals and glass wall lamps of somewhat similar look. At night from the outside, one can look in and see the whole beautifully lit space beckoning. The opera house installs artwork of various sorts--often translucent or of a shape that makes an interesting silhouette--on the second floor near the front glass wall.
The opera auditorium itself is equally beautiful, with level upon level of comfortable velvet-lined seating and railings that look down over a large stage and orchestra pit. V and I estimated (by rough count) that perhaps 800-900 people could sit on most levels, and that the first could probably hold more. So verging on 5000 people can fit in the auditorium/theatre. The walls of the house are lined with angled wood (?) panels that reflect sound toward the farthest reaches of seating, so that even sitting on the topmost level, as we were, you can hear the performers with amazing clarity--even when they sing from backstage.
The opera we saw performed was La Traviata, a Romantic piece with music by Giuseppe Verdi and libretto by Francesco Maria Piave, and based on the novel La dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas, fils (Alexandre Dumas, Jr., the son of the Alexandre Dumas who wrote The Three Musketeers). The plot, as V will tell you also, is rather silly: a courtesan and party girl named Violetta Valéry comes home with a crowd of her 30 best friends to dance away what's left of the night. She has fainting spells due to her early-stage tuberculosis, and so her friends leave her alone for a bit; they go dance in the other room. One of her guests, Alfredo Germont, stays behind to confess his love to her. She denies her ability to love, but warms quickly to him, and suddenly (Act II), they've been living together for a few months in a country house outside of Paris, shunning Violetta's old life. However, she's been selling her belongings to support them, and when Alfredo discovers this, he races off to Paris to set things right, presumably by burning through his own fortune. This leaves an opening for Alfredo's disapproving father to appear and sell Violetta a crock, saying that her relationship with Alfredo has destroyed the fortunes of Alfredo's sister. (?!) Daddy leaves, Alfredo returns, and Violetta steals away, sacrificing her love for her love's family. Alfredo decides she has left him for another man, pursues, wins a small fortune from the man in a gambling match, and still doesn't get Violetta back. Then, some months later (Act III), Violetta is dying alone (save for her servants) in her original home. Alfredo returns to her, having been told about her sacrifice by his father. Her hope renews, she feels like living again. Alfredo's father returns, apologizes, and welcomes her as his daughter; Violetta and Alfredo confess their love again, and then she dies. Everyone is sad.
The music is lovely, however. The orchestra at the Met is excellent, and the singers are phenomenal! Apparently, too, many performers practice one part in particular and perform it all over the world, rehearsing for many operas at once. Principals are often booked years in advance. Pretty amazing.
We managed to sit next to two lovely people, Leonda and Arnold Finke. They were very kind and generous, explained much about opera to us (they've been going for 25 years at least). We managed to chat more in the lobby during one of the intermissions; Leonda sculpts and does all sorts of art (she's very good, too--we looked up her work later), and Arnold is immensely proud of her. (He told us privately about the awards and recognition she has received; it was really cute and sweet!)
So really, we had a wonderful evening, and I'm tremendously lucky to have the love of a woman like Virginia who is amazing in her own right and goes out of her way to set up things like this for me. Thank you, Virginia! I love you!
Afterward, we walked four blocks to Lincoln Center and the Metropolitan Opera House, the architecture of which is stunning. (One thing I must say in New York's favor is that it is filled with beautiful, modern architecture. I don't put those two descriptors together lightly, either--usually, I am very turned off by what passes for architecture these days. But this city, being one supposed center of everything, seems to get the good architects at their best, so that even if there are boring skyscrapers and ugly buildings, they fade into the background behind the structures that surround them.) The Met is, I think, five stories tall at least, and its exterior sides and roof (except for the front) are constructed of pale gray stone. The front of the building is clear glass supported by several evenly spaced black posts or frames (probably metal) that run from ground to roof. The first floor has a ceiling, mostly, except for part that is open to two large grand staircases that ascend to the second floor. The second floor and above are open--without ceiling at the front half or so. The third, fourth, and fifth floors do not stretch to the front of the building, but rather gracefully hug the walls and the area outside the auditorium. The whole thing is lit by many glass chandeliers designed to look like three-dimensional snowflakes or crystals and glass wall lamps of somewhat similar look. At night from the outside, one can look in and see the whole beautifully lit space beckoning. The opera house installs artwork of various sorts--often translucent or of a shape that makes an interesting silhouette--on the second floor near the front glass wall.
