Rural Dinosaurs

Higher Ed Link Dump

2011-11-05T20:51:00.013-04:00

In no particular order...

remedial courses might be a waste of time

a bunch of digital humanities syllabi

there's an open online course that examines "the state of online education and where e-learning is heading"

the mysteries of the administrative structure

should teachers be allowed to hate blog about their students?

starting points in the digital humanities

digital humanities archive fever (lecture video)

expand your blog's reach

The American Literature Scholar in the Digital Age (book)

preparing grad students for careers outside of academia

admissions officers get lectured on their policies concerning low-income students

professor cats and num nums

Alex's intro to the digital liberal arts course site

Virginia Secretary of Education website

Academe as Meritocracy

The Prestige Racket

I get it already; freshmen can't write

rinky-dinky George Mason University and dirty Koch money

Federal Higher Ed Policy and the Profitable Nonprofits (policy analysis; pdf.....also funded by dirty Koch money?)

a list of open education resources

radical ebook archive (I actually cringe at reading this kind of thing but I bookmarked it and tried anyway)

The Natural End of Schooling

Don't Look to the Ivy League

defining the digital humanities (video; I actually really like this a lot)

The Five Page Paper and the History Degree

What's at Stake in the Georgia State Copyright Case

straight talk about grad school (be aware that this is older)

Miriam's post on what it's like to be a PhD student

2011 higher ed surveys

academic advising for sale

Hacking the Academy (book, sort of)

How To Read A Book In One Hour (part of Hacking the Academy; I thought this was interesting because I've been trying to get this information from phd students but they've been hush-hush about their methods)

Mark Sample's bizarro version of Hacking the Academy

"...the scholarly monograph isn’t dead; it is undead."

“all curriculum students will receive a CVCC branded Debit Mastercard”

"I'm too busy"

Our Universities: Why Are They Failing? (haven't actually read these books yet but most of them are on my radar)

Not exactly sure what it says about me that all of that was bookmarked on my computer...

Realization

2011-10-08T14:56:00.001-04:00

35 miles NW of Fredericksburg
45 miles NE of Charlottesville
63 miles SE of Winchester
70 miles SW of Washington, DC

Patron of all, belonging to none.

Prince's When Doves Cry by Ginuwine

2011-09-18T20:40:00.003-04:00

I recall Ginuwine's rendition of When Doves Cry to be fitting; smooth, sexy, and quite palatable. Yeah, well......what's this song on Spotify? Furthermore, what's all this I run into when I do a Google search or check Youtube? At first, I thought that maybe I had just grown older and the song sounded like crap to me now. Then I thought maybe I just imagined what it sounded like back then.

But no; that's not the case. I found an old mixed CD and it's there; sounding as awesome as ever.

Here is the version which permeates the internet.

And here is the totally sweet version I burned and uploaded from my mixed CD. (Hopefully Prince and Ginuwine won't mind me posting this seeing as how I couldn't find it anywhere.)

Enjoy.

The Summer of Divorce Court

2011-09-04T17:55:00.009-04:00

Wow. This photograph was taken on July 28, 2004. That was seven years ago! It's really hard for me to believe that the Summer of Divorce Court was that long ago.

What was the Summer of Divorce Court? It was a magical time in the DC/Maryland area when young punk, ska, pop, and hardcore bands all covered a song by The AK's called Divorce Court. The song itself is a fantastic sing-along punk anthem with definitive Washington, DC flavor; it's about how the band would rather watch Divorce Court than see the Redskins suck. I'm not exactly sure who said it back then -- it may have been David "Spoonboy" Combs from The Max Levine Ensemble -- but it was proclaimed that everyone that plays that song is transformed into the AK's. No matter what house show I went to that summer, The AK's always played. There was always someone there to pick up the drum sticks and start shouting, "I love Divorce Court!"

The AK's played a reunion show last night at St. Stephen's Episcopal church in Columbia Heights and well, it was every bit as bittersweet and beautiful as it should have been; hot, sweaty, and full of all those sing-along punk anthems which I had nearly forgotten about. Like always, the magical part came at the end. The AK's played Divorce Court and then we all became the AK's. Instruments and equipment were being taken away as Spoonboy led a consecutive five rounds of Divorce Court. It was an absolutely silly thing but so gratifying that I never wanted it to end. Even when it did, the crowd started chanting, "IF YOU'RE NOT PUNISHED, YOU WILL BE PUNISHED" (another song) as they exited the building.

Anyhow, I'm thankful for the nostalgia opportunity.

If you've never heard Divorce Court, here is a version found on TMLE's website:

DIVORCE COURT

Long live the AK's!

Current State of Affairs

2011-09-04T17:44:00.002-04:00

I'm just chilling with KitKit in Takoma Park.

Bliss

2011-08-27T14:56:00.002-04:00

post-earthquake, pre-hurricane comfort food

Dates and Death Threats

2011-08-27T01:09:00.007-04:00

Three weeks ago, I decided I wanted to start dating. You know; go out with a guy for dinner, drinks, a show, or whatever to chit-chat and hopefully make a new friend to hang out with (and maybe more). Of course, I'm geographically removed from single folks my age that share a common culture so I've gotta use the internet.

Yeah. Wow. Forget notions of attractiveness or compatibility; I didn't realize this was going to a needle-in-the-haystack endeavor just to find someone that doesn't have a case of the crazies...

Date #1 seemed like a decent normal guy. Early 30s, educated, intelligent, stable job and living situation, into normal guy stuff, and pretty cute. We had drinks and made small talk though I felt incredibly self-conscious because he didn't have much to say and I tend to fill the void by babbling on about grad school and job-hunting. We ran into some of his friends which eased the self-consciousness; they were interesting, talkative people. At the end of the evening, we walked on the mall and this guy just....snapped. He quickly mumbled that he didn't ever walk this way and that we should turn around. He started acting crazy and when I questioned him, he was mean and told me nothing was wrong. He finally admitted that he saw his ex but by that time things were too awkward to mend. I wouldn't have had a problem if he had just said, "Hey, my ex is over there; let's just turn around." But this was a full on freak out; his whole body reacted. He started walking funny. I thought he might cry or fall down or do something else equally creepy-spontaneous. I told him he could call me again if he wanted but I wouldn't be calling him.

Date #2 takes the cake. This guy had all sorts of red flags on his OKCupid profile but I decided to give him the benefit of the doubt because he was assertive enough to contact me and I was absolutely certain he'd be more talkative than the last guy. I meet this guy at his building in Arlington and when I offered to drive us in my car he says he'd go get his weed. I told him no; I already stated that I don't smoke in my emails to him and that I didn't want marijuana in my car.

We had a pleasant drive through the city and he babbled about a million different things, changing his mind frequently in order to agree with me. We had pie at a boutique shop in DC then went used book shopping at thrift stores. I bought a book then sat on a couch and read it while he browsed and talked on his phone for a ridiculously long time. I finally asked him if we could go and as he walked out of the store, I made a comment about him not buying anything and he told me that he'd just get the books that he wanted from the library.

We drove to a nice park in the city and put out a picnic blanket. As he went to sit down, books tumbled out of his pockets. He has stolen three books from the Salvation Army; two science fiction novels and a Choose-Your-Own-Adventure book, each priced $1.47. I was beyond angry. I lectured him on stealing books from the fucking Salvation Army and he just looked at the ground and spoke softly telling me that he didn't steal them, that he would never do that, that he bought them when I wasn't looking, that he used his card to buy them, that he threw away his receipt, that he wasn't lying, etc. I brought up our conversation about him not buying anything and saying he would go to the library and he tried to convince me we didn't have that conversation, that we had that conversation at a different store, that he didn't know why he said that, etc. Then I railed on him for lying and he tried to change the subject by asking me to play a word game. I sat silent for a moment then told him that we were going to go back to the store so he could either return the books or pay for them. Still hanging his head and speaking softly, he said he was going to walk to the metro. He still maintained that he was innocent and never got mad at me for accusing him; instead he said, "At least let me carry the picnic blanket to your car for you. Why does this always happen to me? I hope you know I'm not crazy or schizophrenic or anything like that." I told him that I didn't think that; I just think he's a liar and a thief.

But I changed my mind; he's completely crazy. Two weeks later, he sent me this message:

I was dying for a chance to tell you this and, after building a whole hateful tirade up in my head, it all pretty much accumulated to this:
I've met a lot of people, and you're the dumbest fucking cunt of them all; even if you were hot at *all*, it would not justify the injustice of your existence. And I hope you know I saved your life, by not going with you to your car, because I restrained myself very, very, very hard to not beat the ever-living shit out of you.

Date #3 never actually happened. The guy sent me a string of emails from his smartphone saying he was at a bar a few blocks away but couldn't find the spot I asked him to meet me. He claimed to have walked up and down the mall four times after I gave him directions then decided he was too tired to be out and he'd just go home. Totally annoying bullshit.

If you've got any advice on how to meet men that are not completely batshit insane or just plain dumb, let me know. If you are a man that is not completely batshit insane or just plain dumb, well, give yourself a pat on the back. Then call me.

ISO Inspiration

2011-08-25T22:48:00.003-04:00

Me: talented, witty, neurotic, sarcastic but
lovable childish writer. Looking for
intelligent child-like companion to be my
muse. Hobbies include concert-going,
people-watching, & daydreaming.
Must be sensitive & open minded.

written on paper by me sometime in November or December of 2001
(10 years ago; age 17)

I am just completely awe-struck at my own beautiful simplicity.

Buena Vista, VA

2011-08-22T21:32:00.004-04:00

Beuna Vista, VA from behind the wheel

I used to threaten to run away to West Virginia to write a novel from the bits and pieces I know about the lives of rural, suburban, and urban people. No more; from now on, I am threatening to move to Buena Vista.

Seven Snakes On Saturday

2011-08-22T21:08:00.005-04:00

I've seen snakes at work before but last week I flipped over a rock and found a Surprise Snake. It was pretty much the most exciting thing to happen to me all summer! (This is seriously what my life has come to.) I've been talking about this incident nonstop and suddenly it hit me; I dig snakes. They're just.......really freaking awesome. I mean, they're kind of scary and wiggly and they like hanging out on/under rocks. I'm totally down with that.

Last Saturday, I went walking at Natural Bridge and decided to document my day in snakes. Here they are:

Cat In Bar

2011-08-14T00:03:00.002-04:00

Al is the chill feline that runs the Red Palace in Washington, DC.

Bittersweet Feelings: Olivia Mancini and the Mates

2011-08-13T23:11:00.005-04:00

Yesterday was a whirlwind of feelings; waking up at home, eating at a favorite restaurant, going on a date, having that date go ridiculously sour, having drinks at a bar with a cat, being social at a friend's stand up comedy event, and finally, topping all that off with an Olivia show. Seeing Olivia is always both comfortable and awkward at the same time but since all the bad stuff with grad school and relationships occurred last year, there are also feelings of sadness and bitterness. Maybe that's just a testament to the music, though; terrible things can happen but they don't seem to keep me away. I can feel awkward -- and gosh, I know I look awkward with my books and camera -- but I just deal with it and translate what I'm feeling into something slightly more tangible.

A lot of people associate music with bad feelings and things; that's normal. Thing is, music for me is people. I feel bad that I put so much meaning on music as a whole -- the music, the places, the roadtrips, the people, the experiences -- because the negative associations bleed into all of it. I guess I'm just not comfortable talking openly about it but Olivia reminds me of my various identities, what it was like to be happy, and what it looked like to appear normal (or at least socially acceptable).

The rest of the photos can be found here.

A Transparent Juxtaposition of Life and Debt

2011-07-31T20:19:00.005-04:00

Friday, July 29th, 2011, 3:00PM - I’m at Jill’s house. Jill peers over my shoulder and stares at the computer screen for a moment then says, “Let’s sign up for a credit card and rack up a pizza debt!”

I currently owe a total of $1,387.13. That’s all.

Jill announces that it’s “pizza time” and we sit on the couch stuffing our faces and half-heartedly watching RuPaul’s Drag U. I talk wistfully about that job at the children’s museum that I applied for. Did I say too much when I introduced myself to the director in passing? Oh, God. What was I wearing? No, that’s a silly thing to worry about. I had kids with me. She’ll understand. If I had that job, I could live downtown and walk to work every day and I’d be skinny again! Ooh, or maybe I could learn to ride a bike in the city…

Jill tells me she’s dirty and I say that I am too. She says no, not that kind of dirty. Then she explains that last night at 2AM, she had sex with Andrew in a park while I was sleeping. I am mildly annoyed. Who does that? Aren’t we too old for that? I change the subject to debt and she doesn’t have much to say.

