I admit, that last diatribe was slightly under the influence. I'm a violent drunk only in terms of my criticism of film. (And of Dave Eggers, apparently.)
The last shot of the movie was of the real Christopher Candless. I can't imagine what the real-life Candlesses think of the cinematic version of his last two years and his death.
Saturday, November 17, 2007
Friday, November 16, 2007
Do Not Go See Into The Wild
I wasted $10.75 for 2.5 hours of an episodic, begging-for-parody string of platitudes featuring a brat of a kid, Emile Hirsch (Alpha Dog, Sabrina the Teenage Witch) who probably has never, in real life, had to cook for himself.
It is possible that Sean Penn, in the making of this movie, was like Saddam Hussein, in that no one was brave enough to challenge his directorial decisions. Lots of unanswered questions (Why does Vince Vaugh, a South Dakota wheat farmer, get hauled away suddenly by the FBI?) and lots of scenes where it appeared that the only direction that Hirsch received was "Go scavange in the berries." "Be really, really hungry."
Lots of heavy-handed symbolism ("God is light," says the old man, and then the clouds part and there's a burst of blinding sunlight) and lots of spotty makeup jobs (you can see the makeup in his pores when they zoomed in on the Poisoned/Dying Face of Alexander Supertramp, nee Christopher Candless.*)
Lots of archetypes for characters (Marcia Gay Harden is the first lady-esque uptight mother; the skinny Tracy, a hippy community's own Joni Mitchell, is Supertramp's last chance for sex (and she looks perpetually wan and sex-starved), but the ascetic abstains).
I was most disappointed because, going into the movie, I confused the book, on which the movie was based, with Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.
*Warning: Plot Spoiler.**
**Whoops too late.***
***Guess you're not going to see the movie now.****
****Good. Best to spend that $10.75 on a block and a half of cheese.
It is possible that Sean Penn, in the making of this movie, was like Saddam Hussein, in that no one was brave enough to challenge his directorial decisions. Lots of unanswered questions (Why does Vince Vaugh, a South Dakota wheat farmer, get hauled away suddenly by the FBI?) and lots of scenes where it appeared that the only direction that Hirsch received was "Go scavange in the berries." "Be really, really hungry."
Lots of heavy-handed symbolism ("God is light," says the old man, and then the clouds part and there's a burst of blinding sunlight) and lots of spotty makeup jobs (you can see the makeup in his pores when they zoomed in on the Poisoned/Dying Face of Alexander Supertramp, nee Christopher Candless.*)
Lots of archetypes for characters (Marcia Gay Harden is the first lady-esque uptight mother; the skinny Tracy, a hippy community's own Joni Mitchell, is Supertramp's last chance for sex (and she looks perpetually wan and sex-starved), but the ascetic abstains).
I was most disappointed because, going into the movie, I confused the book, on which the movie was based, with Hatchet, by Gary Paulsen.
*Warning: Plot Spoiler.**
**Whoops too late.***
***Guess you're not going to see the movie now.****
****Good. Best to spend that $10.75 on a block and a half of cheese.
Thursday, November 15, 2007
R is for Robot
I've learned something about myself, and that is I have a proclivity for theories about things. Self-generated theories, preferably.
Okay, this is an obvious statement, because that's what people do, they come up with theories and explanations to make sense out of things. Everyone, I assume, has a proclivity for theories about things.
(Is life a continual amassing of theories to make one giant oevure? One huge collection of theories of everything? On one hand I sort of hope not. Because it would suck to feel like you have pretty much everything figured out.)
Observation/Generalization: No one expresses any sign of emotion when on the subway.
Theory: Physical privacy isn't an option, so hiding your thoughts by withholding expression is the last stronghold on "personal space."
I had a terrible day at work not too long ago--one of those days where you feel hot and trapped and find yourself in the bathroom for not the traditional reasons. I, being a novice, was really trying hard to keep the tears balanced just at the rims of my eyelids as I was riding the train back home to the BK, the beloved R train. Just two stops into the journey, I was treated to a medly of songs, including gems such as "If you like my body, and you think I'm sexy..." and "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy yeah," performed soulfully by a small, toothless blind man with an underbite. He swung his can back and forth with abandon as he progressed down the length of the train, collecting coins for his services.
I was facing a girl who must also be a rookie in this whole "We are robots" game too. She used her book to cover her face, because she was laughing (silently, so it was more like shaking). I had no book readily available to hide my face, which broke into a cry-laugh spasm. (That little man is funny.) Everyone saw that I was sad-amused.
I admit, I felt a little violated.
Okay, this is an obvious statement, because that's what people do, they come up with theories and explanations to make sense out of things. Everyone, I assume, has a proclivity for theories about things.
(Is life a continual amassing of theories to make one giant oevure? One huge collection of theories of everything? On one hand I sort of hope not. Because it would suck to feel like you have pretty much everything figured out.)
Observation/Generalization: No one expresses any sign of emotion when on the subway.
Theory: Physical privacy isn't an option, so hiding your thoughts by withholding expression is the last stronghold on "personal space."
I had a terrible day at work not too long ago--one of those days where you feel hot and trapped and find yourself in the bathroom for not the traditional reasons. I, being a novice, was really trying hard to keep the tears balanced just at the rims of my eyelids as I was riding the train back home to the BK, the beloved R train. Just two stops into the journey, I was treated to a medly of songs, including gems such as "If you like my body, and you think I'm sexy..." and "I'm too sexy for my shirt, too sexy for my shirt, so sexy yeah," performed soulfully by a small, toothless blind man with an underbite. He swung his can back and forth with abandon as he progressed down the length of the train, collecting coins for his services.