The opera auditorium itself is equally beautiful, with level upon level of comfortable velvet-lined seating and railings that look down over a large stage and orchestra pit. V and I estimated (by rough count) that perhaps 800-900 people could sit on most levels, and that the first could probably hold more. So verging on 5000 people can fit in the auditorium/theatre. The walls of the house are lined with angled wood (?) panels that reflect sound toward the farthest reaches of seating, so that even sitting on the topmost level, as we were, you can hear the performers with amazing clarity--even when they sing from backstage.
The opera we saw performed was La Traviata, a Romantic piece with music by Giuseppe Verdi and libretto by Francesco Maria Piave, and based on the novel La dame aux Camélias by Alexandre Dumas, fils (Alexandre Dumas, Jr., the son of the Alexandre Dumas who wrote The Three Musketeers). The plot, as V will tell you also, is rather silly: a courtesan and party girl named Violetta Valéry comes home with a crowd of her 30 best friends to dance away what's left of the night. She has fainting spells due to her early-stage tuberculosis, and so her friends leave her alone for a bit; they go dance in the other room. One of her guests, Alfredo Germont, stays behind to confess his love to her. She denies her ability to love, but warms quickly to him, and suddenly (Act II), they've been living together for a few months in a country house outside of Paris, shunning Violetta's old life. However, she's been selling her belongings to support them, and when Alfredo discovers this, he races off to Paris to set things right, presumably by burning through his own fortune. This leaves an opening for Alfredo's disapproving father to appear and sell Violetta a crock, saying that her relationship with Alfredo has destroyed the fortunes of Alfredo's sister. (?!) Daddy leaves, Alfredo returns, and Violetta steals away, sacrificing her love for her love's family. Alfredo decides she has left him for another man, pursues, wins a small fortune from the man in a gambling match, and still doesn't get Violetta back. Then, some months later (Act III), Violetta is dying alone (save for her servants) in her original home. Alfredo returns to her, having been told about her sacrifice by his father. Her hope renews, she feels like living again. Alfredo's father returns, apologizes, and welcomes her as his daughter; Violetta and Alfredo confess their love again, and then she dies. Everyone is sad.
The music is lovely, however. The orchestra at the Met is excellent, and the singers are phenomenal! Apparently, too, many performers practice one part in particular and perform it all over the world, rehearsing for many operas at once. Principals are often booked years in advance. Pretty amazing.
We managed to sit next to two lovely people, Leonda and Arnold Finke. They were very kind and generous, explained much about opera to us (they've been going for 25 years at least). We managed to chat more in the lobby during one of the intermissions; Leonda sculpts and does all sorts of art (she's very good, too--we looked up her work later), and Arnold is immensely proud of her. (He told us privately about the awards and recognition she has received; it was really cute and sweet!)
So really, we had a wonderful evening, and I'm tremendously lucky to have the love of a woman like Virginia who is amazing in her own right and goes out of her way to set up things like this for me. Thank you, Virginia! I love you!
Monday, March 12, 2007
Automatic Penis
I was in the bathroom at my mom's work this afternoon, and I went to wash my hands. Everything had been going well: the toilet had flushed automatically when I stood up; I had to force the stall door open, but it was flimsy and I am strong (HTML joke, ha ha). I stuck my hands under the faucet and was rewarded with a steady, warm stream of water. And then I looked to my left, and there, instead of a regular soap dispenser, was, well, this. When I stuck my hand under its nozzle, or "head," as we might call it, the device shuddered and squirted--squirted--a small pile of pearlescent goop into my hand. How is one supposed to wash with that?
Thursday, March 1, 2007
Land of Opportunity
America is reportedly the Land of Opportunity, Land of Freedom. But many of the best and most interesting jobs require at least college education these days. Getting a college degree in the United States costs a lot of money. To wit,
In many of the European countries, university education is free, or practically so. Students only need find a way to pay rent and buy food and pay bills while being a student. France and England both seem to work this way (so say my chief source of information on European culture).
