A break in the clouds

Some of you know I've been struggling over the past 2-3 months with
finding a book that holds my attention. This wouldn't be such a problem
if I wasn't a voracious reader. Hell, I work at a bookstore part-time
to support my habit. A reader...who can't get into reading?! The sick
part is that I still want the books; I just can't bring myself to
actually read them. Anyway, I digress. Yesterday, I found myself
already 100 pages into a book, an advance copy of "A Total Waste of
Makeup". The problem I'm having is that it's CHICK LIT! I don't read
chick lit (well...once in a blue moon)! I couldn't make it through
"Oryx & Crake" by Margaret Atwood, but I'm flying through this?! I
*love* Margaret Atwood...Booker Prize judges orgasm at her feet when she
publishes a new book. I'm tempted to make all kinds of excuses about
how this particular book is intelligent (I swear it's not dumb) or how
it resonates that the main character is about to turn 30 or how I'm so
tired and stressed with work that books that don't hurt my brain soothe
me. I could make those excuses, but I'm not going to. I'm just going
to embrace the fact that yes, I treasure a smart, witty read like
everyone else, but sometimes you've got to feed the brain a little
candy.

*I should also re-evaluate my prejudices against chick lit. Damn
publishers for lumping all these books under such a stupid label and
automatically making us hate them.*
--radicalflower

Head bangers lite

9:30 Club, take two. I was back last night for my second concert of October, Death Cab for Cutie. All said and done, it was a good show. Unlike the Decembrists, you get the impression you don't have to attend a Death Cab concert to experience the true beauty of their music. It is nice, however, to able to experience the geeky beauty of the band a mere feet away. I developed a small crush on the bass player who pounds his bass like a pimp does his whore.

I always get more out of these concerts than just the music. I'm a big crowd watcher and like to develop theories based on my observations. These past two 9:30 Club concerts have not disappointed on material. Looking out over the crowd (I was on the balcony), it was a sea of head bopping. It was so across the board that I felt like I was at some weird cult gathering. I determined that head bopping is to indie what head banging was to metal. The other observation I've been kneading around in my head is about "indie" guys. The problem is that it becomes increasingly difficult to tell whether or not they are straight. I'm sure some of you are asking why this matters, but as a single girl, I don't have time to waste being attracted to a boy who likes men. The geeky/retro/scruffy/laidback thing is hot, but things do seem a bit more ambiguous with indie guys. Another thing that makes it all the more confusing (and I'm seriously channeling my inner Texan here without meaning to) is that they all bop their heads and sing along to the music just like the girls! I don't know...I know I'm stereotyping here, but I see groups like DCFC as a group girls like, and if guys like them, they wouldn't actually show it. These guys bopping and singing like girls confused me. It's not that I'm saying I want only manly, old school men, but sometimes I want a manly, old school man...who is sensitive but doesn't bop.

Apologies and all that crap

I've been such a bad blogger this week. Usually I try to post at least once a day during the week because I like to and because it's cathartic. Unfortunately, this week has been inordinately busy with work (the perfect storm is coming together right on my desk), a work trip to New Jersey and my mini internal crisis. You know I'm exhausted when I'm in bed by midnight every night and don't bother to turn on the tv...I haven't even watched last week's Alias or Gilmore Girls! Anyway...enough apologizing.

Driving to New Jersey was a first for me. I had been through the state on the way to NYC before but had never taken a trip to Jersey for the sake of going to Jersey. The point of my trip was to accept an award for a restoration project we had worked on; however, I was able to make some interesting observations along the way.

(1) As bad as they are for the environment, I really like driving SUVs. My rental was a Chevy Trailblazer, and I had the most fun.
(2) The Village must have been filmed at the Village of Batsto because I would swear I was on the set.
(3) When Atlantic City is only 20 miles away, you are obligated to go. What a weird town, too! I had lunch at Caesar's and wandered around a bit. The casino floor was actually kind of depressing. All these little old people gazing blankly into a slot machine, pulling a handle for happiness.
(4) Caffeine is still my bitch.

*In other news, I don't want to promise too much, but I'm going to try to redesign my site this weekend.*

Am I chicken little?