There are two reasons I don’t have a lot of debt. The first reason is that I am poor. I filled out the FAFSA form and flunked out of community college my first year on the government’s dime. Then I moved back home and worked full time making eight bucks an hour at a call center job for a year. Then I filled out the FAFSA form again; grants took care of most of it and I was able to pay the rest. I worked part time at my department store high school job for two years while I got my associate degree in Liberal Arts. Then I moved to Philadelphia where I worked at an after school program, as a telemarketer, and a photography intern for a blog and a music venue.

Jill and I head to Baltimore. There’s an Alphabet Bombers reunion show at the Sidebar. There’s also an anime convention so I know my college friends are in town. We try to listen to Save Ferris in the car but the disk is so scratched that there’s no use. Instead, we listen to Eastern Standard Time. We skip all of the songs without words because what’s the point if you can’t sing along? I realize that I am happy because it’s just so much better to have two people singing in the car than just one. I tell Jill this and she agrees.

The second reason I don’t have a lot of debt is because my grandmother took it for me. I fell down some steps and broke my arm pretty bad. I ended up having to quit my jobs and move back in with my mom so someone could take care of me. I had to have surgery and months of physical therapy; I couldn’t move my whole upper body for a while. I didn’t have insurance so for months, I would receive bills that were impossible to pay. I tried my best to fill out the paperwork for the individual parties but it was just too much. I came to a point where I would just lay in bed and cry because I couldn’t deal with it. That’s when my grandmother put the bills in her name and started paying them. She’s still paying them and I feel guilty.

We stand on the sidewalk outside the bar, just the two of us. All around us are little circles of people; some we know, some we don’t. None of them talk to us. We can look at each other and know that the other is thinking about what it means to belong to a community. We start talking about “the old days”. About DCska shows. About before Dan died. Jill tells me that when she used to go to shows back then, she felt like her presence was always appreciated. I tell her that back then, I used to walk into a room and everyone would hug me. We both start talking about my 21st birthday party. Everyone was there! We drank milkshakes at Fuddruckers in Chinatown, Mrs. Jones brought me a pie, the Pietasters played a surprise set, the Debonaires and the Ready Steady Go! played…

The Ready Steady Go! was Dan’s band. There is an awkward silence as we both struggle to hold back tears. Jill tells me that she didn’t know how to deal with his cancer. She says she should have visited him but…..and there is more silence. She says you can’t even ask “how are you” because the answer is obvious. I tell her that I was upset because no one bothered to tell me how bad it was and that I was also angry at myself for being so wrapped up in my own life that I didn’t notice. We’re trying very hard not to cry out on the sidewalk in front of the punks, skinheads, and rockabilly girls but we fail. We cry.

After my arm healed, I tried to go back to Philadelphia but it didn’t work. I felt defeated and abandoned. I hid in my friend’s basement and cried for two weeks then went home and filled out a FAFSA form and took a year of business and marketing courses at community college while I figured out what to do next.

The Alphabet Bombers play. The skinheads roughhouse, we dance, I take photos. We smile at each other when we hear Rich talk in his throaty rockabilly voice. We wiggle our fingers at Alex during his guitar solos. We think Curt is cute but we assume he knows it and that makes him kind of a jerk. AJ stands in front of the stage with his arms crossed during the last song and we think he’s a jerk, too. Just like old times.

But also very different.

I applied to just one university; the cheapest, closest place where I could study marketing, communication, and nonprofits. I received full financial aid through FAFSA as well as a $5,000 scholarship. Between the two, that covered my entire tuition cost. I quit my job as a preschool teacher and moved to one of the richest counties in the nation where I paid $820/month for rent in a shared townhome within walking distance of the school. I took out $5,500 in loans to help pay for my initial living expenses. I completed university in a year and a half and was accepted into a nonprofit leadership graduate program where all students work research assistantships in their field.

Well, yeah. Of course I want things to be like they used to be. They just can’t, though. All the people have changed. Jill reminds me that Alex hasn’t changed. I agree but then remind her that he is married, makes a living doing art, and is much more social than he used to be. He has changed….for the better. Jill tells me when Dan got sick and the shows stopped happening, that’s when she turned to drugs. I tell her that I wish I could undo the social knowledge academia and living in the DC area gave me; I understood what it meant to make less than $30,000 in a year and I was obsessed with it. I told her that I know how much it costs to buy a house and that I want to buy one. I told her that I hated the fact that I felt like I needed more degrees in order to overcome the inferiority complex that college gave me. How do we get back to the way it felt when we went to shows? How do we get back to that sense of carefree-ness, community, and joy?

I moved home and worked as a nanny in the next town over. It felt so good to tell people that I was going to graduate school but day by day, I began to worry more and more. Funding will come in April, they’d say. No, wait. They’re announcing assistantships in May. Our departmental budget will be approved at the end of June. I went to orientation which was nothing more than a job interview in disguise. My peers were dressed in suits and came from jobs in Washington and New York. Others were fresh out of Americorps or the Peace Corps. My heart sank; I knew I couldn’t compete. Instead of giving up hope right then and there, I listened to my family, friends, and the people at the university; I believed them when they said there would be a job and funding for me. I bought a bike and put a down payment on the perfect place to live.

We call my college friends to hang out but they are too drunk or lazy to bother with us. I tell Jill that things changed after my last birthday. I felt unappreciated so I stopped calling. They never called me. It was awkward. Jill says she wants to go to a strip club. I say I don’t want to go without a guy but she pressures me into walking to Baltimore Street anyway. Men holler at her as if I’m invisible. A man in pink pants is speaking softly to her in Crazy John’s then hands her his cell phone and tells her to put her number in. I slap his hand away and yell at him. He curses at me and says he didn’t know that was my girl. I realize that I am the only white skinned person in the room and I am not invisible anymore.

Many men try to get Jill’s attention on the sidewalk. One succeeds. He tells her that Asian girls make a lot of money in the clubs. Jill says that she went to college. The man says that many of his girls are paying their way through college by dancing. Not even dancing! Hosting! They just get paid to sit there and talk to men. No dancing, no touching. As many drinks as you want, the bartender will take care of you. The girls make their own schedules; they come and go as they please. You wanna disappear for a month and come back? Fine. I see her eyes light up. I try to cover my annoyance with concern but there’s nothing I can say. He says his name is Mr. Hollywood and she programs his number into her phone.

The assistantship never came and neither did the funding. Administration wanted me to continue playing this little game telling me that I would probably get something once I started taking classes. Tuition and fees for the first year would cost around $40,000 and that’s not counting any sort of living expenses. There was no way I could do it; not only would I have a massive amount of debt for a NONprofit degree, but I would also risk having a graduate degree with no practical experience in the field. I called it off two weeks before I was supposed to move.

At age 27, I’m living with my mother in Culpeper, Virginia and working as a full time nanny. I apply for nonprofit and higher education jobs all the time but I haven’t had any luck. I’m paying $300-$400 per semester to take more marketing courses just for fun at the local community college. I’ve paid my loan down to $1,387.13 and hope to have $20,000 in the bank by next August for graduate school. If I don’t get a deal I like this time, I’m going to save for an additional year and buy a house. I feel as if I make the right decisions financially but as a result of not taking risks, I suffer socially.

On the way home, Jill tries to justify working at a strip club. I’m not sure what to say. Don’t you want something more than that? Don’t you want to learn and use skills? She tells me that she’s been a hostess and promo model before and she does use skills. I tell her that’s not what I mean. I try to make it clear that it’s not a moral thing but in my head I’m wondering if it is. I finally blurt out that I don’t want her relapsing; that she told me herself that sometimes she’s not sure if she does things because she wants to do them or if someone else wants her to do them. A strip club in Baltimore is not a good place for a recovering addict.

She changes the subject; asks if I want to talk about debt. I say yes. We make small talk about credit cards and then I ask her how much debt she has. She reluctantly tells me. Things are quiet for the rest of the ride home.

Things I Want To Learn About vs. Degrees I Want vs. Jobs I Want vs. Things I Am Incredibly Good At

2011-07-24T20:07:00.011-04:00

Lately, I've come to think that these are all completely different things.

Digital Humanities is (are?) like a television show with really interesting characters. It's my favorite to watch because it's so highly visible. Accessible.

Public Policy is a bunch of white guys in suits that desperately need infiltration but like, I don't have enough money to join their ranks and I raise too much hell, anyway.

Cultural Studies is just stupid. It's not really stupid, I guess I am. I just feel like I have something to prove like a bratty little sister. I have no doubt I could get into the school that everyone else went to and I could find an interesting angle to study my boatload of interests from but like, that's a lot of trouble to go through just to prove my worthiness to a bunch of people that don't even have me on the radar. What? Do I magically think this degree will make them invite me out for drinks? They won't even answer my emails.

Higher Education Administration feels so much like getting a degree in order to get a job to get a different degree. Saying that makes it sound like just as noble an endeavor as the pop culture degree but the fact is that I have an administrative undergraduate degree, a higher education internship, I've applied to hundreds of higher ed jobs, I've read many books and websites on the subject, and frankly, I'm mad as hell. Being mad as hell just makes me want to work at the most privileged of universities just so I can FSU. (Of course, when I'm getting paid and going to school for free I'm much more likely to keep my mouth shut and be a nice person.)

I am NOT going to school to become a teacher. Similarly, I am NOT getting my CDA or a masters degree in anything that has to do with Early Childhood Education. Not, not, not, not, not! I love kids, I am amazing at teaching, whatever. Here's the deal: I need to not work solely with married women because it's depressing. Plus, I'd always be more interested in changing the rules and overthrowing the administration.

To be clear, I want to teach college, though. For fun.

I love taking marketing classes. I suppose I don't really need a degree in it because I don't particularly want a job in it but the subject matter is just so interesting. I'm at the point where I am confident that I could teach the courses much better than the people teaching me at the moment.

I'd really be interested in taking some more psychology courses and coupling them with business/economics/marketing courses and doing some sort of Behavioral Economics interdisciplinary degree. If I could then get a job teaching all of those things, I'd be very happy because those are interesting things I am enthusiastic about in the classroom.

Now I am remembering when Rob Gehl said to me with some degree of certainty that I should be studying Anthropology. Looking back, I now assume he said this because he recognized that I am nearly always more interested in the people and social structures rather than whatever it is I'm actually supposed to be doing. I've never taken an anthro course, though so I have no clue how that'd be.

If I'm being honest, all of the jobs I think I'd be really sincere about and good at, I'd need a degree in Social Work.

I want a degree in Nonprofit Management. I want it partially because I feel like I didn't actually learn anything about it in undergrad. "That's it? That's all you're gonna offer me?"

I've always hated the idea of doing research but now I desperately want to take a course in it just to prove I can do it. It never mattered until I saw that it made me unequal to educated people my age.

I would be genuinely happier at a small school in a rural area doing my program alongside working class people. I would feel better about myself in relation to others in an urban or suburban area at a larger school as long as I had funding. If I didn't have funding, I couldn't do it because I would a) be in massive debt and b) be really bitter about the fact that Miss Americorps over there got the assistantship and I did not. I just want to be a part of something, I just want to fit in with smart, hip people. I mean, that's the core of this whole damn thing. Maybe if I had a husband and a "group of friends", I'd go get that teaching degree and happily follow the rules because, much like Jesus, I do love the little children.

I just sometimes find jobs I really want. Rural tourism position? Yes! Database something-or-other at Monticello? Please! Gallery manager at a children's museum? Want! I apply for many but there's not a lot of rhyme or reason in relation to learning or degrees in the ones I really want.

That's probably just the tip of the iceberg. I keep thinking of more specific things to fit into an interdisciplinary degree.

I really wish there wasn't this whole big push for education. I want the stigma to be taken out of not going to college. And blue collar jobs. I also wish that I could unlearn the culture and people of academia because I learned to feel self-conscious when I saw What I Should Be Focused On. And hierarchy. Hierarchy led me to feel intense shame followed by bitterness and anger. This is the socially acceptable way to level up. I can go hide in a rural area and help people (this is appealing to me right now) but I don't know how sincere I am because maybe I'm just hiding. If I can't fit in, if I'm not smart enough, if I don't have enough money, if I don't have enough degrees, if I'm not of the same social status as someone else, if I'm not married, if I don't have a professional job........do I go somewhere where there are fewer educated people just to make myself feel better?

Wait. Isn't that gentrification? Ugggh!