I was facing a girl who must also be a rookie in this whole "We are robots" game too. She used her book to cover her face, because she was laughing (silently, so it was more like shaking). I had no book readily available to hide my face, which broke into a cry-laugh spasm. (That little man is funny.) Everyone saw that I was sad-amused.
I admit, I felt a little violated.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Lessons in Networking
A funny thing happened on the way to the pharmacy.
Saturday morning I was waiting in line (or "on line" as they say in this foreign land) at CVS when an older man (mid-60s I'd say), whom I'd incidentally just seen emerging from the mansion on Pierrepont and Henry (around the corner from CVS), started chatting to me about the weather. He had an air of skeeze*, so I reservedly commented about the drop in humidity. He persisted: "What do you do?"
I told him I was a science writer.
"Oh? Who do you write for?"
"Psychology Today."
He perked up at this, even more. "Oh I know Hara, she's an editor over there, right?"
Okay, so he knows Hara, and Hara's great (we had coffee in the park and she interviewed me for an article she's writing; we're tight, and neighbors too--she also lives in Brooklyn Heights), so maybe he's harmless, at least to talk to in the CVS line.
"I'm a psychologist myself. I have a private practice, and I also do research on the criminal justice system and drug addiction, and I advise Governor Schwarzenegger on reforming the California prison system."
This following my conversation with the professor at Duke, I thought that was cool.
"So if I were looking for, say, a ghostwriter for a book I want to write, I'd go to someone like you, right?"
I nodded.
He introduced himself as Harry Wexler, and more getting-to-know-you conversation ensued. (At one point, Harry referred to himself as a "bachelor," per skeeze linguistics.)
Harry gave me his contact information and we agreed to meet and discuss project ideas.
Something else worth mentioning: I'd just read Malcolm Gladwell's article "Six Degrees of Lois Weisberg"--Lois Weisberg knows everyone in the world apparently, and Gladwell discusses how new contacts breed new contacts (ooh, maybe "breed" isn't the right word here...). I figured, isn't this networking? Potential professional opportunities?
Something else worth mentioning, but more to myself: Beware of skeezy "bachelors" in the CVS line.
Our meeting yesterday lasted an hour and a half. He talked a lot about himself, highlighting how "famous" and "smart" and "successful" he is, and how he works for the Governator. He volunteered inappropriate details about his personal life, like how he'd gotten his girlfriend knocked up at age 18 and how he thinks Hara** is attracted to him but he's not attracted to her. He talked about being offered a guest professorship at Dartmouth, and how his writing endeavors (which I presumed was where I came in) would somehow prepare him for that. I don't think he had any concrete plans for a project, just that I would somehow be involved.***
So after he talked about himself and his motorcycle and the bad choices he'd made in life, he said, "What do you think? Free associate."
I hesitated, then said, "Your life sounds really interesting."
He then suggested that we sit down and write a "concept paper" about the importance of prison reform, that would come from more interviewing/brainstorming sessions (again, so vague). Then we would pitch it to PT as a story idea. My next step was to research the demographics of the readership and see whether this sort of story would be something PT would want to publish.
He sent me an email 30 min. after we parted ways: "I think we have chemistry."
This morning, after the editorial meeting, I told Hara about my experience, and she launched into her history of knowing Harry. Hara knew Harry's wife Ellen, whom she worked with on a column. But Hara was unaware of their marital problems until she saw Harry's profile on JDate (an online dating service for Jews)--apparently they'd divorced and not a week later "BigDoc" was on the prowl. (Hara: "How much closer can you get to "BigDick"?) Hara made the mistake of looking at his profile; on these dating websites you can see who's viewed you, so I'm guessing this is why he thinks Hara is interested in him.
She told me about the pictures he has of himself on his JDate profile. One is of him with a do rag on his massive Harley (again, with the endowment reference), which was the laughing stock of the PT office for a while, apparently.
Also, he lied about his age on his profile. (He's 65 in real life.) Also, he has a 45-year-old daughter.
The gab fest ended with the affirmation that A) Harry is indeed a skeeze, through and through, and B) that I need to disengage myself from any association with him.
Hara's trying to locate the Harley pic for me, and if she does, I promise to post it.
*Skeeze + Geezer = Skeezer. As in, "This old dude who was hitting on me in the CVS line was such a skeezer!"
**Hara is a widow in her 60s, btw.
***I ran into Kaja, another PT editor who also lives in Brooklyn Heights, in the bathroom and we had a little laugh about BigDoc. She said "I think you ARE the project." Hlumph (*vomiting*).
Saturday morning I was waiting in line (or "on line" as they say in this foreign land) at CVS when an older man (mid-60s I'd say), whom I'd incidentally just seen emerging from the mansion on Pierrepont and Henry (around the corner from CVS), started chatting to me about the weather. He had an air of skeeze*, so I reservedly commented about the drop in humidity. He persisted: "What do you do?"
I told him I was a science writer.
"Oh? Who do you write for?"
"Psychology Today."
He perked up at this, even more. "Oh I know Hara, she's an editor over there, right?"
Okay, so he knows Hara, and Hara's great (we had coffee in the park and she interviewed me for an article she's writing; we're tight, and neighbors too--she also lives in Brooklyn Heights), so maybe he's harmless, at least to talk to in the CVS line.