Medical aid is also friggin' expensive here, at least without insurance, and often insurance doesn't reduce costs much. To get good health insurance (and any eye or tooth plan), one generally needs a pretty good job. If one is self-employed, one pays for such insurance out of one's pocket. If one is poor and doesn't have enough work to give insurance then one is screwed. (Many companies don't offer health benefits unless an employee works more than a certain amount a week, often 20 hours or more, and some try to save costs by hiring many workers to work shorter shifts.) In Canada, the UK, France, and many other nations, health care is paid for by the state, largely. Citizens pay higher taxes to cover this and other services, but the result is that everyone has reasonably priced health care. Compare that to the reported 40,000,000 uninsured Americans, people who have to pay the full amount of their medical costs, which could range from a $50 check-up to thousands of dollars for surgery or costly medicines. (Virginia was given a shot of painkiller last October that cost over $700. I doubt that's the most expensive medication out there.
Now, I may be a little fuzzy on the details here, and I realize there is much I have not taken into account yet, but it seems to me that if one needs a certain education level to achieve certain degrees of wealth, comfort, influence, and health, and that education costs an average of $12,294 at best, there's a certain limiting factor to this so-called opportunity available in America.
According to the College Board's Trends in College Pricing, the 2006-2007 average total costs (including tuition and fees, room and board, books and supplies, transportation and other expenses as specified in Table 2) were $12,294 for students attending two-year public colleges, $16,357 for students attending four-year public colleges and universities, and $33,301 for students at four-year private colleges and universities. Out of state students attending public colleges and universities pay an average total cost of $26,304 [from FinAid.org]Chiefly, one pays for this with loans, savings, jobs, a lot of work in finding and earning scholarships and grants, or if one is lucky, one's family has the money for it.
In many of the European countries, university education is free, or practically so. Students only need find a way to pay rent and buy food and pay bills while being a student. France and England both seem to work this way (so say my chief source of information on European culture).
Medical aid is also friggin' expensive here, at least without insurance, and often insurance doesn't reduce costs much. To get good health insurance (and any eye or tooth plan), one generally needs a pretty good job. If one is self-employed, one pays for such insurance out of one's pocket. If one is poor and doesn't have enough work to give insurance then one is screwed. (Many companies don't offer health benefits unless an employee works more than a certain amount a week, often 20 hours or more, and some try to save costs by hiring many workers to work shorter shifts.) In Canada, the UK, France, and many other nations, health care is paid for by the state, largely. Citizens pay higher taxes to cover this and other services, but the result is that everyone has reasonably priced health care. Compare that to the reported 40,000,000 uninsured Americans, people who have to pay the full amount of their medical costs, which could range from a $50 check-up to thousands of dollars for surgery or costly medicines. (Virginia was given a shot of painkiller last October that cost over $700. I doubt that's the most expensive medication out there.
Now, I may be a little fuzzy on the details here, and I realize there is much I have not taken into account yet, but it seems to me that if one needs a certain education level to achieve certain degrees of wealth, comfort, influence, and health, and that education costs an average of $12,294 at best, there's a certain limiting factor to this so-called opportunity available in America.
Monday, February 19, 2007
43 Things
You would think that a Web site like 43 Things would be, as it markets itself, a useful and inspirational tool for accomplishing that great bugaboo, your goals! (What is 43 Things? It's a Web site on which you can register an identity and post Things You Want To Do so that everyone in the whole world can see, comment, cheer you on--and even adopt your goal as his or her own. "Discover what's important, make it happen, share your progress. Find your 43 things." That's the tagline.) But see, on visiting for a few minutes, I found myself wanting to register so I could add a comment to someone else's goal (to stop overthinking things) and then I started clicking around to see what other goals were out there. So now I start to see the trap. It's not a productivity/encouragement Web site at all! 43 Things is meant to steal my time away from me so I never get anything done.
Friday, February 16, 2007
Friday, February 9, 2007
The Job Search Goes...Romantically?
From a Gmail chat we had this morning:
Virginia: you going to ACD thingy at 1?
me: yesh
Virginia: ok see you there then!
hugsss
me: actually, see you a bit sooner maybe. Gotta come to library to print/scan
Virginia: ok
me: now I'm done w/phone stuff.
me: & will have more stuff to add to my resume.
Virginia: smooch
smooch
me: :-D may I add those to my resume?
Virginia: sure thing
Virginia: they can call me to verify :p
Waging...pakefulness?
This is kind of how I feel at the moment, it being 4:30 AM and I having been awake for half an hour on 3.5 hours of sleep. I am working on a job application so as to send it in by a noon GMT deadline. Noon GMT=7:00 AM EDT. So far, so good.
Saturday, February 3, 2007
Surprise...Ice!