I envy people that tell me they have no ideas. I have too many and I am not making money fast enough to do anything about it. The absolute worst part is that I never know when I am being sincere anymore. I am driven by anxiety, anger, bitterness, practicality, frugality, and God knows what else. Not "love" or "heart". Then there's this reality that my family has always experienced. You don't pick or choose what you do; you have to take what is available. A lifetime of that isn't so bad but a lifetime of that with education might be unbearable. I've seen how other people live, I know what it's like.

I was going to say that there is no school for driving with the windows down because that might be the only sincere thing about me anymore but then I realized that I could potentially go to truck driving school for that.

Milagres

2011-07-17T18:57:00.009-04:00

Last week, I signed up for Google+ which somehow turned on my Gchat messenger. One of my old show buddies from up north messaged me to ask how I was doing. As we chatted, I found myself trying desperately to recall how we actually met but I couldn't. Shows, yeah...but what shows? How the heck did I end up staying at her house in Boston? It dawned on me that not only have a lost a huge chunk of my identity with show-going, but now I have forgotten so much of what I used to dwell on and meticulously document.

My musical intake has slowed to a trickle these days and it's probably not just me. I'm living in the post-hipster world of soccer fans and attachment parenting. The Arcade Fire won a Grammy; a sure sign that whatever you want to call the culture that I tried desperately to be a part of has now been dispersed amongst the normals.

I've been swept away from show-going and photography by adulthood, academia, and The Economy. I find myself grasping for people and things I think I might enjoy but nearly everything feels artificial to me. So.....what a blessing it is that sometimes little things come through my inbox, twitter feed, or even Flickr that I don't even have to question.

Milagres are people making music and photographs that bring me joy. I saw them randomly three years ago when they played at the Velvet Lounge in DC as the Secret Life of Sofia and they're one of the few bands I've kept on my radar but haven't actually had any interaction with. Earlier this year, I saw that they would be putting out an album in the Fall and I lived vicarious through Eric's wonderful tour photos. By chance, I discovered they were opening for someone at the 9:30 Club in DC last night so for the first time in a very long time, I took show photos.

I need to do things like this more often.

Call Today

2011-07-01T22:12:00.001-04:00

Call Today!, a photo by Big Sam Thompson on Flickr.

Generic Animal

2011-04-26T22:17:00.001-04:00

Generic Animal, a photo by Big Sam Thompson on Flickr.

Volcano

2011-04-26T22:15:00.001-04:00

Volcano, a photo by Big Sam Thompson on Flickr.

1986 Thor

2011-04-10T23:12:00.003-04:00

The Framework of a Dream

2011-03-27T23:38:00.005-04:00

I dream vivid and often. Most of the time I just forget about the stuff my subconscious invents (even though it's usually pretty awesome). Other times, I write an outline when I wake up, repeat the dream to myself a few times, then write the story later. If I don't do all of these things, I'll completely forget and won't be able to see it anymore.

This is a dream outline I made in August of 2010:

dream about friends
buss house
shower
kiss?
bus up mountain
not the right bus
seeing dc from the top
driver tells me vre is close
dc
leaning houses - thinking about them
pie show
jorge cooking big piece of meat
andrew being so happy to see me
going through crowd of rock people trying to follow line of kids
passing selah on the way out
thinking andrew didn't have a gig for me to go to so it must be private
running down the path and into what looks like a camp
trying to find the others
tending to a fire with a big black pot - taking the fire out from the pot so it can sleep but keeping the fire alive - looked like corn stalks not wood - woke up

I vaguely remember it; it was a dream that came about after finding out my friend Andrew had joined the Pietasters. Because it's been so long since I had the dream and wrote the outline, I can't write it out in long form anymore. I mean, I could but it wouldn't have the same visualization as the dream; I'd be making it up.

Sometimes I feel like writing dreams and real life are like cheat-writing.

My First Concert

2011-02-21T21:22:00.004-05:00

The first concert I ever went to was Edie Brickell and the New Bohemians at James Madison University in Harrisonburg, VA on March 30, 1989.

I was four years old at the time.

I remember it.

I remember my dad taking me, I remember riding in his corvette with the top down, I remember the auditorium, I remember the balcony, and I remember peeing in my pants.

I loved Edie Brickell; I owned a copy of Shooting Rubberbands At The Stars on tape and I would play it over and over again. I knew all the words.

I remember being in the first grade at M. M. Pierce elementary school and the teacher asked me who I admired most. I didn't understand what the word admired meant so she explained it and I told her, "Edie Brickell". She told me that I didn't get it and explained again but this time hinted that I should probably say someone historically famous or mommy or daddy. This time I told her, "Wilson Phillips."

Creep

2011-01-23T00:53:00.003-05:00

A man walked into the restaurant and stood behind my children. I stared at him quizzically for a few seconds, then with annoyance, and finally with anger. He looked as if he wanted to say something but couldn't quite get it out. After a short but uncomfortable time, he retreated to the pizza counter.

Did the guy order pizza like every other normal patron in the place? No. He ordered a beer. I didn't even know they sold beer. He ordered himself a beer and sat down.

Right. Across. From. Us.

I nervously attended to the children as the man watched us. He looked at me as if I were something good to eat and he looked at the children with the sort of odd fascination that grown men should not have. There were plenty of other children in the place making messes and playfully screaming but the difference was that they were with their mommies AND daddies. Two attractive young couples with four children between them blocked off the section we usually sat in, actually. The man paid no mind to those families. He wouldn't dare because there was daddy.

Julian sat on his knees backwards on his chair silently watching the other children in the restaurant. His brother wiggled out of his seat and in the process, managed to tip Julian's chair over.

The whole restaurant went silent; not because of the screaming child but because the man that had been carefully watching us jumped up and shouted, "I knew that was going to happen! I just knew it!"

He said the words with such disgust and hatred; as if he had been evaluating my parenting and had finally come to a decision.

I was horrified but of course, I rushed to help the child up and figure out if he was okay. He cried loudly and passionately for a good twenty seconds, refused to let me hold him or examine him, then went on munching a rice cake as if nothing had ever happened.

The man was still watching us. He had an evil look on his face. I ignored him.

He finished his beer, threw it away, then stood in front of our table. He stared at the baby for several uncomfortable seconds then said, "Someday you're gonna work for me!"

He gave me the scariest smile I'd ever seen then marched right out the door.

Neighborhood Meetings

2011-01-23T00:44:00.005-05:00

France. Bikes.

I lived next to a cafe on top of a hill in a cute neighborhood and I was excited because I was supposed to meet you at a park. I rode my bike down to the park and before I found you, I saw my dad. He was really happy to see me and asked if I wanted to help him deliver a package to someone. I said yes, but I had to find you first.

The park was really pretty; there was a river, lots of trees, and people playing soccer. I rode across a bridge and found you, told you I would see you later, then went with my dad. It was weird; my dad was young and healthy again. He wasn't nuts.

We talked and laughed as we rode our bikes through this cute French neighborhood (which looked just like Montreal) then we left the package at someone's doorstep. We parted ways and I went back to the park. I looked for you but you weren't there anymore. I started to get self conscious and upset because maybe you were mad that I broke off plans. I walked my bike a few blocks up the hill to the cafe to have something to eat and there you were, drinking coffee. You invited me to sit down and then we started talking and laughing.

The setting -- the neighborhood -- was far more vivid than anything else.

After that, I was back in my high school auditorium where I understood that the school was built on an underground volcano which was going to go off anytime now. I had a book which told how to stop it and I had to deliver it to someone but
all the other students kept trying to steal it from me.

What Adjuncts Think of Undergrads

2011-01-21T22:15:00.005-05:00

my professional life has revolved around the question "how to teach college material to the barely literate?"

I have a lot of anger and sadness right now. I'm not just being paranoid; this really is how they thought of me. I have an incredible amount of self-hatred and self-consciousness because of the greatly-flawed rural public school system I was a part of and the seven and a half years it took me to graduate from college. I also have to apologize for these things to my professors?

I have to do something about this. I really need to figure out how to bridge this gap. How do you teach the professors to view their students as human beings with gifts? As individuals? As normal people? As equals?

Even if you're teaching Intro Class 101 to kids that don't know jack about college or maybe don't want to be there.......care enough to change things! Change lives! Surely this teaching business can't all be about your precious doctorate! Stop feeling like education, literacy, or the tools/drive to succeed in higher ed are just these magic things that people over the age of 18 automatically have; they're not! Education is a privilege!

I want these people to relate to me so bad.

Striped Pajamas + Classroom Touchies

2011-01-16T22:41:00.004-05:00

I stood in a big brown room with brown carpet, brown rugs, a brown desk with a brown chair, and vast, open space. In one far corner of the room was a four post bed with a canopy and brown curtains. In the other corner, there was a doorway. Through that doorway came the muse; the same sad, sleepy man that had recently appeared in two other dreams.

He wore brown and cream striped pajamas which stood out against all the other browns in the room.

He looked around cautiously and tip-toed to bed. He carefully peeled back the brown covers and tucked himself in. I was quite far away but I could see him clutching a brown pillow with a look of severe worry on his face. I was sad because I couldn't do anything; I knew I wasn't really there.

---

Classrooms. High school classrooms which were connected on all four sides to other identical classrooms. I wandered in and out of empty classrooms knowing that later they would be full and I would have to find him.

Him. This sad, elusive dream muse.

The people appeared gradually and magically. Classes were happening and I was busy wading through desks and students and knowledge. Biology labs, English courses, Spanish tests, History lectures. Where could he be?

I just wanted to talk to him. That's all.

I found him on the floor in a computer lab; hunched over some machine he was fixing. I rushed to his side and wrapped my arms around him from behind. He said words to me which I don't recall and then I placed my hand in his in an act of trust. I don't know exactly what happened but he moved my hand so I was touching his body in strange ways which were deemed inappropriate in this dream world. I believed in him, I believed I loved him, but I also knew something was very wrong. I never once doubted his identity until I woke up.

In the morning, I was horrified. I never saw his face but I saw his jacket. The same jacket worn by a man from a few awkward dates in real life. A man who I had suspected was looking for something which I would not provide. A man who I was truthful with. A man who, shortly thereafter, posted a Craigslist advertisement looking for what I suspected he was looking for. Basically, a man who is like any other man. A man that makes me uncomfortable and disappoints me.

In this dream world, he managed to trick me into thinking he was the muse.

Education Sadness and Frustration

2011-01-09T22:42:00.006-05:00

After reading hundreds of tweets from the MLA convention, I am convinced that higher education has nothing to do with undergraduate students. My undergraduate education existed as a tool to fund graduate studies.

I keep thinking about the idea of breaking boundaries between teachers/facilitators and students. I also keep thinking about the idea of learning for the sheer sake of learning. I've been going through lists of courses at Mason; I wonder if I emailed professors if any would be receptive to letting me sit in on a class for the semester...? I tried emailing a professor from Columbia University that wrote encouraging articles last semester but he returned my email with a very high-and-mighty professional no. I've also looked at sites like p2pu.com but not found what I was looking for. I can't help but think that resources would be easier to come across if I actually lived in the DC area; something I can't afford right now.

I have so many thoughts on higher education because of all the blogs and tweets I read but I feel like my thoughts are so much smaller and simpler than those of the PhD folks that are using words like PEDAGOGY or POLITICAL ECONOMY or HEGEMONY or DIGITAL HUMANITIES. All the while I am feeling more and more self-conscious because of the fact that I live in a rural town, I live with my mom, and I work in childcare coupled with the fact that educated people don't want to have anything to do with me. (This is not a perception; my emails and calls mostly go ignored.)

What can I do to change things? How can I infiltrate this snarky, snobby world of higher education, learn the language and culture, be accepted, then translate that knowledge into something useful and understandable to other people outside of academia? Isn't that how things should work? Furthermore, shouldn't those playing the role of the student have a say in all of the fluffy stuff padding their education?

I guess I'm just sad because I'm on the outside.

Dystopian Hope

2011-01-03T21:38:00.005-05:00

How can I help?

It's void of color outside. There's just wind, rain, darkness, cold, thunder, and occasional lightning. There's an abandoned shopping mall before me. It's old; hasn't been used in quite a while. I'm rowing a boat through the parking lot in rapidly rising waters.

I'm inside a half-flooded multi-tiered department store. It's dark and I'm not sure how I'm seeing my way around, but I am. There are tables and racks of wet and moldy clothing and other goods all around me. There are stairs and escalators everywhere. The water has stopped rising but the ceiling is leaking. I am certain that it's going to cave in and completely flood the building.