"I'm a psychologist myself. I have a private practice, and I also do research on the criminal justice system and drug addiction, and I advise Governor Schwarzenegger on reforming the California prison system."
This following my conversation with the professor at Duke, I thought that was cool.
"So if I were looking for, say, a ghostwriter for a book I want to write, I'd go to someone like you, right?"
I nodded.
He introduced himself as Harry Wexler, and more getting-to-know-you conversation ensued. (At one point, Harry referred to himself as a "bachelor," per skeeze linguistics.)
Harry gave me his contact information and we agreed to meet and discuss project ideas.
Something else worth mentioning: I'd just read Malcolm Gladwell's article "Six Degrees of Lois Weisberg"--Lois Weisberg knows everyone in the world apparently, and Gladwell discusses how new contacts breed new contacts (ooh, maybe "breed" isn't the right word here...). I figured, isn't this networking? Potential professional opportunities?
Something else worth mentioning, but more to myself: Beware of skeezy "bachelors" in the CVS line.
Our meeting yesterday lasted an hour and a half. He talked a lot about himself, highlighting how "famous" and "smart" and "successful" he is, and how he works for the Governator. He volunteered inappropriate details about his personal life, like how he'd gotten his girlfriend knocked up at age 18 and how he thinks Hara** is attracted to him but he's not attracted to her. He talked about being offered a guest professorship at Dartmouth, and how his writing endeavors (which I presumed was where I came in) would somehow prepare him for that. I don't think he had any concrete plans for a project, just that I would somehow be involved.***
So after he talked about himself and his motorcycle and the bad choices he'd made in life, he said, "What do you think? Free associate."
I hesitated, then said, "Your life sounds really interesting."
He then suggested that we sit down and write a "concept paper" about the importance of prison reform, that would come from more interviewing/brainstorming sessions (again, so vague). Then we would pitch it to PT as a story idea. My next step was to research the demographics of the readership and see whether this sort of story would be something PT would want to publish.
He sent me an email 30 min. after we parted ways: "I think we have chemistry."
This morning, after the editorial meeting, I told Hara about my experience, and she launched into her history of knowing Harry. Hara knew Harry's wife Ellen, whom she worked with on a column. But Hara was unaware of their marital problems until she saw Harry's profile on JDate (an online dating service for Jews)--apparently they'd divorced and not a week later "BigDoc" was on the prowl. (Hara: "How much closer can you get to "BigDick"?) Hara made the mistake of looking at his profile; on these dating websites you can see who's viewed you, so I'm guessing this is why he thinks Hara is interested in him.
She told me about the pictures he has of himself on his JDate profile. One is of him with a do rag on his massive Harley (again, with the endowment reference), which was the laughing stock of the PT office for a while, apparently.
Also, he lied about his age on his profile. (He's 65 in real life.) Also, he has a 45-year-old daughter.
The gab fest ended with the affirmation that A) Harry is indeed a skeeze, through and through, and B) that I need to disengage myself from any association with him.
Hara's trying to locate the Harley pic for me, and if she does, I promise to post it.
*Skeeze + Geezer = Skeezer. As in, "This old dude who was hitting on me in the CVS line was such a skeezer!"
**Hara is a widow in her 60s, btw.
***I ran into Kaja, another PT editor who also lives in Brooklyn Heights, in the bathroom and we had a little laugh about BigDoc. She said "I think you ARE the project." Hlumph (*vomiting*).
Friday, October 19, 2007
I Miss Middlebury Professors
Intimidation abounds in New York. And I've been feeling intimidated about my writing lately, and honestly not feeling up to it, so that's one of my excuses for the lag time between posts.
I've gotten no feedback on my work at CRI on the twelve 300-word profiles I've written and submitted so far. However, no feedback might be good feedback, if Brian (CRI boss) regards my work the same way Matt (PT boss) does. Three assignments for the next issue (that being January) got me jazzed, and I exuberantly wrote the first draft of a short piece on intimidation (ironically). Matt provided a few constructively critical comments on that first attempt, so I revamped it and sent it back. "Nice effort," he said, but this second draft won't work at all either. So he rewrote it for me. Entirely new and annoyingly quippy. Then he tacked on my byline, but I'm not okay with that.
The second assignment I submitted, on the correlation of attractiveness and length of hair (stupid topic anyway), and I got comments similar to those on my first draft of my first assignment. I'm disinclined to put effort into the second draft.
Another editor boss, Jay, has assigned us interns to research for a story on unconscious motivation. So I called up this researcher/professor at Duke, Gavan Fitzsimons, who studies unconscious motivation as it pertains to consumer decision making. We talked for over an hour and had this great rapport. He's doing really fascinating work, especially what he told me about the voir dire process, when attorneys question jurors before the trial about their backgrounds and potential biases. Apparently, leading questions, such as "how likely would you be to judge the defendent guilty if you knew he were in a gang?", influence a juror's inclinations--in this case, they'd be more likely to favor a harsher sentence.
He took a break here to say that this is why science writing is so important. Marketing and advertising industries have incentive to keep abreast of the latest psychological findings--it pays to know that consumers associate a class of characteristics with certain vowel sounds, for example--but there's still a chasm between evidence-based psychology and policy. I'm not going to pretend that I know about how policy is made, but I don't think it's risky to guess that there isn't as much money in policy as there is in advertising. DUH.
Anyway, Dr. Fitzsimons pointed out that judicial consultants aren't likely to read every issue of the Applied Behavioral Science Review (they should). But it's more likely that they'll be reading the newspaper, Popular Science, the like. Or someone they know might. More accessible, more digestible than academic journals.