After an unseasonably warm and not-snowy debut, winter finally coughed and sputtered to a start here about three weeks ago. It turned cold suddenly, cold enough that I found myself actually hoping for the heating to work in its usual ridiculous overtime way so that I would be warm enough under my down comforter. (That's a slight exaggeration.) And generally, it stayed fairly cold--not as cold as Boston, and definitely not as cold as Michigan or Canada or other cold places, but for a state in the lower Northeastern United States, not bad.
Still, it refused to snow until about a week and a half ago, when the clouds decided to shake their shaggy heads a little and let down a few tiny flakes. This has mostly been the situation since: cold weather, occasional snow flurries, occasional dusting of white stuff on the colder pieces of ground. From time to time, a thin blanket (more like a cotton sheet)over lawn and street and car.
Last night, the only difference was that it was warmer out, slightly above freezing, so the big flakes that fell melted into a fine slush on the pavement when they landed. The grass looked nice and pretty, as if some magical baker had come by with his bag of flour and lightly dusted the green places of the city. But otherwise, the ground was merely wet.
This morning, I woke up groggy, and after talking to Virginia on the phone a bit, decided I was going to surprise her by meeting her for a kiss before she went into the city to study at the New York Public Library. After gathering myself enough to be dressed and reasonably insulated against the cold, and bearing my car key in one hand and a bottle of mango nectar in the other, I stepped out the door...and onto a patch of ice that had formed from the slush of the previous evening.
This was the fun part: falling happened very slowly. I felt my foot slide and tried to stop it the way one usually does when one slips. But my foot kept sliding. I dropped the juice and tried to catch myself on the outer glass door, or the railing to my right, or the brick corner post but missed, I think. I twisted and my feet kept falling, began to move down steps. I slapped my right hand on the other railing, but it was covered in ice and my mittens slid and my keys disappeared from my grasp. My body extended fully, my torso turned downward to face the stairs, I landed and continued to slide. My left hand gripped the top step. My feet stretched out down the stairs, my hip bounced on the corner of one of the slate steps, my right hand came off the railing and grabbed for another step. I stopped. Ouch.
The less fun part was figuring out how to get up. I took stock of myself. (Bruised hip, scraped fingers, sore wrist and thumb. Okay.) I took stock of the stairs, which were almost completely covered in ice, and the railing nearest me, which was as well. My bottle of juice lay calmly on its side at the top of the steps. My keys had vanished; I suspected they had ventured into the bushes to my right. I pushed myself up, grabbed both railings, steadied my feet, and gingerly climbed the stairs. I re-collected my juice and went back inside to regroup and strategize. Something would have to be done, and quickly, if I were to make it to see my baby.
In the end I ventured outside cautiously and realized that a filament of bare concrete lay exposed on one side of the stairs, thanks to the notorious warming effect of sunlight. I made it down the steps, and after rooting around in the bushes for a bit, found my car keys down by the sidewalk. I hopped in the car, drove off, and, happy ending, got to surprise and kiss Virginia! So she was all smiley and happy when she got a ride into the city, and I was all smiley and happy as I drove to the store to get rock salt so that I might do battle with my icy nemesis. And a good time was had by all.
Still, it refused to snow until about a week and a half ago, when the clouds decided to shake their shaggy heads a little and let down a few tiny flakes. This has mostly been the situation since: cold weather, occasional snow flurries, occasional dusting of white stuff on the colder pieces of ground. From time to time, a thin blanket (more like a cotton sheet)over lawn and street and car.
Last night, the only difference was that it was warmer out, slightly above freezing, so the big flakes that fell melted into a fine slush on the pavement when they landed. The grass looked nice and pretty, as if some magical baker had come by with his bag of flour and lightly dusted the green places of the city. But otherwise, the ground was merely wet.
This morning, I woke up groggy, and after talking to Virginia on the phone a bit, decided I was going to surprise her by meeting her for a kiss before she went into the city to study at the New York Public Library. After gathering myself enough to be dressed and reasonably insulated against the cold, and bearing my car key in one hand and a bottle of mango nectar in the other, I stepped out the door...and onto a patch of ice that had formed from the slush of the previous evening.