I look around and my mind flashes with an image of things just before they got this way; panicked shoppers, flickering lights, and the same sensation that the ceiling leaks will lead to a flood. I blink my eyes and things are abandoned and dark again. I'm hopping around on steps, trying to make my way to the top level but somehow it just doesn't happen. I'm not sure what I'm trying to do. I keep thinking that there was some sort of mix up; these people that I keep seeing are already dead. I can't save them anymore. But even if they weren't already dead, I had no idea what I was looking for or how I could save the building from completely flooding. This wasn't my job...

More rain came. Inside the building. I'm not sure how but it did. The ceiling was disappearing. I kept hopping from thing to thing and climbing up stairs. I looked along what was left of the ceiling as I went trying to find whatever it was I was looking for but I never did. Finally, there was no more ceiling at all. The water just poured in. I saw all the people die; they drowned. I tried to scream but no noise came out because I was underwater.

I woke up completely wet and frantically trying to catch my breath. I was in the very center of a tall, roundish academic building. I was laying on the floor and staring straight up at the balconies above me. Hundreds of men in business suits walked by carrying briefcases. The only students around were graduate students; nice-looking professional ones. Distinguished and privileged men and women. They all wore blacks and browns, all clean cut, tidy hair, etc. Everything around me was made of important-looking gray marble.

I coughed and sputtered. I may have screamed for help. The business men and the graduate students all just went about their business without so much as a glance in my direction. They stepped over me or went around me; not a one offered me a hand in getting up.

I stood up and frantically ran around the room looking for.......what was I looking for? Why don't I know? Why am I here?!

Up and down steps, through offices, between stacks of books......

"Excuse me, sir. Do you know why I'm here? What am I looking for?"

No answer. Never an answer. Ever. It was like I simply didn't exist.

After a while, I just gave up. I sat at one of the balconies with my chin against the railing just looking down at all of the monotonous people walking by. I sat there, day and night. Just watching and waiting. I was overwhelmed with sadness because I still didn't know what my purpose was. Why was I there?

One day, as I was watching all of the people, I saw something different. I saw this beautiful, warm green glow emitting from a body down below. Oh, God. My heart.......my insides........

I ran down the steps into the bottom floor after him. I shouted his name over and over. I could hear my own voice echo but no one else so much as looked at me. When he reached the center of the room, he stopped and turned around.

My heart.......it was really him. He wasn't like the others. He wasn't perfect, he wasn't formal. He wore jeans and a button up shirt, he looked sad and tired yet he shined with color and life. He had that green light around him and the closer I got, the warmer it felt.

I knew everything. I was there for him; I was supposed to save him. I was supposed to be his friend, love him, listen to him, hold him, help him be human.

But he just stood there. I ran to him, so happy to see him, still shouting his name. His eyes were like glass. He..........he was looking straight through me.

"No! No, no, no, no, no! Please! Please wake up! You have to! I'm here for you! You're why I'm here! Please! I promise I'll be good to you!"

My insides were filled with pure love and it was hurting so much. I tried and tried to communicate with him but the more I did, the smaller I got.

"Please! Just talk to me! Please! I'm right here! Why don't you answer? What's wrong with you?! Please just let me help....whatever it is, I'll still love you. I promise!"

I fell to my knees and cried before him.

This wasn't how it was supposed to be. And apparently God agreed.

God whispered an idea of what was going to happen next into my ear. He didn't tell me in words or pictures, it was just.....a strange divine message delivered straight to my brain. Basically, I had just a few seconds before everything started all over again.

"Sleep."

Snowy white powder suddenly dropped from the sky and covered everything. The business men and graduate students all dropped to the floor immediately. As he went down, I lunged at my muse and shouted 'I love you'. I don't think he ever saw or heard me, but I had been successful in wrapping my arms around his legs as we both went down.

I was so small; just a child. As my eyes closed, I smiled and snuggled closer to his leg. I stuck one of my fingers through the hole in his jeans by his knee and touched his skin. Just as my body went limp, the warm green around his body over took me and I fell asleep feeling warm and finally happy.

(Sorry for the shift in voice but I'm too lazy to go back and change it.)

Sex Education

2010-09-27T23:07:00.008-04:00

I feel the need to share my high school sex education experience. Here it is:

Culpeper County High School had church ladies come into health class and tell me to not have sex until marriage. They also told me that women were like crock pots and men were like microwaves. I thought this was hilarious at the time and refused to sign the pledge.

That was about ten years ago. I kind of wonder if it's still like that...

I bring this up for two reasons. The first is that last week I saw The Education of Shelby Knox and I cried through half of it because it made me wish my life was different. Like, you know; I wish I had done something back then. I wish I had resources and support. More importantly, I wished that at that age I had the knowledge of something other than what was being taught to me. I knew something was wrong and I knew I didn't fit in but without the knowledge of the outside world, I couldn't really do anything because I didn't know what to do.

The second thing that made me think of this is that tonight I stopped at Walmart in Culpeper on my way home for the first time in a long time. I heard a woman call my name so I turned around. It was this woman and her kid and I said hello and studied her for a moment. I said, "I'm sorry.......I'm terrible with remembering names......do I know you?" She told me her name and that we went to school together. I asked what she had been doing and she told me she was a full time mom; she had a five year old and a one year old. She looked so different than me; like a woman. A mature women. A mom. I just thought to myself, how did I end up in such a different world than all these people in my hometown? I knew something was up back then but I had no idea what until I left Culpeper. (And let me tell you, it got me into a lot of authority-questioning trouble, too.) How did I sense things were not what they seemed and my peers did not?

Obsessive Compulsive Admission

2010-09-14T21:49:00.004-04:00

I am extremely embarrassed by the strange weight I place on live music and musicians. I am almost ashamed of the meticulous lists and organizational system of photographs on my computer. The half-finished scrapbooks and large laundry basket of photographs in chronological order make me want to cry. When I moved to Fairfax and started school at George Mason University, I finally let go. I stopped making lists and I let my organizational system go to hell. At the end of 2008, all of my folders were named New Folder (1), New Folder (2), and so on. I stopped going to every single show simply because I couldn't; I no longer had a vehicle and I lived too far out to Metro in.

When I got my car back, the drive wasn't there anymore. Now I only go see bands I am extremely comfortable with. And I've traded my camera for a book. That's right; I can go to shows without a camera now. In 2007, I went to 150 shows and I had a camera at 150 of those shows. I had to. I didn't want to miss anything; I wanted to be able to recall anything and have proof of it. I wanted to be an expert at something which I suspect only I cared about. After all, I still have yet to meet anybody with musical fingerprints even a little bit similar to mine.

The horrible point to all of this is that last night I was going through that laundry basket looking for photos from August 22, 2003 and I wanted to cry because I couldn't find them. I was looking for something tangible to hold onto but I couldn't find it. This indicates to me that the photos don't exist because back then, I did not make archival mistakes.

Unemployment, Week 2

2010-09-07T22:52:00.002-04:00

I went to another river today. This time I went swimming. Well, as much "swimming" as I could; the water level was ridiculously low. I hadn't been to Woolen Mills in many years but I still don't recall the water ever having been that low.

Friends, meet the Rivanna:

You know, I think this is what I like now.

No, really. I'm sitting in the back of the room at the tea house in Charlottesville while the Invisible Hand plays and honestly, all I can think is that I'm too tired and old to be here. I wake up every morning way earlier than I'd like and the only thing that really appeals to me right now is wading through water and springing from rock to rock. Well, that and reading comic books in neat places. And, you know, the idea of having a job or being in graduate school. I am somewhat miserable right now but I'm subjecting myself to it because it's something I'm supposed to like and it's something to do. Something I've always done.

Oh, and the food.

cover letter + chai shake

The food.

I've had cold mint tea, a chai shake, cocoa rooibos, and a hummus platter with extra carrots.

Hmmm. I guess some things don't change.

Changing of the Seasons

2010-09-04T23:06:00.004-04:00

White Owl in 2006

That's White Owl. I've written about him before. I saw him two weeks ago on the mall in front of the Mudhouse in Charlottesville. That means it's time for school to start again and for autumn to come. Unlike last time, I actually went up to him and we talked for a bit. I talked about how I was no longer going to graduate school at the University of Delaware because I received no job or funding and the day before I had been given my two weeks notice at work. He talked about moving on; he told me he'd be going to Athens before the end of the week. He also spoke fondly of Iowa City; said it was his favorite college town.

White Owl also spoke of his frustration with the economy; the mall was full of people just sitting there with signs and cups asking for money. He plays the flute for money and these people just sit there and jiggle their cups; they're not doing anything to earn the money.

I don't know why I've always been so fascinated with this man. When I walked away this time, I found myself wondering if White Owl was actually Jesus.

Unemployment: Photo Essay

2010-09-03T07:41:00.006-04:00

Two days in, I found myself knee-deep in the Rappahannock River in Fredericksburg, Virginia. What shows used to do for me -- shut my thoughts off and allow me to peacefully live in the moment -- is now being done by nature. I find myself particularly attracted to moving bodies of water. And rocks; lots of rocks.

The few sad thoughts that permeated the peace were the following: One, this ultimately would have been more enjoyable with the children I had most recently been employed to look after and two, everyone else is back at school except for me. And okay, three; where did Olivia end up? I could just ask but I'm afraid to; I don't want to find out that the last active person that I associated with an amazing music scene in DC is gone.

Things I Wish I Had Written

2010-05-06T02:03:00.004-04:00

Mr. Petersen is the awesome bomb that dropped on my world and blew me to smitherenes!!!
If i could discribe him in one word it would be perfect...
He is triumphant and admirable...
a golden throphy upon the sucess mantle (link)

On the one hand, yes. Just yes. I'm totally with you.

On the other hand, um, no.

Meat Judgment

2010-05-05T02:05:00.005-04:00

Before I left, I headed into the side door of the house where the party was. There was a deli counter with a butcher cutting up meats. I asked him for these tiny squares of thinly-sliced assorted meats so he sliced them one-by-one with a tiny knife and started putting them on a scale. I was freaked out because I had no idea how much it would cost. I grabbed a handful from the scale and shoved them into my mouth like candy. I immediately felt a wave of shame overcome me because I was a vegetarian. I turned around to see if anyone was looking and sure enough, Misty and her best/boyfriend Andrew were sitting on this old orange couch looking at me with eyes of judgment. Neither of them said a word but their eyes were full of hatred; they were calling me a liar and an animal killer. I slowed my chewing down because I felt so bad. I wanted to spit it out. I could taste ham in my mouth and I.........

The Way Things Used To Be: Babybird

2010-03-22T22:48:00.005-04:00

Maybe it's my age, maybe it's my place in life, or maybe it's just the way things are in my culture right now...
I'm thinking back to the way things used to be in the mid-90s. I'm thinking about a lot of things but I'm specifically thinking about music. Throughout the majority of my teenage years, I listened to the radio and took notes.

I took notes. Who does that?

Seriously. Did you do that?

It started when I lived downstairs and I'd listen to the nightly countdowns on the DC pop stations. I'd call in and vote for my favorite songs, too.

At some point, I must have stayed in Charlottesville because I discovered that their pop station (Z95) turned into some nationally syndicated cooler pop station at night. I think it was called Music Channel One. After that, I would intentionally stay at my grandmother's house and play with the antenna on the radio in order to hear the station. I wrote down everything I liked and marked everything with checks, pluses, stars, and whatever notes I thought up. I also wrote down things I hated.

At some point, I came across 91.9 WNRN and it changed my life. The Ska Punks, No Losers show changed my life. Bartley changed my life. I would sit in my upstairs room adjusting the antenna and listening to the radio through the static. I always took notes and commented on Bartley's drunken antics. My mom would always get mad at me for staying up late and making long distance calls to a radio show that "sounds like it's being broadcast out of someone's basement".

In the closet at my mom's house is a big purple bin with all of my Notebooks in it. They're filled with diary entries, lists of music, and musical commentary. I haven't looked at them in years but now all of a sudden I want to.

Without a job or classes, I've been flipping through the internet and learning bits and pieces about things I only sort of knew. Old television shows, the Chernobyl disaster, how sweet oil works, polydactyl cats, King Missile, and......I just remembered something in those Notebooks that I never followed up on. Babybird.

Babybird. I remember their name written a handful of times in my Notebooks. I remember turning up the radio when they came on. I remember looking for their album at the old location of Plan 9 in Albermarle Square.

That's it. Blip. Gone.

They just popped into my head an hour ago and GOOGLE, WIKIPEDIA, YOUTUBE!!! away I went.

I didn't even remember what they could have possibly sounded like or what songs I used to like or anything really. I guessed. TYPE TYPE TYPE YOUTUBE

The sounds that fill my ears now are incredibly blissful and distantly familiar like an old middle school classmate.