So that was inspiring.
I went to transcribe the tape a week later and discovered it was blank.
I sent a fiery email to Jay, subject: "F***", to solicit some solace, but he didn't respond and I haven't seen him.
I've gotten no feedback on my work at CRI on the twelve 300-word profiles I've written and submitted so far. However, no feedback might be good feedback, if Brian (CRI boss) regards my work the same way Matt (PT boss) does. Three assignments for the next issue (that being January) got me jazzed, and I exuberantly wrote the first draft of a short piece on intimidation (ironically). Matt provided a few constructively critical comments on that first attempt, so I revamped it and sent it back. "Nice effort," he said, but this second draft won't work at all either. So he rewrote it for me. Entirely new and annoyingly quippy. Then he tacked on my byline, but I'm not okay with that.
The second assignment I submitted, on the correlation of attractiveness and length of hair (stupid topic anyway), and I got comments similar to those on my first draft of my first assignment. I'm disinclined to put effort into the second draft.
Another editor boss, Jay, has assigned us interns to research for a story on unconscious motivation. So I called up this researcher/professor at Duke, Gavan Fitzsimons, who studies unconscious motivation as it pertains to consumer decision making. We talked for over an hour and had this great rapport. He's doing really fascinating work, especially what he told me about the voir dire process, when attorneys question jurors before the trial about their backgrounds and potential biases. Apparently, leading questions, such as "how likely would you be to judge the defendent guilty if you knew he were in a gang?", influence a juror's inclinations--in this case, they'd be more likely to favor a harsher sentence.
He took a break here to say that this is why science writing is so important. Marketing and advertising industries have incentive to keep abreast of the latest psychological findings--it pays to know that consumers associate a class of characteristics with certain vowel sounds, for example--but there's still a chasm between evidence-based psychology and policy. I'm not going to pretend that I know about how policy is made, but I don't think it's risky to guess that there isn't as much money in policy as there is in advertising. DUH.
Anyway, Dr. Fitzsimons pointed out that judicial consultants aren't likely to read every issue of the Applied Behavioral Science Review (they should). But it's more likely that they'll be reading the newspaper, Popular Science, the like. Or someone they know might. More accessible, more digestible than academic journals.
So that was inspiring.
I went to transcribe the tape a week later and discovered it was blank.
I sent a fiery email to Jay, subject: "F***", to solicit some solace, but he didn't respond and I haven't seen him.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
I Spy
You have to be comfortable with constant voyeurism and exhibitionism (in the non-sexual sense, as far as I've experienced it) to live in this city. You're the audience and the act, from the second you leave your apartment, whether you like it or not.
It sort of makes me miss my car. I hate to say it. In your car you can be the voyeur, even if it's on a more macroscopic level--you can't observe the nuances of strangers or read over their shoulders--but you can see more of the world, and for the most part (I mean, the car next to you will spy your nose-picking at a stoplight), you don't have to pay the price of being on display. No one is staring at me if I've had a bad day and I don't feel like sharing 9 cubic feet of space with 2 strangers.
It sort of makes me miss my car. I hate to say it. In your car you can be the voyeur, even if it's on a more macroscopic level--you can't observe the nuances of strangers or read over their shoulders--but you can see more of the world, and for the most part (I mean, the car next to you will spy your nose-picking at a stoplight), you don't have to pay the price of being on display. No one is staring at me if I've had a bad day and I don't feel like sharing 9 cubic feet of space with 2 strangers.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Lazy Sunday
A bulleted list for Sunday night in your pajamas, since a cohesive essay-like post is not in the cards:
- Obama or Ahmadinejad? Clearly the NY applause-o-meter chooses Obama, who had a rally on Thurs. in Washington Square Park. But I say Ahmadinejad for entertainment/shock value.
- Mexican mariachi bands sometime sing at tapas bars. At least in the Village.
- Pedestrians in bike lanes make me want to punch Jesus. Or slap a baby.
- Century 21, an enormous Filene's + Nordstrom Rack + Marshall's-like department store near Ground Zero, is not for the faint of heart.
- The lyrics "Konichiwa-wa Ticket"--repeated over and over...and over--don't make for a good song.
- If you're sitting at a picnic table at the DUMBO Art Fair, enjoying a delicious $5 slice-and-Bud combo, and find yourself assailed by the above aural offense, you should get up and go see the elephant painting with his tusk.
- Strawberry ice cream from the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory + the view of Manhattan from the pier at night + watching 3-yr-old Asian twins giggling and running up to a boathouse wall onto which a video of marine life is being projected = happiness.
A future TPWHAEITUS moment:
An anticipated visit to the church where Vito (of Sufjan's "Vito's Ordination Song") is the pastor and Buster from Arrested Development is a parishoner.
- Obama or Ahmadinejad? Clearly the NY applause-o-meter chooses Obama, who had a rally on Thurs. in Washington Square Park. But I say Ahmadinejad for entertainment/shock value.
- Mexican mariachi bands sometime sing at tapas bars. At least in the Village.
- Pedestrians in bike lanes make me want to punch Jesus. Or slap a baby.
- Century 21, an enormous Filene's + Nordstrom Rack + Marshall's-like department store near Ground Zero, is not for the faint of heart.
- The lyrics "Konichiwa-wa Ticket"--repeated over and over...and over--don't make for a good song.
- If you're sitting at a picnic table at the DUMBO Art Fair, enjoying a delicious $5 slice-and-Bud combo, and find yourself assailed by the above aural offense, you should get up and go see the elephant painting with his tusk.