I've come to realize I have an odd fixation on apocalyptic or end-of-the-world themes. I always make a point to watch those weather disaster movies, even if they're "made for TV." Twister, Dante's Peak, Volcano, Category 6: Day of Destruction, and now Day After Tomorrow...I've seen them all and more. It doesn't end with weather-related disaster, though. I've also see Armageddon, the Core, Independence Day, The Towering Inferno, Airport...those movies where people are supposed to overcome great odds to save themselves and the world. The thing I'm hesitant to admit is that a small part of my conscious mind is always pondering the possibility of something like this happening as I'm watching the movies. Rather than being afraid, it makes me want to be prepared. Usually this entails me wanting to develop a kick-butt exercise routine so I can run for my life or kick a little ass. Day After Tomorrow made me realize having realistic winter attire might be a good idea (hey...I'm from Texas). Yes, I've read the Left Behind series and tried to figure out what skills I could bring to the end times. I even harbor a quiet desire to learn how to farm in the event I need to live sustainably. If you know me at all, this post probably has you cracking up because (1) I have no food or water in my house...much less a supply for the end of the world; (2) I hate running; (3) dirt gets on my nerves; and (4) my wardrobe consists of clothes only truly suitable for 70 degree weather.

Am I destined to be a sidekick?

I went to see In Her Shoes yesterday and was surprised that enjoyed it
as much as I did. The movie, along with other recent events, got me
thinking about how, in life, someone seems always destined to be the
sidekick. In In Her Shoes, Toni Collette wasn't exactly your typical
sidekick, but in certain arenas, particularly with men, she clearly
spent a good portion of the movie playing sidekick to Cameron Diaz's
younger sister. Other, more classic, sidekick movies such as The Truth
About Cats and Dogs feature a more blatant sidekick component. In each
of these movies the sidekick eventually comes into her own. Toni
Collette does indeed marry the nice, hot guy and Janeane Garofalo really
is enough for the dog guy. Through most periods of my life I've made a
good sidekick. When does the part come, though, when I get to stop
playing the role of sidekick and become the main attraction?
--radicalflower

Decembrist photos

Sunday night I went to the 9:30 Club for the first time and had a
thoroughly enjoyable experience. Ha! I'd like to be able to say I
'rocked out', but I don't really feel like I can apply that term to the
Decembrists (too mellow for rock out). What I did find is that I like
their quirky style and definitely enjoy them better live than via cd. I
developed a small crush on the lead singer and discovered the
accordian player/pianist is really Terra.

I also got kind of attached to the opening act, Sons and Daughters. My
almost immediate attachment reaffirmed my love for rock (or at least
groups that meet my definition of rock).

Anyway, I had a swell time and wanted to chronicle the moment. No
budding rock journalist here. Once I'm on a real computer, I'll post
some pictures.
--radicalflower

Sebago Lake saved the day!

I'm back. Part of me would just like to leave it at that, but given the full weekend I had, I just can't do it. Seriously, though, how much complaining can I do when I had a view like this.














Yes, the weekend had its ups and downs, but it was truly a blessing to spend a relaxing weekend on Sebago Lake in Maine. Those of you who know me know that I am uber skeptical of the wealthy and their motivations, but I was hard pressed to complain this weekend. Migis Lodge is at the top of their game. It kind of felt like I got to play in majors after pitching for the rec league for all these years. Even a girl who works for an environmental group could get used to afternoon tea, sunset sails, a mandatory cocktail hour and 7-course dinners. The crisp fall weather sealed the deal.














There were definitely mishaps. I managed to combine a general tendency to fall with poor choice of footwear to create a record breaking number of falls (3). Fall #1 was the result of wet pine needles on an incline and treadless sandals. That only resulted in a minor scratch and minimal embarassment (only a couple of staffers were around). Fall #2 caused a huge blow to my ego. Who knew hiking would be involved in a Board meeting? Wearing the same treadless sandals I ventured down mother nature's obstacle course flanked by a 70-something Board memember giving advice about putting all the pressure on my toes and the newest Board member, the 30-something heir to the Cox Communications fortune. As I try to "put pressure on my toes" I end up sliding partially down hill and almost taking out the guy my cable checks ultimately go to. Fall #3 was bound to happen. I'm just happy I didn't actually land in the lake. I had successfully negotiated my way between various row boat-sail boat-row boat combinations and decided to take a pretty cute guy's offer of assistance out of row boat and onto the pier. Being the thoughtful person I am, I was worried about dragging this guy with me into the lake (trust me...I'm the kind of girl who falls in lakes). So, I must have done some kind of leap/dive and wound up with my shin pounding the end of the pier and me lying on the dock cracking up. Ask to see the wound : )















There was also the obligatory schmoozing and periodic realizations that I am sometimes so different from these people (staff as well as board). Again, though, how could I really complain when I got to spend time in such an amazing place.