These videos are quite obviously not my work but they were at one point part of the soundtrack of my life:

For the past hour or so, I've been listening to these four songs. I'm not really sure what I'm doing. I'm trying to remember them but I don't. I remember writing them down. And I remember that they were important and good because I wrote that they were. But I still don't remember them.

I am writing things less and less. I am not making lists of shows, I am not photographing everything under the sun, I am not documenting how my money is spent.

On the one hand, I am sad because there are so many things I won't remember because they're not documented.

On the other hand, I am starting to not care. This used to bother me a lot but maybe not so much now. I am glad that there's a box of books at my mom's house that enabled me to remember this band tonight but I'm also somewhat glad to be free from The Way Things Used To Be.

As far as Babybird, I am obtaining a cd straight away and making it brand new again; here's to driving with the windows down in spring of 2010!

Olivia Mancini

2010-03-17T02:37:00.003-04:00

Olivia at DC9, 3/16/10

Olivia Mancini is so comfortable. I love that I can head into the city on a weeknight and sit in a corner with a book and sip tea while listening to her exude musical cuteness. If I owned pajamas, I'd consider wearing them the next time she plays.

I guess I'm just really thankful for this sort of familiar, low-key musical experience at this point in my life.

Suburban Boondocks

2010-02-06T02:26:00.004-05:00

Today I bundled up and trudged to the grocery store to buy some juice in the beginnings of a snowstorm. Instead of just walking home, I wimped out and waited for the bus. Waiting with me were four black people.

Black people. Am I even allowed to say black people or do I have to say African American...?

They appeared to be in their late 20s or early 30s. There were three males and a female. I huddled in the bus shelter with them as they spoke loudly and cursed at each other. I couldn't really tell if they were mad at each other or just playing around. I'd seen this before; mostly among youth in urban settings. In fact, the last time I was in Northeast DC I watched a group of teenagers at a Chinese take-out restaurant play like this for a good thirty minutes.

The female and one of the males were swearing at each other -- n-word this and n-word that. They started pushing each other and wrestling in the bus shelter. Their friends laughed. The woman slammed the man into the side of the bus shelter and shattered the plastic encasing that held the bus schedules; they didn't seem to care. She then heaved him out onto the sidewalk where his pants fell to his ankles. She grabbed his tighty-whitey underwear and pulled them up to his chest so on-looking traffic could see his bare ass. She finally let him go and they continued to argue. Their friends didn't seem very concerned at all.

What?

Why is culture like this? To be fair, I feel like redneck culture might be the same way; it's self-perpetuating. Like, are you not embarrassed? Do you not view this as a negative incident? How did your friends not care? Should I not care? (You did notice that I was present, right?)

The thing is, it took me a minute to realize that this was happening in real life. I've been watching Boondocks a lot lately and it highlights (and accentuates) black culture just like that. What I saw today felt strange, distant, and out-of-place. It felt like television.

I need to get acquainted with other cultures; cultures that are right here.

I Guess This World Is Over

2010-01-27T01:51:00.011-05:00

My eyes darted left and then right; the room was mostly dark but I could see the dust flurries falling in the golden light shining through the heavily-curtained bunkhouse window. I slowly sat up and searched the room for my alarm clock. There it was. Eleven o' clock. AM. Early for me but very, VERY late for them. I hopped out of my bottom bunk space and trotted barefoot and pajama-clad into the mess hall.

The mess hall contained two very long wooden tables where everyone sat together for meals. The ceilings were high and the echoing voices of the "lunch ladies" could be heard from a distance. "Lunch ladies" would be selling them short, though; they also cooked breakfast and dinner.

Of course, I came in at odd times and usually missed organized meals. I routinely raided the cabinets myself much to their dismay. Today was no different. Underneath the condiment table was a cabinet with a random assortment of no-cook breakfast foods left over from earlier; tiny boxes of cereal, bags of bagels, and loose pouches of Poptarts. I decided to try my luck with the Poptarts.

I selected a shiny silver pouch, opened it, and.....what? No frosting? Who eats Poptarts without frosting?

I took a bite.

Cherry.

Cherry is my favorite but...entirely too dry. Hmmm.

I finished the first Poptart but tossed the second one (still in its silvery pouch) in the trash.

Gross. Why do they even make those?

Still barefoot and in my sleep shorts and tank top, I grabbed my notepad and headed out toward the front entrance to see what was going on. The director and the other leaders glanced over at me as new campers arrived. I pretended to scribble things down in my notepad but really I was looking at the mountains and trying to figure out where exactly I was.

When I was sure none of the counselors were watching me, I walked up to a parent and asked her where I was.

"Switzerland", she answered in another language.

Oh. That makes sense. I thought I was in Europe.

As the children started to take shape and form into something camp-like, the buses and the parents left. People disbursed. I rounded a corner so no one would see me then I furiously scribbled words in my notebook. I whispered something magical into the air and all at once my notebook became a contraption which strapped to my back. My pen multiplied and became four long wooden rods which could be twirled in such a way that I could fly.

I burst back through the front entrance of the dining hall and ran the length of the place. When I came out the other end, I was wearing jeans and a t-shirt and facing a downward slope. I jumped down the hill and twirled the sticks above my head so I floated and landed gently on the horse path that separated the buildings and the paddocks. The nearby campers on horses ooh'd and ahh'd. The young Asian woman guiding them was beyond angry. She left them behind and approached me.

"Why are you flying? You know you're forbidden to have that machine here with you! You're supposed to be writing! Go back to your cabin right now!"

I looked at her strangely and drew inappropriate signs at her in the air with my sticks. My mouth opened, but not a word escaped so I made more signs which she quite obviously didn't understand.

"What on Earth are you doing?! Stop playing with me. I'm seriously losing patience here; I can't just drop what I'm doing with the rest of these kids every time you feel like doing something different! If you don't go back to your cabin this instant, I'm going to have to report you to the director and you're going to get written up again."

I frowned at the girl. My sticks began to wave; I drew pictures in the air that only I could see. I took a few steps back then....magic! I was propelled upward by the thing on my back which was somehow controlled by the sticks in my hands. The woman screamed at me in another language and I laughed at her from a good fifteen feet above her head. The children on horses all looked on with great concern.

"Come down here, you coward!", she shouted in another language. She was terribly angry.

All at once, I heard voices on radios; they were all coming for me. I was scared but I was confident that I wouldn't be taken because they couldn't catch me. I whirled my sticks and drew fabulous works of art that only I could see and my backpack sent me forward, following the horse path into the shady area between the barns and a fence lined by a row of tall trees. The Asian woman was chasing me on foot and others were coming on horse. Flight was no longer an option so I put the sticks away and jumped. I bounded forward at an alarming pace; even those on horses couldn't catch me. When I reached the front entrance, the sticks appeared once more and I hovered a few feet above those in charge of the camp. I couldn't understand their language this time but I understood that I wasn't allowed back ever again.

I rounded the corner of the long building and floated into a farmer's market. My head kept bumping into the ceiling of the shed overhang but no one seemed to notice; it was as if I were invisible. Big strong Russian-looking men were buying fruits and vegetables and tiny little girls were tending to baskets of flowers. The old-fashioned cash register made ching-ching noises at regular intervals.

I looked across the road and thought that it was such a short distance yet a huge undertaking to actually cross. For just a moment, I looked at the yellow stripes down the middle and I was back in Brightwood again. I was on the ground with my new bicycle and behind me was a party of presents and picnic tables and cake. In front of me was the road and across it was a very tall garage and steps leading to the loft above. I no longer needed my training wheels but they didn't know that; when I finally crossed and showed them it was a complete surprise! I don't even know how I learned, but I did. That moment was imprisoned in a photograph and that's how I know about it.

But no.....I wasn't on the ground and there was no party behind me, nor was there any garage or loft before me. It appeared to be another farmer's market shed but instead of patrons there was an entire black church full of mourners standing around sobbing openly. With a little movement of my sticks, I was soon above them.

I heard familiar music. What...? I let myself down gently and the sticks disappeared from my hands. I wandered in and out of the crowd until I came to an opening with a stage. There on the stage was a gospel band. Everything looked like business as usual but they were playing the song, World Over by Edna's Goldfish. I looked around me and big black ladies with ridiculous hats were weeping and praising Jesus. I felt a familiar warmth overtake me; like the sun had just come out from behind the clouds. When the second verse began, I stepped forward into the front row. I closed my eyes, smiled, and looked upward. I began to quietly mouth the words.

Weeks to go before I leave for good
You don't know my name
But you probably should...

I opened my eyes and suddenly everyone around me was aware of the music I was hearing. Everyone was angrily looking at me as if it were my fault. Even the gospel band had stopped playing and looked confused as to where the music was coming from. Though incredibly self-conscious, I closed my eyes and continued to sing louder. I could hear the angry mob over the music and my own voice. Suddenly, I threw up my arms and screamed wildly. This seemed to confuse and quiet them momentarily.

"God! It's from God! The music you hear is coming from the sky! God is playing Edna's Goldfish for me!"

I closed my eyes and kept singing, smiling, and looking up. I knew the crowd was closing in on me but I didn't care. I became one with the music and --

The Moment

2009-12-27T03:45:00.003-05:00

This post is about a "moment". You know what I'm talking about. Thee moment; that point in time where something in your brain just clicks! And there it is. Things are different.

I always thought about "moments" in relation to religion or alcoholism because that's where I've always heard the most stories. That moment when you found God. That moment when you knew you had hit rock bottom. One time my mom and I told each other we had never really had a religious moment.

Like, what if the moment is dumb? If you see Jesus in your grilled cheese sandwich, maybe tell no one...? Of course, the moment and the realization are so utterly profound and life-changing that you can't just keep it to yourself. Jesus is real, you proclaim. I know this because I saw him in my

grilled
cheese
sandwich. U h h h h g g g g g.

So yeah. Things are different now. Do you know how I know? Because something inside my brain clicked while I was watching an 80s cover band perform Bonnie Tyler's Total Eclipse of the Heart on Halloween.

Eww. Grilled cheese sandwich Jesus like whoa.

Candle Light Walk to Honor the Memory of Brian Picone: Photos

2009-11-06T15:55:00.005-05:00

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I'm at a loss right now. I spoke with Ben on the phone last night and talked about funeral presentations. I can say how much I enjoyed the day of Brian's "service", the Pride meeting of sharing thoughts, or the variety show that followed the candle light walk but the fact is that this is the way I chose to represent this loss in photographs. I chose the traditional thing. You know, I brought my camera with me to the service last Friday but amid all of the liberal love I just couldn't bring myself to take a photo because, I don't know, whatever I captured would just appear false to me. I know what the truth looks like; I've seen it before. These photos are closer to the truth; they're closer to matching what I know and how I think I'm supposed to feel. The thing is, what if there is no truth or the truth has changed? I've thought about what would happen after my own death and the truth that I know makes me cringe. I wanted a new truth. I wanted a party. I wanted all of my lives to come to together through the people that I knew and I wanted new friendships to be formed in my honor. I wanted a live band.

Are those things for me or for the people left to deal with the loss? The way I am dealing with this makes me wonder about that. It's nice to see that the party exists; the true celebration of life as a funeral service exists. I love it. I really do. The thing is, I don't think I am grieving or getting over it. I don't know what I'm doing but I don't think I'm doing it right. I don't like this feeling and I don't like that I'm having to reevaluate my life right now. I am full of anger and I don't know exactly where to apply it. I am full of pain. So. So. So. Much. Pain.

Right now, I feel like crying and screaming to anyone who will listen; I'm sorry, I don't know who I am.

I'm sorry, I don't know who I am.

I'm sorry.

I don't know who I am.

Making Sense of Feelings of Inadequacy

2009-09-26T21:34:00.004-04:00

I felt empty. Very suddenly.....I just felt an overwhelming sadness. I sat and watched and listened to things going on around me and I just wanted to cry. Maybe crying would have made me feel better but I'm not sure because my body wouldn't let me. I just felt cold and distant and very awkward.

(..............)

I hate the feeling of not knowing what to say or do with myself and often times that just leads to me doing stupid shit. I followed Seth around like a love-sick puppy. Why couldn't I just leave? I hated myself last night. I couldn't even put anything into proper words because it was just this big wave of emotion to me. And I.......I acted like a child. I hugged him over and over again to the point of awkwardness and told him I loved him. I also said I'm sorry and he asked why and I couldn't find the words. What I meant was that I was sorry for loving him and subsequently sorry for acting the way I did. Why do I get like that? I can remember being like this years ago and thinking that when I wasn't a child anymore it wouldn't be the same but it still is. I asked him childish questions in a small voice and he would start to answer and then thankfully someone would interrupt and it would go on as long as possible but I was still there. I couldn't walk away. That last hug.....I just want to cry thinking about it. He was so warm and soft and comfortable. I looked up at him and sheepishly asked if I could give him a kiss. He said no. I felt stupid and broken-hearted and just really.......like, that core part of me is still a child. I love like a child.