- Strawberry ice cream from the Brooklyn Ice Cream Factory + the view of Manhattan from the pier at night + watching 3-yr-old Asian twins giggling and running up to a boathouse wall onto which a video of marine life is being projected = happiness.
A future TPWHAEITUS moment:
An anticipated visit to the church where Vito (of Sufjan's "Vito's Ordination Song") is the pastor and Buster from Arrested Development is a parishoner.
Thursday, September 20, 2007
Smells Like Trash Pickup
A tree does grow in Brooklyn, but unfortunately it's far outnumbered by garbage bags on the sidewalk waiting for pickup. So, dogs are left with no choice but to leave their scent on these transient landmarks instead, and with the cycle of trash pickup continuously supplanting one canine ruler after another, it's inevitable that the territory will ultimately be rendered international and therefore subject to all sorts of harmonious, peace-seeking laws.
Who knew the implications of dogs peeing on garbage bags...
The PT internship is picking up. Today I wrote two blurbs for the Contributors section, which features bios about contributing authors, photographers, and illustrators. Interviewing this one photographer, calling him up, gave me major butterflies, in a 12-year-old-meeting-Lance-Bass-from-N-Sync kind of way. Chris Buck is my Lance Bass. Look at his website (www.chrisbuck.com) and you'll see what I mean (my favorite photograph is the Mr. Show one). He was in the middle of a photo shoot but insisted that no other time would be better to talk, so between witty sound bites he shouted to his assistants and subjects, things like, "I want you over there," and "No, the light's not right, that won't do." It seemed the archetypal new intern-quasi celeb interview.
Now for the cherry-on-top TPWHAEITUS moment:
Last weekend I went to the Brooklyn Book Fair and saw a panel discussion with a couple of critics- Rob Sheffield from Rolling Stone, Ed Park from The Believer, and Chuck Klosterman. Towards the end, a (presumably homeless) woman sauntered onstage and started to casually caress Ed Park and stroke his hair. The panelists continued to field questions, only slightly fazed. She then took Rob Sheffield's water bottle and placed it on a table next to her Dunkin Donuts cup, and then set up two chairs, as if she planned to sit down with Rob after the discussion and gab about his latest book. Her last trick was sitting at the edge of the stage and pulling wadded $1 bills from her athletic socks.
Who knew the implications of dogs peeing on garbage bags...
The PT internship is picking up. Today I wrote two blurbs for the Contributors section, which features bios about contributing authors, photographers, and illustrators. Interviewing this one photographer, calling him up, gave me major butterflies, in a 12-year-old-meeting-Lance-Bass-from-N-Sync kind of way. Chris Buck is my Lance Bass. Look at his website (www.chrisbuck.com) and you'll see what I mean (my favorite photograph is the Mr. Show one). He was in the middle of a photo shoot but insisted that no other time would be better to talk, so between witty sound bites he shouted to his assistants and subjects, things like, "I want you over there," and "No, the light's not right, that won't do." It seemed the archetypal new intern-quasi celeb interview.
Now for the cherry-on-top TPWHAEITUS moment:
Last weekend I went to the Brooklyn Book Fair and saw a panel discussion with a couple of critics- Rob Sheffield from Rolling Stone, Ed Park from The Believer, and Chuck Klosterman. Towards the end, a (presumably homeless) woman sauntered onstage and started to casually caress Ed Park and stroke his hair. The panelists continued to field questions, only slightly fazed. She then took Rob Sheffield's water bottle and placed it on a table next to her Dunkin Donuts cup, and then set up two chairs, as if she planned to sit down with Rob after the discussion and gab about his latest book. Her last trick was sitting at the edge of the stage and pulling wadded $1 bills from her athletic socks.
Friday, September 14, 2007
Dear Diary, I Had a Date with This Guy, and Here's What Happened
It's about time I regaled you, dear reader, with highlights of my date last weekend.
We shall call him Tad (real name only slightly less offensive).
Tad was 30 minutes late.
Our reservations were at 10 (he's French Canadian) at this seafood place in SoHo. His shirt open to 3 inches shy of his belly button (no undershirt), his chest hair yielded to the wind like the grasses of the Great Plains as he explained why he was late (traffic--investment bankers take only cabs).
Dinner was nice. Good conversationalist, good conversation. We talked about books a little (I would call him literate), and he likes classical music but nothing else really. $23 crab leg appetizer. Rare tuna. Lavender creme brulee, and espresso a precise 15 minutes post-dessert.
Afterwards we walked, indecisive about what to do now that it was 1 am. He got a call from his high school friends from Montreal who were drinking in Tribeca. So we hailed a cab, and during the ride I learned that his mother sends him clothes. He learned that I buy mine from Target. He also asked why I go by Liz when "Elizabeth is such a pretty name."
We arrived in Tribeca and made our way to the Brandy Library. Outside this establishment stood a friend of a friend from Middlebury (we shall call him Bob- very harmless). Bob had a little too much brandy and was interested in talking and obtaining my phone number.
After Bob and I parted ways, I rejoined Tad and Tad's friends, who had appeared to greet us. I apologized and explained to Tad that Bob had been drinking and that I doubted whether he even remembered my name. Tad responded with a witless cutdown about Bob's haircut and pants being bad.
Tad introduced me to his friends as Elizabeth.