This was the fun part: falling happened very slowly. I felt my foot slide and tried to stop it the way one usually does when one slips. But my foot kept sliding. I dropped the juice and tried to catch myself on the outer glass door, or the railing to my right, or the brick corner post but missed, I think. I twisted and my feet kept falling, began to move down steps. I slapped my right hand on the other railing, but it was covered in ice and my mittens slid and my keys disappeared from my grasp. My body extended fully, my torso turned downward to face the stairs, I landed and continued to slide. My left hand gripped the top step. My feet stretched out down the stairs, my hip bounced on the corner of one of the slate steps, my right hand came off the railing and grabbed for another step. I stopped. Ouch.
The less fun part was figuring out how to get up. I took stock of myself. (Bruised hip, scraped fingers, sore wrist and thumb. Okay.) I took stock of the stairs, which were almost completely covered in ice, and the railing nearest me, which was as well. My bottle of juice lay calmly on its side at the top of the steps. My keys had vanished; I suspected they had ventured into the bushes to my right. I pushed myself up, grabbed both railings, steadied my feet, and gingerly climbed the stairs. I re-collected my juice and went back inside to regroup and strategize. Something would have to be done, and quickly, if I were to make it to see my baby.
In the end I ventured outside cautiously and realized that a filament of bare concrete lay exposed on one side of the stairs, thanks to the notorious warming effect of sunlight. I made it down the steps, and after rooting around in the bushes for a bit, found my car keys down by the sidewalk. I hopped in the car, drove off, and, happy ending, got to surprise and kiss Virginia! So she was all smiley and happy when she got a ride into the city, and I was all smiley and happy as I drove to the store to get rock salt so that I might do battle with my icy nemesis. And a good time was had by all.
Saturday, January 27, 2007
Reading Other Poets
I was talking with my housemates (Theresa & Jaime) the other day. We were hanging out in the kitchen eating late breakfast and sipping tea. One of them, I think it was J, brought up her dislike of the idea "enforced" (not her words) by so many of the writing teachers at Sarah Lawrence that in order to write good poetry (or good anything), one must copy and emulate the masters (and hence one must read read read). T assented to the opinion. Both of them felt that such an attitude was merely encouragement to imitate without being original yourself. I gently disagreed, saying that I felt the point was not to copy but to learn what each writer had to teach about technique, craft, and style.
Not long after that conversation, I was browsing through the Internet jungle and remembered a blog I used to enjoy reading--that of Shinichi Tohei Sensei, youngest son of Koichi Tohei Sensei, the founder of Shin Shin Toitsu Aikido. The latest entry has a short parable about an apprentice swordsmith, which Shinichi Sensei relates to the power, importance, and way to use the subconscious mind. (Shinichi Sensei writes:
Not long after that conversation, I was browsing through the Internet jungle and remembered a blog I used to enjoy reading--that of Shinichi Tohei Sensei, youngest son of Koichi Tohei Sensei, the founder of Shin Shin Toitsu Aikido. The latest entry has a short parable about an apprentice swordsmith, which Shinichi Sensei relates to the power, importance, and way to use the subconscious mind. (Shinichi Sensei writes:
When we try to achieve something, we will evolve in the shape of our own imagining. If the shape is predictable, we will develop into that shape. If the shape is brilliant, then we will develop into that shape.By imagining the very highest level for the beginning, we are able to create what is to become. The important thing is to feel and know the very best until it gets into your subconscious.)The parable struck me as extremely relevant to the conversation on Sunday. You can write and learn to write well all on your own, but having others to teach you is incredibly helpful. The point of reading the masters is not to mimic them--not to produce poetry just like theirs--but to learn good technique, so well that it fills your subconscious with understanding of quality craft--of good writing-- and you learn from it so that when you need to use such techniques, you can.
Sunday, January 21, 2007
Goals
Grady (my mother's friend and roommate) writes goals for each new year rather than resolutions, because goals are more positive to him. (His goals list for 2006 was about two pages long, typed, and he only missed two of the goals on it.)
I like this idea, so I've thought about it some and written out some goals for myself for the coming year.
Here are some of my goals for 2007:
I like this idea, so I've thought about it some and written out some goals for myself for the coming year.
Here are some of my goals for 2007:
- Learn to write every day. (Minimum: 30 mins. Ideal: 2 hours.)
- Learn to meditate (do ki breathing) every day. (Minimum: 30 mins. Ideal: 1 hour.)
- Find a good post-graduate school teaching or teaching-related job. Such a job should (ideally) fill these requirements: increased my teaching skill and experience; pay me enough to live with some comfort and pay back my student loans and other debts; take me abroad, ideally to London or nearby.