I realized that it was past 2 and I slowly walked to my car. I hung my head in shame. I hated myself for being the way that I am. "Why can't I be normal?" I asked myself that over and over again. I got to my car which was parked in front of a party happening around someone's door stoop. A fellow said things to me in drunken French and I stopped him and made him start again in English. I told him I wasn't drunk and that I was going to bed. In my car. He still thought I was drunk which was fine because that would have given me justification to sleep in the car. Someone circled the car in a bike once and peeped in and I stared back. I heard the merry voices in French right outside my car....I mean directly next to my car.....and I was glad they were there. I thought, "You know, this'll make a really great story even though I feel like shit. In a few weeks, I'm going to read it and think I'm pretty damn awesome." That's probably true. As for right now.....well, I still hate myself.

-June 10th, 2007

I felt exactly like that today. I'm sure if I felt the need to, I could conjure up examples in the same vein from more than ten years ago. I know why this happens now, though. This thing is not love; this thing is wanting to be something perceived as better than what I am. I am desperately looking at someone else's culture and wanting to be a valid part of it. By valid, I mean I want my relationship with this person to be equal and more than just an afterthought. I never wanted to be just a fan of music; I wanted to be a friend. I never wanted to be just a student; I wanted to be a friend. I never wanted to be some person in a sea of many. I wanted to share my thoughts and feelings with this person. I wanted us to a be part of each others' lives. I looked up to him but I wanted to tear down that hierarchical structure so I could stop being a kid and we could be equals.

I can read that story and take pride in the fact that I have progressed; I still act somewhat like a child when I don't feel adequate but thankfully it's not nearly that extreme. Today I tried to go to an academic conference littered with PhD candidates that are sadly my superiors in a very real sense. I don't know what I was thinking but I clearly didn't belong there in the sense that I wanted to. I was only there for an hour or so but slowly I started to feel completely self-conscious. I looked at all of these attractive and intelligent young professionals and thought about the way they perceived me. I happily spoke to one of my former professors and as he dished out advice I was incredibly conscious of the things he said and the way he said them. He was being very helpful and polite but I realized that he was speaking to me as my professor and not as a friend. Though it was the logical way of speaking to me based on previous interactions, it made me feel terrible. We're not too far apart in age but because of place-in-life circumstances, I am perceived a certain way and treated accordingly.

When I become self-conscious in this manner, I start to feel more and more child-like by the second which quite obviously doesn't help my cause. Today I felt suddenly awkward and out-of-place like I just needed to flee the situation immediately but at the very same time I felt really needy like I wanted there to be someone to talk it out with.

Everything that came out of my mouth was the wrong thing. The same as before. Word vomit. Inside my head I was going, "Oh, God! What am I saying?! Why did I say that?! Don't say another word. You have absolutely nothing valuable to say to these particular people to begin with but now you're just making yourself look like an ass."

I tried to say good-bye and explain how I was feeling to Z but I think it came across as nervous whining. My self-hatred increased as I realized the words coming out of his mouth enraged me and yet I longed for nothing more than to leap into his arms and close my eyes and pretend to feel love just like I did in Montreal. I don't understand this! Why was that my mental response?! That doesn't make any sense.

Z's response to my feelings of inadequacy was to tell me to have a drink after which he says he's going to a bar. When I ask if that's an invitation, he says no. I wanted to punch him in the face and scream at him while simultaneously wanting him to hold me.

I wanted Z......or anyone really......to hug me and say, "It's alright. Sometimes we all feel inadequate. Just because you don't have any fancy degrees doesn't make you any less of a person in my eyes. I still think you're smart and I value you as a person. Just because you're not a part of this doesn't mean I don't want to be your friend."

That's ridiculous, though. I desperately want to be seen as valid; as an equal. That's not only unrealistic but it's also counterproductive. I want to be baby'ed in order to feel more like an adult.

When I try to pick this apart, I think of my good friend Ben Masters who is in Minnesota now. Ben hugged me all the time when I was having these weird feelings. He also frequently gave me encouraging words. I never felt like he was babying me and hopefully he didn't feel that way either. I never felt like I was less of a person around him and though we were two completely different people I never felt inequality of any sort. Is this because of the person he is? Is this because we met as people in the same stage of life (undergraduate level college)? I suspect a little of both is true.

I wanted to punch Z in the face because his advice was inconsiderate and irresponsible. It was inconsiderate because I spoke of feelings of inadequacy and not fitting in and his response was to mention something else that excluded me. What I heard was, "You should go do this thing alone while I go do this same thing socially." I could attribute the exclusion to a lot of things but why would he bother to point it out?

His advice was irresponsible because telling someone to drink because of anxiety or feeling inadequate is just not a good idea. Some people might be able to handle that but why would you take the chance? Z knows that I don't drink alcohol. I don't know; maybe he doesn't know that it scares me or that it's something I don't joke about. Telling me to go drink alone when I'm upset is like telling me to go find out if I'm an alcoholic. That terrifies me and it makes me want to cry because someone I care about and want to call a friend told me to do it.

I left and walked home in the rain after about an hour of being there. I felt miserable; like I had been defeated. I was mad at myself for thinking I should go in the first place. I was mad at myself for all the time I invested in getting to know people like Z, M, or R because no matter what I can't change the way we met. Ben told me a few weeks ago that I became his friend by "invading his life" and I thought about it and realized that's kind of how I make all of my friends since it doesn't really seem to happen organically. The problem with invading lives is that some people don't want their lives to be invaded and that invasion won't work if there are hierarchical structures in place which we all constantly reinforce.

I've been trying to think ahead to when I graduate; we're going to do xyz when I graduate. I used to tell Matt Bruno that we'd have brunch together someday. Will we really, though? I'm scared we won't. I'm not Matt Bruno's job anymore so he doesn't care about me. Graduating doesn't mean I will automatically fit in with educated people. It also doesn't mean my relationships with people will change just like that. It's not impossible but it's just not likely. Should I give up then? Should I just lose touch with these people and move on? I don't want to because I find value in my relationships with them. I feel like I have to invade lives in order to get people to understand that I am worthy of friendship; I'm pretty sure that this is how Ben and I eventually became so close. If I were not so persistent I just wouldn't have friends at all.

I was so upset that I came home and slept all day. I woke up at 9:30PM and the wheels in my brain were turning; desperate to make sense of all these feelings. Again; sitting here and writing everything out while trying to rationalize it is a throw back to ten years ago which makes me feel like maybe I haven't changed. The less time I spend thinking about something, the better off I am probably. Wasn't that Z's logic in telling me to drink? He was telling me to relax and stop thinking. Well, sorry. This is just sincerely how I am.

Frustration

2009-09-05T00:06:00.007-04:00

I truly hate writing things that no one will see. If a tree falls in the woods and no one is there, then who gives a fuck if it made a sound or not? What jackass is sitting at home worrying about it? Let's face it; no one cares to read undergraduate paperwork because it doesn't matter. Maybe it's mundane and maybe it's not but because it's not backed up with any sort of independent reason to exist, credentials, or passion I suspect the grader would not be wiggling in his seat to read my next paper. Truth: millions of college students write crap every day, a single person reads said crap, then all that hard work is forgotten about.

On Getting Shit Done

2009-09-04T23:28:00.005-04:00

This is it; my last semester of undergraduate work. All I have to do is get shit done. Really. That's all it boils down to. Making that mental list, sitting my skippy ass down, and doing it. The thing is, the list never ends. College is about jumping through hoops and silly me, I'm looking to get myself into more college when I'm done with this. More college, more hoops. Write umpteen million papers for New Century College un-professors, fill in Scantron bubbles for Miss Cute-and-Peppy psychology graduate student, spend hours studying accounting for Terrifying Business Cougar, finish the papers required for my portfolio (which by the way NO ONE wants to read; I've asked around), study for the GRE, take the GRE, find a short term job or paid internship for spring/summer, apply for graduate schools (and scholarships and teaching assistantships, etc.), and so on and so forth. That doesn't even take into account my housing issues, car troubles, family drama, all of the things I want to do with my life, and oh yeah, I'm 25 and I've never dated anyone. I can't decide if I'm a skeptical, anxious, high strung nutcase because of college or if I'm good at college because I'm a skeptical, anxious, high strung nutcase. All I know is that not getting shit done is not an option at this point.

Wish me luck...?

Things Change/Things Never Change

2009-08-17T10:12:00.003-04:00

A few weeks ago, I went down to Charlottesville for a show; only my sixteenth of the year. Though I was in a state of distress thanks to car troubles and family woes, I tried to do my usual things. I got pizza at Christian's, money at the Wachovia ATM, stuck my head in the door at the Mudhouse to see the same sort of teenagers that were there when I was younger, ordered a pot of cocoa rooibos at the tea bazaar, etc. I sadly peered in the dark windows of the space that was until fairly recently Gravity Lounge. I thought about my friend Bill and I wondered where he went. I wish I could find him and give him a hug.

As I was walking from place to place, I heard a familiar sound; that of a flute. I absently thought to myself, "Oh. The end of summer must be near. That's White Owl."

I carelessly floated through the small crowds of people until I came to the source of the music and there I stood; entranced. Sure enough, it was White Owl.

White Owl is a mystical, ageless old man that signifies the end of things. Or, you know.....a homeless street musician. I first met him in that magical time of discovery I went though as a senior in high school. I had just gotten a car so I would get up early and drive to Charlottesville on Saturdays and spend all day on the mall writing in my notebooks and talking to strangers. I loved talking to the homeless people, crazy as they were. I may have even been jealous of the crust punks; there was something romantic about sleeping in abandoned buildings, hopping trains, and living off the "fruit" of the land. I still think that someday I'd like to try it but unfortunately gentrification and age have gotten the best of me.

I remember meeting White Owl and going back to school on a Monday to tell my homeroom class about him. They all laughed at me, of course. What 17 year old girl would go hang out with homeless people on Saturdays?

Funny; there was never once a thought given toward service. There was never a pat on the back for trying to "work with homeless people". In fact, there was much scolding from my mother when she found out I was associating with homeless people and would sometimes accompany them to the Salvation Army for dinner. I only knew White Owl because I wanted to and no other reason. I asked him his name and ten million questions because I was curious. I'd never known a homeless person before. Not the sort that hopped trains, lived in a tent, and came with an old mutt anyhow.

So there I was....eight years later.....standing in front of this man playing the flute. When he stopped I asked him if he remembered me and he answered, "Yes. I don't remember your name but I definitely remember your face."

I didn't really know what else to say. The absolute worst part was walking back by him again. His eyes followed me and I felt guilty because by now I've been taught to feel guilty; I've been taught to think it's my job to do I-don't-know-what about homelessness and every other cause out there. I've also been taught to not give a shit at the very same time; to walk right past and not wonder but ignore because in Charlottesville there's just one White Owl and a handful of crusties but in DC you can multiply that by every street corner. It's kind of overwhelming so you think, "Oh, God. What can I do?"

White Owl used to be a seasonal hobo. He'd always return at the end of the summer and stick around in the Fall. At least that's when I saw him. I know he used to live in a tent somewhere and he talked about hopping trains and the city of New Orleans. I don't know; maybe he's settled down...? Maybe he's not homeless now or at least less homeless than before. At least, that's what I hope.

Anyhow, the point is that the most bizarre, random shit is constant. White Owl is still there and the Pietasters are still playing shows. There's not much else I can think of that has stayed the same. Marriages end, new ones begin, those eventually end also, people change their minds, then change them again, and nomadisism is alive and well. Regardless of what White Owl is or might possibly stand for, shouldn't I be clinging to the idea of him because there might possibly be sanity in something constant?

I hate how quickly things fall apart for me mentally when drastic change is introduced. I don't like it when people come and go. I feel like I get dragged through the process and I always feel very much alone. I suppose this is nothing new but man, this really makes me weary of things that are "forever" or "the truth". I simply think, "How can that be...? It's mostly just chance, isn't it? I don't want it to be but..."

How Did I Spend My Hours?