The Brandy Library was lit only by the illuminated shelves of scotches and brandies and other fine liquors. Stumped by the menu's pages-long litany of whiskey alone, I ordered a fancy version of whiskey and ginger. Tad was surprised I liked cocktails; I explained that they're tasty. Tad replied, "I like to taste my what I'm drinking, unadulterated." Tad swirled the sniffer and took an unadulterated sip.
I was waiting for Tad's friends, by the way, to say "Ha Ha, just joking, I'm not really like this. That was a parody of myself that I was doing back there." But they didn't. Tad's friend (we shall call him Penis) leaned over to me and asked, "So do you like this place?" I nodded. He remarked, "It reminds me of an airport lounge. Tacky... Speaking of tacky, get me OUT of the upper west side--UGH. If I had to live in this asscrack of a city I'd only consider the upper east."
I guess the face that I made then, when some of my dinner crept back up past my uvula, had suggested to Tad that I didn't like his friends.
The night ended with...well, with nothing. I got in a cab and went back to Brooklyn. I drank a Snapple, read a few pages of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and counted all the money I'd saved going on a date with a Lehman Brother's drone.
Okay, um, a TPWHAEINTUS moment? ...okay, another subway moment:
Last night, my roommate/friend Rachel and I were on the 2/3 coming home from a teacher colleague's party in Harlem. Across from us was a Eugene Levy lookalike with very short denim shorts on--a la Tobias Funke, the nevernude. His legs were spread wide open and underneath those daisy dukes was....NOTHING. Nothing but what God intended. And it was just so THERE, you know?
We shall call him Tad (real name only slightly less offensive).
Tad was 30 minutes late.
Our reservations were at 10 (he's French Canadian) at this seafood place in SoHo. His shirt open to 3 inches shy of his belly button (no undershirt), his chest hair yielded to the wind like the grasses of the Great Plains as he explained why he was late (traffic--investment bankers take only cabs).
Dinner was nice. Good conversationalist, good conversation. We talked about books a little (I would call him literate), and he likes classical music but nothing else really. $23 crab leg appetizer. Rare tuna. Lavender creme brulee, and espresso a precise 15 minutes post-dessert.
Afterwards we walked, indecisive about what to do now that it was 1 am. He got a call from his high school friends from Montreal who were drinking in Tribeca. So we hailed a cab, and during the ride I learned that his mother sends him clothes. He learned that I buy mine from Target. He also asked why I go by Liz when "Elizabeth is such a pretty name."
We arrived in Tribeca and made our way to the Brandy Library. Outside this establishment stood a friend of a friend from Middlebury (we shall call him Bob- very harmless). Bob had a little too much brandy and was interested in talking and obtaining my phone number.
After Bob and I parted ways, I rejoined Tad and Tad's friends, who had appeared to greet us. I apologized and explained to Tad that Bob had been drinking and that I doubted whether he even remembered my name. Tad responded with a witless cutdown about Bob's haircut and pants being bad.
Tad introduced me to his friends as Elizabeth.
The Brandy Library was lit only by the illuminated shelves of scotches and brandies and other fine liquors. Stumped by the menu's pages-long litany of whiskey alone, I ordered a fancy version of whiskey and ginger. Tad was surprised I liked cocktails; I explained that they're tasty. Tad replied, "I like to taste my what I'm drinking, unadulterated." Tad swirled the sniffer and took an unadulterated sip.
I was waiting for Tad's friends, by the way, to say "Ha Ha, just joking, I'm not really like this. That was a parody of myself that I was doing back there." But they didn't. Tad's friend (we shall call him Penis) leaned over to me and asked, "So do you like this place?" I nodded. He remarked, "It reminds me of an airport lounge. Tacky... Speaking of tacky, get me OUT of the upper west side--UGH. If I had to live in this asscrack of a city I'd only consider the upper east."
I guess the face that I made then, when some of my dinner crept back up past my uvula, had suggested to Tad that I didn't like his friends.
The night ended with...well, with nothing. I got in a cab and went back to Brooklyn. I drank a Snapple, read a few pages of Harry Potter and the Sorcerer's Stone, and counted all the money I'd saved going on a date with a Lehman Brother's drone.
Okay, um, a TPWHAEINTUS moment? ...okay, another subway moment:
Last night, my roommate/friend Rachel and I were on the 2/3 coming home from a teacher colleague's party in Harlem. Across from us was a Eugene Levy lookalike with very short denim shorts on--a la Tobias Funke, the nevernude. His legs were spread wide open and underneath those daisy dukes was....NOTHING. Nothing but what God intended. And it was just so THERE, you know?
Tuesday, September 11, 2007
A Dearth of Dirges
Being in New York City on September 11, you'd think that there would be some form of city-wide observance. There was the ceremony at Ground Zero (I think Giuliani spoke; Bush wasn't there) and I'm sure other formal tributes around the city, but the overwhelming majority of New Yorkers went about their day as if it were September 12--commuting, working, going home, watching Biggest Loser. I, being one of the majority, went about my routine (or what is slowly solidifying into a routine) with the only reminder of the date's significance being a sad announcement on the R train this morning (come to think of it, around the time of the attacks, mid-morning). The voice said, "Next stop Rector Street. My partner and I would like to take a moment to remember the victims of the attacks on the World Trade Center that happened six years ago today. Also the attacks on December 7, 1941, and April 19, 1995. Next stop City Hall."
The one reference to September 11 I hear all day, and its thunder is stolen by Pearl Harbor and Oklahoma City.
The one reference to September 11 I hear all day, and its thunder is stolen by Pearl Harbor and Oklahoma City.