- Develop and pursue a very challenging, healthy exercise routine that helps me increase strength, flexibility, and endurance, as well as cardiovascular health. (Ideally, it will incorporate principles like those followed by the athletes at Gym Jones.)
- Improve my proficiency and fluency with French
- Produce a manuscript for my first book of poems
- Actively submit writing to journals and contests and fellowships
- Save some money
Recycling in Yonkers
New York's supposed to be a liberal/progressive town, right? (Heh. Cynthia, my former landlady, would laugh at my use of "town" instead of "city.") With all sorts of civilized amenities like public transportation and fluoridated water and traffic jams and stuff? Recycling, you would think, should number among such things.
But not in Yonkers. No, in Yonkers, we make recycling as complicated as we can muster without being accused of being obstructionist. We have weekly recycling pick-up, yep, sure do. But rather than something convenient--say, a single recycling pick-up on the same day as garbage collection--we have two separate types of recycling: Paper (which includes white bond paper, cardboard, and newspaper, but not OJ or rice milk cartons or magazines) and Commingles (which includes plastics--but only plastics 1 & 2, and only if they're bottle-shaped, I believe--steel and aluminum cans, and glass). There is a special recycling day that is entirely different from trash day, and on that day, only one of the two given categories will be picked up. The categories alternate weeks and are adjusted strangely in the case of a holiday. We have a special calendar to remind us when these things happen. It is tiny and difficult to understand, much like the Florida ballots from the 2000 presidential election. It almost seems like the City of Yonkers doesn't want us to recycle...
But not in Yonkers. No, in Yonkers, we make recycling as complicated as we can muster without being accused of being obstructionist. We have weekly recycling pick-up, yep, sure do. But rather than something convenient--say, a single recycling pick-up on the same day as garbage collection--we have two separate types of recycling: Paper (which includes white bond paper, cardboard, and newspaper, but not OJ or rice milk cartons or magazines) and Commingles (which includes plastics--but only plastics 1 & 2, and only if they're bottle-shaped, I believe--steel and aluminum cans, and glass). There is a special recycling day that is entirely different from trash day, and on that day, only one of the two given categories will be picked up. The categories alternate weeks and are adjusted strangely in the case of a holiday. We have a special calendar to remind us when these things happen. It is tiny and difficult to understand, much like the Florida ballots from the 2000 presidential election. It almost seems like the City of Yonkers doesn't want us to recycle...
Monday, January 8, 2007
Stupid TV Shows
From the Discovery Channel Web site for a show called Future Weapons:
Combining a swivel barrel with a video sighting array, [the Cornershot] allows the operator to observe and fire at a target around corners without exposing himself to enemy fire.... Its Israeli designers and other experts see great potential for the weapon in anti-terrorist operations.This makes perfect sense because terrorists always hide around corners. With this weapon, the mighty U.S. military will surely vanquish evil forthwith.
Tuesday, January 2, 2007
About Virginia
Virginia sweeps me off my feet regularly. She is sweet, sexy, intelligent, creative, kooky, passionate, focused, compassionate, driven, beautiful. She'll probably want to hide after reading this, too. (She's amazing, that's all I wanted to say, and I love her.)
She's 24, Swiss-born (a citizen of both Switzerland and Paris), trilingual (French, Italian, English), and a graduate student studying English linguistics at the Sorbonne. Currently she's working on her DEA (diplôme d'études approfondies) while working as a French assistant at Sarah Lawrence. We met training Aikido; she has trained Iwama style for about three years, and at the beginning of the school year, she walked into my first Aikido class of the semester and asked me if I minded if she put on her gi top. Since then, we've been finishing each other's sentences and generally anticipating each other's thoughts and actions. (Okay, there was a bit of turbulence and some obstacles before we actually got romantically involved, but...)
She's 24, Swiss-born (a citizen of both Switzerland and Paris), trilingual (French, Italian, English), and a graduate student studying English linguistics at the Sorbonne. Currently she's working on her DEA (diplôme d'études approfondies) while working as a French assistant at Sarah Lawrence. We met training Aikido; she has trained Iwama style for about three years, and at the beginning of the school year, she walked into my first Aikido class of the semester and asked me if I minded if she put on her gi top. Since then, we've been finishing each other's sentences and generally anticipating each other's thoughts and actions. (Okay, there was a bit of turbulence and some obstacles before we actually got romantically involved, but...)
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