2009-05-09T19:36:00.006-04:00

You see that crazy guy on the Ark? That's Ben Buss; he was my "supervisor" for the semester through Northern Virginia Lutheran Campus Ministry. He's awesome. He was super understanding and open to the idea of getting service hours by.....well, doing good things for those that needed them. In a way, that's kind of what LCM is all about; it's kind of a middle man sort of organization that hooks students up with service projects. That's obviously not all it is but that is a big part of it. I did as much as I could for LCM itself but much like my internship for NCC this semester, that didn't really feel like I was doing any good. This whole process of learning should be about doing as much good as possible and making connections......so that's what I did.

Here's where my hours came from:

- Flyering; I put up flyers every single week for 747 services and various other LCM activities. I did 3 intense full campus flyerings this semester. For about 5 weeks or so, I also did flyers for United College Ministries because the student who puts up flyers for them had a broken arm.

- Church Planning; I helped plan a service on joy this semester. I only did it once because I am bad at it. I honestly don't know the Bible well enough to plan services. I am however a fantastic cook...and sometimes services need food.

- Service Projects; stuff like volunteering at the Katherine K. Hanley shelter or helping at Relay For Life. I forget what else we did but those things are actually making a difference. Who cares if it's not directly for LCM; it's better than doing something directly for LCM because it's actually helping people in the broad scheme of things. None of it is really my thing but at least it feels productive.

- Photographs; I take photos at most of the events LCM does. Since our service is co-sponsored by United College Ministries I also provide them with photographs. Both organizations will use my photographs for annual reports and to use for "marketing" purposes. I know Ben wants to put some of the photos on the big tri-board for summer orientation.

- Church Visitation; I was a walking, talking advertisement for LCM. Quite honestly, I really love speaking to congregations about LCM; makes me feel more important than I actually am. Saying things out loud also makes me realize, "Oh, yeah. I guess we kind of are making a difference in lives."

- Spring Break; I went on this service trip down to Jacksonville, FL with LCM/UCM which involved a few other nonprofits. The trip was through Society of St. Andrew and the specific program was called Harvest of Hope. We were also hooked up with the Jacksonville Urban Mission Experience but that was kind of disastrous; when we got there we found out the dorm building didn't pass inspection so we had to stay on the floor of a gym at a church/school. Anyhow, the whole point of the trip was to glean leftover crops for the hungry and that's just what occurred. Between my times in the field I experienced a lot of thought on the way people interact, the way programs are planned, the way nonprofits function, and being able to do the things I love for a living. I was urged not to do my experiential learning over spring break but honestly, that's where I learned the most. Sorry. (Honestly, that wasn't a surprise to me; I'd count Pop Montreal, Popped Philly, and going on tour as my biggest learning experiences and they were all week-long adventures.) For the most part, I was miserable on the trip but I at least came back with some additional knowledge (mostly about myself) that I didn't have before.

So there you have it. (And that's not even counting all of the fun stuff.) It's actually really nice that I got such diverse experiences since I'm cramming my Mason time into a year and half and will be expected to write about the million things I did in a portfolio. Beneficial to me, beneficial to other people, and hopefully to your liking, Dear Reader.

Spring Break: Photo Essay

2009-05-09T17:16:00.004-04:00

I've actually done a lot of work on taking and editing photographs for both Northern Virginia Lutheran Campus Ministry and United College Ministries of Northern Virginia throughout the semester. They of course enjoy cheesy group photos but most of my favorite photos aren't like that...

In no particular order, here are a few of my favorite photographs from the Spring Break mission trip to Jacksonville, FL to glean fields for Society of St. Andrew's Harvest of Hope program.

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And in case there was any question as to who was having all of these adventures...there's this photograph. (As much as I love putting other people on the spot, I hate photographs of myself. That's like 80% of the reason I hate the Facebook, actually.)

Notes From Spring Break

2009-05-09T16:54:00.003-04:00

I can't write about everything. Really, I can't. It's mostly because I'm too long-winded and tangential. The thing is, I do take notes on everything which kind of helps me to decide exactly what to write about. To give you a very vague idea as to what went on over spring break beyond the few bits I've already mentioned, here are the unedited notes I took while I was down there:

Video from 70s – outdated, look it up, wondering how real it is

Millennium goals (look up)

Homeless man/sandwiches – walk, reaction by boys in kitchen

Night walk irish bar – integration and being comfortable w/ who I am as a whole and the way I react to things, not being into program but being more into real life, speaking to homeless/drunks normally

Village of 100, poverty dinner, becky crying

Less frustration about not caring than normal, comfortable with just going along with it

Not knowing songs is why I don’t sing

Not wanting to touch strangers, knot game

Casper, danny s.

Broccoli, cabbage

Riding w/ Barbara, learning about org, program coordinator for fl starting 29 thousand or masters 32 thousand, worrying about making a living/surviving, figures about funding

Sleep schedule, general schedule problems, flexible, sleeping arrangements

Being myself doesn’t feel like I’m being bad like it used to, no guilt

Like 4-H camp which is what I thought of conferences too, cliques form in same way, always safety concerns for me, going off alone

Girl in charge reminds me of sarah s., young married

Interesting to see how young everyone looks to me, no hot dudes, people in charge look my age

No internet, sporadic showers, school/schedule problems

Starbucks girls, giving up things

How does sense of community fit into this? What about me pushing away?

Pooping or lack thereof (constipation)

No soundtrack

Sunburn, feeling drained

Wishing I had friends around, thinking of ben, thinking of zac, used to being mindful of hot dudes but becoming oblivious b/c there are none here

What part did god play?

Wed – going to see casper, crying, sarah’s salary, juicy pony, talking to ben via phone, meeting sara & jesse & chase, fun times, 3am talking to penn state habitat folks

2.5 hours of sleep, crazy tired, two hours of gleaning

Nothing mentioned about come as you are or you don’t have to participate if you don’t want to, I am working for you out of the kindness of my heart and I don’t have to

Citrus wed

Broccoli Thursday

Evaluations – accommodations

Barbara, Becky

Neighborhoods: five points, san marco, downtown

Danny Schmidt @ European Café, keylime cheesecake, nice couple giving restaurant recommendations

Found headband @ St. Andrew’s

the lady in that guy’s office that worked in RVa and know a lady in Culpeper (Brenda)

empty downtown, gay guy bookstore jesus etching, Jacksonville landing, ben phone call

independent businesses vs. Starbucks, Five Guys, Buff. Wild Wings, shopping center vs. city shops

being treated like adults vs. kids – paper said student volunteer and adult volunteer as if you can’t be both

danny’s shaky, beautiful voice, closed eyes, looking up, thought-provoking lyrics, handsome and friendly face and demeanor, soft spoken and caring, signature hat

Baby's First Board Meeting

2009-05-06T17:45:00.007-04:00

Oh, dear. In true college student fashion, I've waited until the last minute to get things done. Well, written things anyway. I had previously written about the concern for hours which I carefully mapped out and completed.

So....my work with Lutheran Campus Ministry. Right.

This past Monday I was elected to the Northern Virginia Lutheran Campus Ministry board of directors. I went to the meeting where Ben Buss was presenting the annual report and there came a time when elections were taking place and someone mentioned having a student on the board and all heads turned toward me (presumably not just because I was a student but also because I had mentioned an interest in nonprofit involvement). I was gladly voted in and welcomed.

That meeting lasted three hours but was quite beneficial to my understanding of how things get done.......or don't get done. As a five-oh-one-cee-three they felt the need to be uber professional about things as far as structure and agenda. It sort of felt like one of my old honor society meetings but like, the way things would have been if we had actually stuck to the rules. Making motions for this and that, seconds and ayes, and an actual agenda list. Interestingly enough, two of the fellows there were young and ring-less. One of them was even employed. Even in the church-iest of church setting I find that's where my mind goes. In the interest of doing nonprofit work, maybe that's where it ought to be going.

So we went down this list of things and I found it kind of hard to believe that there was so much going on behind the scenes when this surface stuff was so informal and small. Ben Buss is not all business like so many other people I've met. He's super organized but, I don't know....he makes it seem like he's not...? We do little service projects and we take little trips and we do fun little things. Our weekly Wednesday night services which are actually shared with United College Ministries on Northern Virginia also seem pretty little. While there are occasionally new people that come once, there's a little core group of people. Little. On the surface, we are far smaller than we are behind the scenes. I'm perplexed by this.

Anyhow, I have a whole lot to learn about grant-writing, fund-raising, budgeting, and out-reach so this will be an excellent start. This is actually the sort of thing I've been looking to learn from so while the end of the semester is here I'm obviously going to do as much as I can for this organization in the future. I've already been to a meeting so I can man the LCM table over the summer for the freshman orientation dates. This is just the beginning for me and legit nonprofit work.

Ben's Transformation at Relay For Life: Photo Essay

2009-04-19T16:13:00.002-04:00

I hadn't really planned on helping out with Relay For Life until I heard Ben would be dressing in drag. Then of course, I was all about it. I could talk about what a good cause it was and how it relates to my education with experiential learning and nonprofits but no.....that would be kind of boring. Here's photo documentation of how Ben became a pretty lady-man last night.

Dead Puppies Lead To...

2009-04-17T14:09:00.004-04:00

I sat uncomfortably in the presence of several administrators in the
conference room. They all tapped their fingers impatiently and looked
at me with severe disappointment. I looked down at the floor and tried
to suppress my tears.

"You know you could be expelled for this, right?"

I couldn't speak. Tears welled up in my eyes. I hated him. He ruined
my career as a college student. Now I would never make more than
$8.00/hour.

"These emails........you encouraged him. Why did you do it?"

"Look, I didn't know he was actually that crazy! I thought he was just
joking about the dead puppies! How was I supposed to know he was
serious about throwing dead puppies around at the beer factory?!"

They didn't care, though. I was not only dismissed from George Mason
University, but I was arrested and charged as an accomplice.
Additionally, I was thrown out of Fairfax county based on the fact
that I would never make enough money to live there and I was sentenced
to several years worth of puppy-related community service in the
mountains of West Virginia. I lived happily for 3 years just outside
of Beckley, WV where I worked at the local Food Lion as a stock girl
making $7.50. I couldn't afford to live on my own so I lived with my
gainfully employed boyfriend, Bobby. Not only did Bobby provide me
with a nice trailer to live in but on weekends he would take me out to
eat at the Old Country Buffet and let me pick out a movie to rent at
Blockbuster.

Go figure -- my happiness couldn't last for long. Bobby unexpectedly
died in a freak BASE jumping accident during Bridge Day. I told him
not to do it but he did it anyway. I mean, I didn't yell at him or
anything because tons of people do it every year and only a few have
died.....but still. His parachute didn't open and the paramedics ended
up scraping his mangled body off a rock below Highway 19.

Not a week after the accident, I discovered I was pregnant. I didn't
believe in abortion, though.

...so I got an abortion. I didn't really know what else to do.

By that time, I was up to making $7.82 at Food Lion. (Full disclosure:
that last twelve cent raise was totally due to sleeping with one of
the assistant managers.) I was able to pay the rent on the trailer
myself with the money I had saved up but I realized that wouldn't last
long. I couldn't live without cable television, Coca-Cola, and weekend
buffet restaurant trips. I realized that I would need to get a second
job.

I moved in with that assistant manager I slept with. His girlfriend
wasn't happy about that.

2 months in, that bitch called the cops on me after I dumped a bowl of
hot Spaghetti-O's on her lap. She had it coming, though; she was
always telling me what to do and when I was watching tv she'd come in,
take the remote, and change it to some shitty reality show. The night
of the Spaghetti-O's fiasco I was watching the cooking channel and
like, I was totally into it. Bitch comes in and starts ranting about
some Hollywood show where the winner gets fake boobs and a million
bucks, changes the channel, and boom. I get pissed. Anyway.....

So I ended up moving back to my family's farm in Piney River. Luckily
I was able to get a job at the Dollar General in Amherst because the
Food Lion there would not hire me. I ended up marrying this guy named
Ricky.......and shortly thereafter finding out he's actually somehow
related to me on my grandfather's side. We just kind of laugh about
that because the very same thing happened to my grandparents; they
were actually third cousins.

Years later we were taking a vacation down in Warshington, DC (there
are two intentional mistakes in that phrase; please appreciate them)
and that's when I saw him. He didn't look a day older than the last
time I had seen him. He wore jeans, a suit jacket, and a stupid grin
on his face. I walked right up to him and said, "Excuse me."

He looked up and down at my corpulent body (which had pushed out four
live babies), shivered, and asked, "Uh, do I know you?"

I was enraged.

"AAAAHHHHH, WHAT THE FUCK?! HOW COME YOU HAVEN'T CHANGED?! WHY DON'T
YOU LOOK OLDER?! WHY AREN'T YOU MISERABLE OR IN JAIL?!"