A preview

I'm not complaining quite as fiercely...
--radicalflower

Fancy feast

I'm pretty sure not everyone appreciates my refreshing honesty (otherwise known as a unique ability to say the wrong thing at the wrong time). Don't get me wrong...I have been known to be evasive and fib just like the next person, but I have acquired a certain bluntness over the years that I attribute largely to my current flatmate. Anyway, I think the Executive V.P. at my office is one of those nonappreciating souls. Most every day for lunch she has this concoction of some kind of multigrain crackers or bread and omega-3 wild salmon. It's the salmon that sparked this post. The pink slices are cut pretty small, practically ground, and shoved in a can. Much like the cranberry sauce at my house during Thanksgiving, this salmon goes directly from can to plate while retaining its original mold. Its shape, combined with the smell, led me to comment the other day that her lunch always reminds me of cat food. This is when I was informed of the content of the can (the wild salmon). Anyway, after today I'll be sequestered with many omega-3 toting folks, a minor celebrity and others at a series of cabins in Maine. Pray I have a wireless connection and the temerity to dance the dance.

****Breaking News Bulletin: Miracles never cease. Tom DeLay is indicted.****

Waiting

I wonder how much of our lives we spend waiting for things. Right now
I'm waiting for the bus (welcome to life without a working vehicle).

I'm waiting for enough time to finish all of my creative projects. When
will I allow my schedule enough time to open up to devote more of myself
to those things that make me happy?

I'm waiting for the right moment to look for that next job opportunity,
fill out that grad school application.

I'm waiting for the right man to come along. Don't play coy...many of
you are, too. Hell, some of you are waiting for the right man to make
the right decision.

I spent 45 minutes of my life waiting to get into a restaurant on Friday
night and an hour that day waiting for my car to be towed.

How much of days do we spend waiting? I have to wonder if all of that
waiting is necessary or if some of things we wait on are just an excuse
to avoid living life. For me, I would have to say yes on both
accounts. Some things are so worth waiting for, while others simply
stand as an excuse for fear.
--radicalflower

Antiquated dress codes

Antiquated dress codes irk me. At this moment in time I am specifically referring to pantyhose. I was participating in a conversation the earlier in the week at the Barn about dress codes, and one of the managers (female) mentioned that the store manager asked why she wasn't wearing pantyhose. Said manager had a reply ready since she had researched the employee handbook and had seen that they weren't required. She won. This, however, raised a much larger issue with me. Namely, why the hell do some places of employment still require their female employees to wear pantyhose? If a woman chooses to wear pantyhose, that is her perogative. I can, however, think of no reasons for requiring them that aren't sexist. Help me out here...why should pantyhose be required as part of a dress code?

Stigma of being poor

Sunday's Washington Post Outlook section featured an opinion piece by friend and local writer, K.E. Semmel. Hey, Chairman Dean, Don't Write Me Off is one man's plea to the Democratic Party to a take to the retro and return to its working class roots. It is one of the many sirens being sounded across this country calling for a focus on poverty. As many of you who have been reading this blog for awhile know, there is a piece of my soul that will always belong to the poor. Like Semmel, I come from a strictly working class family. Raised by my mom and both grandparents in rural Texas, I was educated on the poor side town at one of those schools that got "left behind" and was the first in my family to graduate from college. My father left us when we were young, and my mother struggled to support her family by working at the local publishing plant. Each year I appreciate my roots more and more, and as the months and years roll by, I continue to ask myself if I'm doing the right thing with my life. I believe I'm giving back to the community, but am I giving back in the most meaningful way? I want to help people, those in need. Semmel's article is one in a series of things that keep pushing this to the forefront of my thought life. I am reminded of what I'm not doing by the homeless I see (Stench of the city, Where do you find God?, The unsinkable human spirit?) daily in the streets. Groups like Sojourners keep testing my faith and calling me to fight for what is right. I sit in church on Sunday and listen to a sermon on the poor and the stigma surrounding them. I hear/read/see all of these things and ask myself whether I am doing enough. I ask myself if this is the sign I have been waiting for.

Nosy heifer or information junkie

I like to know things about people. This isn't because I'm a gossip
hound. I just like to have all available information in front of me.
Evaluating a piece of evidence with only half of the story isn't
necessarily going to paint an accurate picture. When it comes to
friends and family, I want to know because I want that closeness, that
bond. I want to know because I care.