Friday, September 7, 2007
Four Bottles of Malbec Will Make Me Reconsider Things
So can I take back what I said about PT?
A couple of bottles of wine , stories of gasoline explosions, and a discussion about how crabs have sex (spurred by the crab cake hors d'oerves that were more ball than cake, hence...), and I started to edit my first impressions.
(Another fall intern, Amy, explained to us the mystery of crab sex: external fertilization, much like the sea spiders she wrote her doctoral thesis on. Turns out, the male sea spider goes around collecting eggs from a harem of females, fertilizes them, and impregnates himself with them. Matt (Organizer of Interns) pointed out that the sea spider is the opposite of the Easter Bunny.)
So, we went to a wine bar after work yesterday, and it seems that they're actually funny, smart people--intellectual but warmer than I thought. Matt regaled us with stories of Burning Man (including the rampant Shirtcockers (older gentlemen walking around with a shirt and no pants) and the improvised canon that non-Shirtcockers used to shoot pants at them), while the owner of the magazine, Joe, told us about a lesser-known burning man--a guy who incurred 3rd-degree burns after lighting a massive pile of kindling with gasoline at a child's birthday party. Joe witnessed the event, and I'm sure it was a horrible, horrible thing to experience, but it sort of made me giggle.
It was more at Joe himself. I saw him around the office on Tuesday--he'd emerge from his corner office to scan the bookshelf or say hi to the employees in what I thought was a faux British accent. I thought maybe he was another intern? I don't know, but not the owner. But he really is British. And everything we write and produce is his property. He wears jeans and t-shirts and has this fantastic, shiny, long, luxurious hair. It's gorgeous.
The day itself had its merits too. The 8-hours of researching new topics was broken up by a mid-morning meeting (this time less tense), beginning the Harry Potter series during my lunchbreak in Madison Square, and opening packages of books that publishers send to the magazine in hopes of them getting reviewed. Maybe 10% of the books ended in the pile to consider reviewing, the sex books the editors took for themselves, and rest scoffed at (reasonably so--The Planets of Love (astrology), 8 Habits of Highly Effective PowerPoint Presentations, I'm Not Shy Anymore, etc.).
And the other intern I'll be working with on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Meredith, is a gem--so nice and funny. Meredith went to MIT, studied linguistics and cognitive neuroscience, spent a few years at Rice researching speech production in stroke victims, and is now at NYU's science writing program. I told her I was thinking of applying to NYU for grad school, so she offered to bring me to a class.
Also, very importantly, the summer interns told me that we'd be writing a bunch and that spending the day researching is atypical.
So, for the aforementioned reasons, I think the PT internship has enormously more potential than I thought.
I will end on another, even more insane, TPWHAEITUS moment:
At the wine bar, a couple sat down at an adjacent table. The guy noticed my bag (this big orange canvas thing with a giraffe on it) and said, "Hey, nice bag. You've got great taste." I said, "Thanks!" Then he pointed to the girl and said, "She designed it."
What do you say to the designer of your bag? Thanks? Good job?
A couple of bottles of wine , stories of gasoline explosions, and a discussion about how crabs have sex (spurred by the crab cake hors d'oerves that were more ball than cake, hence...), and I started to edit my first impressions.
(Another fall intern, Amy, explained to us the mystery of crab sex: external fertilization, much like the sea spiders she wrote her doctoral thesis on. Turns out, the male sea spider goes around collecting eggs from a harem of females, fertilizes them, and impregnates himself with them. Matt (Organizer of Interns) pointed out that the sea spider is the opposite of the Easter Bunny.)
So, we went to a wine bar after work yesterday, and it seems that they're actually funny, smart people--intellectual but warmer than I thought. Matt regaled us with stories of Burning Man (including the rampant Shirtcockers (older gentlemen walking around with a shirt and no pants) and the improvised canon that non-Shirtcockers used to shoot pants at them), while the owner of the magazine, Joe, told us about a lesser-known burning man--a guy who incurred 3rd-degree burns after lighting a massive pile of kindling with gasoline at a child's birthday party. Joe witnessed the event, and I'm sure it was a horrible, horrible thing to experience, but it sort of made me giggle.
It was more at Joe himself. I saw him around the office on Tuesday--he'd emerge from his corner office to scan the bookshelf or say hi to the employees in what I thought was a faux British accent. I thought maybe he was another intern? I don't know, but not the owner. But he really is British. And everything we write and produce is his property. He wears jeans and t-shirts and has this fantastic, shiny, long, luxurious hair. It's gorgeous.
The day itself had its merits too. The 8-hours of researching new topics was broken up by a mid-morning meeting (this time less tense), beginning the Harry Potter series during my lunchbreak in Madison Square, and opening packages of books that publishers send to the magazine in hopes of them getting reviewed. Maybe 10% of the books ended in the pile to consider reviewing, the sex books the editors took for themselves, and rest scoffed at (reasonably so--The Planets of Love (astrology), 8 Habits of Highly Effective PowerPoint Presentations, I'm Not Shy Anymore, etc.).
And the other intern I'll be working with on Tuesdays and Thursdays, Meredith, is a gem--so nice and funny. Meredith went to MIT, studied linguistics and cognitive neuroscience, spent a few years at Rice researching speech production in stroke victims, and is now at NYU's science writing program. I told her I was thinking of applying to NYU for grad school, so she offered to bring me to a class.
Also, very importantly, the summer interns told me that we'd be writing a bunch and that spending the day researching is atypical.
So, for the aforementioned reasons, I think the PT internship has enormously more potential than I thought.