That said, it doesn't rule out the occasional snoopy behavior toward
random individuals I don't even know. I love to listen to other
people's conversations on the train or the bus, for example. Right now,
I am on the metro checking out an email a girl is typing on her
blackberry. I can see the reflection in the window. As you all know, I
like to fancy myself a spy at times, but really I just like to watch
life. This you could call nosy.
--radicalflower

Shake that ass

Last night I had a dance floor epiphany (yeah...epiphany. I said it.
There's no word that sounds as good.) It became all too clear how
neatly most people fell into dance categories. First, you've got your
dance queens. These men and women can tear up the floor and love to
show off. Most of the time they have the moves to justify the space
they take up. Next you have the many perpetrators of the white girl
shuffle. I worry about falling into this category but know I sometimes
do (inner dance diva, please show yourself). Anyway, you know the white
girl shuffle...it's the minimum of movement with little to no rhythm,
all while trying to appear sexy. No abandon or joy...that stuff that is
what dance is all about to me. Finally, there is the male version of
the shuffle. I like to call it the "I can't believe she got me on the
dance floor but thank god I had that extra beer" dance. Very stiff.
Very funny.

If you haven't figured it out by now, I went dancing Friday night and
had a smashing good time. I don't care if I can't dance because I sure
love to do it. I also had one of the best cosmos I've ever had.
--radicalflower

Reader's Advantage...the invite

Actually, this is just a mere fraction of the badass invite I put together. Anyway, come on down and join us next Wednesday for our world premiere.

Fuck Bush!

Bush urged Americans to curb .... He also warned Gulf Coast residents, including those searching for water and food, not to break into businesses or commit other crimes during the crisis.

"There ought to be zero tolerance of people breaking the law during an emergency such as this," Bush said in an interview on ABC's "Good Morning America."

"If people need water and food, we're going to do everything we can to get them water and food," Bush added. "It's very important for the citizens in all affected areas to take personal responsibility and assume a kind of a civic sense of responsibility so that the situation doesn't get out of hand, so people don't exploit the vulnerable."

--"A City of Despair and Lawlessness", Washington Post

If my family or the family of someone I love doesn't have food or water and have been waiting days for assistance, you can bet your ass I'm going to do my best to get it for them. I wouldn't exploit the vulnerable, but I sure as hell would make my way to that abandoned corner store and grab some effing food for my family. If the federal government can't (or won't) react swiftly enough in times of crisis, it is my personal responsibility to do what I can to ensure their health and survival.

Where does compassion go?

Where does compassion go when it's obviously not present? I got really frustrated with someone last night because of the hardass view they were taking on the hurricane devastation along the Gulf Coast. She chose to buy into all the media hype and focus on the looters. What I want to know is why isn't anyone covering the people having to loot for food or more clothing (shoes because theirs are ruined)? Why is she and quite a few others choosing to focus her hatred for the human race on the few individuals who are going to do their best to fuck things up for themselves and those around them, even in the worst situations? I don't get it. Sure people piss me the eff off, but I just can't ditch the compassion and empathy I'm filled with. I can't let myself get that hard. When people are in need, you grieve for them then get up off your ass and do something about it.

The unsinkable human spirit?

I've walked by them for at least three weeks now. They have staked claim to a serious piece of sidewalk across the street from McPherson Square Park, directly under two looming trees. In the beginning, they would dismantle their "home" each morning, but as they acquired more odds and ends (and even people), the ability to pack it up and transport it became impossible. They are now a fixture on this plot of sidewalk. Each day I discover something new about them through the spying I do. I am intrigued, and each day they haunt my mind for longer periods of time. Last week I discovered the books among their possessions, a couple cracked open and resting on the sidewalk. There is no Janet Evanovich or Da Vinci Code among their collection, only weightier tombs and serious works. They also smell nice (the people, not the books). Homeless people don't usually come with a pleasant aroma, but these folks do (the woman at least). I've also noticed she takes care to change clothes periodically and keeps her hair and appearance neat. Also not common among the homeless. In the past few days, I've noticed the woman talking to passersby. The snippets I catch sound important, full of purpose. What I really want to do is talk to them...to hear their story. I feel like I'd probably be the one enriched. I'll keep on walking...keep on staring until one day it will be too late.

Dodging stray sprinklers

Tonight I had to dodge who knows how many random sprinklers on my walk
home. As luck would have it I got a little wet. Life is full of stray
sprinklers, and lately I've been dodging more than my fair share. At
times I've tried to think of ways of getting back at the sprinklers, but
it's really a no win situation. You just have to suck it up, get a
little wet, and hope someone makes a move to remedy the situation. The
sprinklers in my life are being reconfigured, so hopefully they bring
greenery without being wet blankets to passers by. I guess this means,
if I hold out hope, things will eventually get better.
--radicalflower