I will end on another, even more insane, TPWHAEITUS moment:
At the wine bar, a couple sat down at an adjacent table. The guy noticed my bag (this big orange canvas thing with a giraffe on it) and said, "Hey, nice bag. You've got great taste." I said, "Thanks!" Then he pointed to the girl and said, "She designed it."
What do you say to the designer of your bag? Thanks? Good job?
Wednesday, September 5, 2007
First Days on the Jobs
First off, shout out to Dan, who suggested I blog about my internships and moving to New York. However ironic (it was a little, right Dan?), it planted a seed, so here it is a wee sapling. Watch it grow.
I moved a week ago today, from Chicago to Brooklyn Heights, and I'm getting that recurring feeling that I got my whole four years at Middlebury: Holy shit, this is where I live.
So yeah, first days on the jobs. I started my internships at Psychology Today (PT) yesterday and the Cancer Research Institute (CRI) today. If first days are valid indicators of how the job is going to be, I can say with full confidence that CRI trumps PT. Not what I expected. In fact, I almost declined CRI's offer, thinking that two science writing internships, plus freelancing for Baylor, would be a full plate rivaled only by the family-style spaghetti at Bucca di Beppo. But, obvs, I didn't. Good thing.
All 8 hours of my day at PT yesterday (save an hour lunchbreak, when I made the mistake of paying $3 for a bottle of green tea that tasted like burnt toast) were devoted to searching online journal databases and science news websites for possible new article topics. I sort of felt like a kid whose babysitter plopped me in front of the TV because they didn't know what else to do with me. It got old fast, and with no direction to whittle my searches, typing "psychology" in the search field yielded hundreds of thousands of results and slight panic.
The only break in the monotony was a mid-morning meeting, which was strangely tense. I think they were arguing about the best way to comment on each other's drafts, but the rest of the discussion was cryptic. I still don't know who any of those people are, or what they do. No idea about office protocol or how to use the phone or how to get my $20 a day. I did, however, discover the bathroom and the refrigerator, so I survived.
I'm thinking/hoping that our babysitter, the Guy Who Organizes The Interns (official job title? dunno), will do less "organizing" and more organizing. Gotta give him credit for coming back from Burning Man that very morning looking like he just spent Labor Day weekend at the library rather than a trippy arts festival in the Nevada desert.
My day at CRI, in comparison, was a dream. Lovely staff, lovely office, lovely 2 stops from my hood (=20 min. door-to-door in the morning). I met everyone, I have my own phone extension, and there's a big communal pot of coffee in the kitchen. (I guess following yesterday's act, these things seem extraordinary in comparison.)
My first assignment is to interview post-doc fellows who just received a grant from CRI to conduct research on cancer immunology. And then I'll write profiles about them for the website.
I'm tired now. I will end on a This Probably Wouldn't Happen Anywhere Else In The United States (TPWHAEITUS) moment:
Last Saturday on my way to Grand Central Station on the 4 train I was treated to a dance. By dance, I mean flips and somersaults and handsprings to music. On a crowded train, around the poles in the middle of the aisles.
I moved a week ago today, from Chicago to Brooklyn Heights, and I'm getting that recurring feeling that I got my whole four years at Middlebury: Holy shit, this is where I live.
So yeah, first days on the jobs. I started my internships at Psychology Today (PT) yesterday and the Cancer Research Institute (CRI) today. If first days are valid indicators of how the job is going to be, I can say with full confidence that CRI trumps PT. Not what I expected. In fact, I almost declined CRI's offer, thinking that two science writing internships, plus freelancing for Baylor, would be a full plate rivaled only by the family-style spaghetti at Bucca di Beppo. But, obvs, I didn't. Good thing.
All 8 hours of my day at PT yesterday (save an hour lunchbreak, when I made the mistake of paying $3 for a bottle of green tea that tasted like burnt toast) were devoted to searching online journal databases and science news websites for possible new article topics. I sort of felt like a kid whose babysitter plopped me in front of the TV because they didn't know what else to do with me. It got old fast, and with no direction to whittle my searches, typing "psychology" in the search field yielded hundreds of thousands of results and slight panic.
The only break in the monotony was a mid-morning meeting, which was strangely tense. I think they were arguing about the best way to comment on each other's drafts, but the rest of the discussion was cryptic. I still don't know who any of those people are, or what they do. No idea about office protocol or how to use the phone or how to get my $20 a day. I did, however, discover the bathroom and the refrigerator, so I survived.
I'm thinking/hoping that our babysitter, the Guy Who Organizes The Interns (official job title? dunno), will do less "organizing" and more organizing. Gotta give him credit for coming back from Burning Man that very morning looking like he just spent Labor Day weekend at the library rather than a trippy arts festival in the Nevada desert.
My day at CRI, in comparison, was a dream. Lovely staff, lovely office, lovely 2 stops from my hood (=20 min. door-to-door in the morning). I met everyone, I have my own phone extension, and there's a big communal pot of coffee in the kitchen. (I guess following yesterday's act, these things seem extraordinary in comparison.)
My first assignment is to interview post-doc fellows who just received a grant from CRI to conduct research on cancer immunology. And then I'll write profiles about them for the website.
I'm tired now. I will end on a This Probably Wouldn't Happen Anywhere Else In The United States (TPWHAEITUS) moment:
Last Saturday on my way to Grand Central Station on the 4 train I was treated to a dance. By dance, I mean flips and somersaults and handsprings to music. On a crowded train, around the poles in the middle of the aisles.
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