He blinked and wiped bits of my Large Lady Slobber Of Rage off his
cheek disdainfully. I continued.

"ZAC FUCKING ________, YOU SON OF A BITCH BEER-POLLUTING PUPPY KILLER!
YOU FUCKING RUINED MY LIFE! THANKS TO YOU, I WASN'T ALLOWED TO FINISH
COLLEGE AND I HAD TO LIVE IN A TRAILER, WORK A SHITTY JOB, DATE
COMPLETE DUMBASSES, AND HAVE A SHITLOAD OF KIDS. WHY ARE YOU NOT
MISERABLE LIKE ME?!"

"Ohhhhhh. Shit, I didn't recognize you. You got....well anyway, after
you got kicked out I got a call from Starr Hill and they said that
folks were actually raving about the beer that had the dead puppies in
it. They couldn't keep the stuff on the shelves! They ended up paying
me a boatload of money to come down there and dead puppy-fy the whole
damn factory. Administration at the school had a change of heart and
realized that no one really liked live puppies anyway. Not only did I
get to keep my job and finish my degree but Mason actually changed
their mascot to Sad Boris, The Dead Puppy. Now all of GMU's teams are
called the Stinking Dead Puppies! I make a shit-ton of money these
days actually......"

As my rage grew, so did I. Larger and larger until my head reached the
clouds. Up. Up. Up. Zac ________ was a tiny speck to me. A tiny speck
that ruined my life. I picked him up between my thumb and forefinger
and dangled him in front of my face. Before I could think of a
creative way to destroy him, his body went limp between my fingers and
he was dead. Turns out the guy was deathly allergic to clouds. Who
knew?

I sang a short song about whales and my rage was gone. I was
normal-sized again. In fact, my body had returned to the state it was
in before the four kids and the buffet restaurants. My vagina was like
brand new! My husband and kids disappeared before my eyes and there I
was -- all alone with Zac ________'s Dead Body.

He just looked like he was sleeping so I nudged him with my foot.
Nothing. I poked him in his side, then his armpit, and finally on the
bottom of his foot. Nothing.

I started to walk away but came back.

I knelt down.....wrote something on a post-it note.........and slapped
it on his forehead. I stood a few feet away and watched as tourists
walked by, read the note, and laughed at his dead-ass body.

Nonprofits and Public Relations

2009-03-22T16:13:00.002-04:00

Always being watched...

You see that? That's Megan. When I signed up for this Harvest of Hope program (which is part of Society of St. Andrew) I also signed papers saying that she would pretty much be capturing everything I did for an entire week. She's listed on the website under "public affairs" so I'm assuming the idea is to get us in photographs and on video in order to get the word out about the program and ultimately obtain more funding and volunteers. I wouldn't mind doing something like that for a nonprofit. In fact, I don't really see how it's all that different from what I do in relation to bands.

I'm assuming this article and this video were somehow made possible by her.

Also, if there was any doubt as to my studying nonprofits on the trip, please note that last paragraph:

Some say their faith brought them here. Others are interested in careers with non-profit agencies like the Society of St. Andrew. However, those like Thompson voice the same concern for others as their main motivation for giving up R&R time for a higher purpose. “I feel that we need to take care of this planet. I feel that we need to take care of our brothers and sisters. If we don’t, who will?”

Ridiculous Passion and Interference

2009-03-21T19:20:00.000-04:00

**Please note: this entry is more or less for a class.

Wednesday had finally come; that was the day that I was supposed to see my friends, Casper and the Cookies. We had just gotten back from gleaning and my plan was to nap and shower before heading out around dinner time. I told Pastor Herb my plans and he told that was fine but I needed to okay it with the Harvest of Hope director, Sarah. For some reason I didn’t want to do this which was surprising because it’s never like me to shy away from talking about my concert plans. In fact, I had known about the concert a month or so in advance of the trip and told everyone involved. I even began to use the language they used; the fact that my friends and I would be in the same place at the same time was “a sign from God”. And I don’t get signs from God so this was pretty darn special in my mind. I’m pretty sure they all saw it as a sign meaning that because my friends were playing a show down there that meant God was telling me that I was meant to be gleaning the fields and feeding the hungry. I was already signed up for that, though; if God was trying to tell me anything at all, it was this: “Hey, thanks for donating your time and effort to the cause but let’s not kid ourselves – I know where your heart is. Go be around music.”

I found Sarah and……didn’t really know what to say to her. For some reason there was no easy way to say, “I’m skipping dinner and programs to go see my friends play a show.”

I looked at the ground and cowardly stated my business. I thought I would just get “tsk, tsk’d” coupled with a look of disappointment and then I’d be on my way. Oh, no. It was worse than that. She told me I wasn’t allowed to go.

Wasn’t allowed?! What? Are you kidding me? All of the hard work I’d done……all of the things I’d forced myself to believe were my passion…..all those things were quickly reduced to what they had been at the start of my time at Mason when I was crying to Matt Bruno about how I could no longer go to shows and how I hated to do service work because it wasn’t my calling. Volunteer, volunteer, volunteer, volunteer, volunteer. It’s crammed down my throat every day at New Century College. I went from being interested in business and marketing to being into nonprofits and fund-raising. Holy shit; who am I now?! I’m this caring person with a heart for social justice. No, wait. I’m just this loner asshole that likes chasing bands and playing the part at conferences then openly going off on adventures which make my peers say, “Wow. You’re so brave. I could never go off and do that by myself.”

Everything shattered in that moment. My George Mason self was a successful lie that people liked better than the aloof girl with the car. And do you know how I know it’s a lie? Because I was presented with two choices. Guess which one I made.

After Sarah told me I couldn’t go, there was an awkward silence. I told her that my friends were from Athens and I hadn’t seen them in over a year but that didn’t work. She brought up the covenant I had signed – the Damned Covenant which would hang over my head for the remainder of the trip – and she spoke to me like people had often spoke to me when I was younger. I tried to walk off but she took me aside to the steps of the church between the buildings. We sat down and she began to talk to me. The more she talked, the tinier I felt. I don’t recall exactly what she said but it was definitely more for her than me. Think camp counselor and middle schooler; I was upset about something trivial which seemed massive to me and it was her job to be the grown-up by making me aware of how trivial that thing is by telling me to forget it and come join the merriment of camp activities. This enraged me at age 12. This enraged me at age 24.

“It’s not the end of the world. There will be other concerts. Now why don’t you go blah blah blah…”

My mom has been telling me this for my whole life. Remember that time I was in the mental hospital and Edna’s Goldfish played Phantasmagoria and I couldn’t go because I was trapped? I was told there’d be other times. Yeah, well they broke up before I got to see them. And just a few years ago the first thing I said after waking up from surgery was, “Somebody take me to see Akron/Family.”

It can’t be explained. And it REALLY can’t be explained to some people. Like my mom. Sarah also happened to be one of those people.

I tried to explain to her that there was one thing in my life that made me feel like myself and that was musical adventure. There’s really not any good name for it because it’s not just about going to a concert. It’s about the journey, meeting people, learning new things, being in different places, and observing or experiencing a sense of community through music. The greatest things I’ve ever done and the best moments of my life were part of that. I would never have met some of my best friends, I would never have lived where I have lived, I would never have had the jobs I have had….and so on and so forth. Everything I love about my life comes from a pull to live music. Each year I go to a ridiculous amount of shows which peaked at 150 in 2007. I write, I take photographs, and I tell stories. I keep a budget log. I plan solo trips, I sleep in my car (RIP Piecar), I rely on the kindness of strangers sometimes. I drove, took buses, rode with bands. All this stuff……this is what I loved. This is what felt right.

Then my car died and I transferred to Mason. The initial misery faded after a semester and I stopped caring about shows because I couldn’t physically get to them thanks to lack of public transportation. I also made friends and became involved in things. I was also too busy to leave Fairfax. Excuses. If I had a car, where do you think I would be?

I tried to tell her all of this. I told her that this was my passion; this is what I would somehow be doing for the rest of my life in some form. I was crying at her.

To my surprise, she cried back.

This girl begged me not to go because she could lose her job. She told me the exact amount of money she makes (which is not much) and told me that her and her husband weren’t doing very well.

Awkward.

I ran back into the big room where everyone was staying, dove into my sleeping bag, and cried hard. If there are rules about passions (and happiness for that matter) I am fairly sure that one of them is that you probably shouldn’t follow through if for some reason they interfere with someone else’s livelihood. I didn’t quite understand the logic of Sarah’s argument but I knew she was fighting from the heart. How could I go when she clearly thought her job was on the line?

Pastor Herb sat down next to me and asked what happened. I told him I was guilted into not going. I explained the particulars. He said he talked to Sarah and explained to her that she probably wouldn’t lose her job if I left for the evening and that I signed a waver before I was even allowed to go on the trip. Of course! The waver! Even if something did happen to me, Society of St. Andrew would not be responsible! O, happy day!

There was still a fair amount of guilt, though. Herb told me he couldn’t tell me what to do but he kind of secretly urged me to go. I almost didn’t but something inside told me I needed to go.

I showered, got my stuff together, and took off early.

The walk downtown included a mile or two of river walk which was a blessing. I felt free and adventuresome; like myself which was somehow much different than the person picking leftover crops for the hungry. I thought about what had just happened and I knew that I was the bad guy because my purpose was not as noble as the girl I was arguing with. I was greedy and selfish and wanted to do what I wanted to do. What I immediately wanted to do had nothing to do with feeding the hungry or church or nonprofits. That didn’t mean it wouldn’t in the future, though. I had just been flipping through one of Jacksonville’s alt-weeklies and saw an article about a Harvest of Hope (different organization with the same name) concert that had taken place a week earlier where a bunch of hip-hop and indie bands came to raise money and awareness for the treatment of migrant workers. Why couldn’t I be involved with something like that? I mean, who says the process of show-going isn’t practice for something greater?

The one big thing that stuck in my mind was what the girl said about money. I thought back to Monday when I rode to the field in Barbara’s car. Barbara was the director of the Florida region and she told me that the program coordinator makes $29,000 with an undergraduate degree or $32,000 with a masters degree. The Nonprofit Paycut. Could I even live on that? How could I ever save anything up or own a house? I instinctively felt like I would insulted by that kind of money and that I would never be able to do my job because I would just be thinking of all the things I’d be missing out on.

It’s a lot of hard work, too. It’s more than a 40 hour per week job; it fluxuates at certain times of the year. Barbara told me they’d been through 2 or 3 people in the past year because some folks just weren’t cut out for the work or they viewed it as a short-term stepping stone to something bigger and better. She made me envision religious idealists with “lots of heart” but no sense of the real world. I thought about the current program coordinator and I hoped she wasn’t like that. She was my favorite person I met on the trip.

I thought about the things I would be willing to take the Paycut for; things that have more value to me than money. As long as I was actually able to survive, I would love to create a music/art festival that would bring people together or maybe something that would inspire children. I would love to travel with musicians and write a book; while that’s not five-oh-one-cee-three nonprofitism it’s got the same sense of heart embedded in it. I would be taking the Paycut to do what I love. If you want to get all social capital up in here, I could also talk about the (weighted) benefits to society. It means more to me than money because yeah, I get to do what I love but also there’s the fact that I am sharing a very important culture and I have the possibility of impacting lives. Live music has saved my life more times than a doctor has so why wouldn’t I want to share that with others?

I still worry about how much I can take, though. I moved to Philly because music pulled me there. I worked two jobs making eight bucks an hour and then I interned for a blog and a music venue and did whatever I could do to be around the things I loved. I got used to where I lived but it was a scary neighborhood that nobody wanted to visit. More often than not, I wasn’t comfortable. Later, I broke my arm and amassed a pile of debt without health insurance. I also lived in my car for a month while trying to find a place to live and a job. I ended up crying for a few weeks in my friend’s basement in Silver Spring then taking more classes at community college because I didn’t know what else to do. Chasing dreams is hard, you know? I think of how comfortable I am in my nice fancy clean townhouse in Fairfax and though I loathe the suburbs I’m just not sure if I could deal with the ghetto again.

I also thought long and hard about the fact that Sarah was married. I think about Rings often; I notice them and I make judgments about people. You know how they say that woman make less money than men? I feel like that’s only because woman are more okay with making less money than men. Woman are historically and probably biologically nurturers. They care; they’re more about the warm fuzzies than men. As a single female, I don’t have the means to fully exercise my warm fuzzies. I’m a student; I’ve got loans. Though my program allows (forces) me to volunteer, I am not out doing the things I place value on. I’m not volunteering at distant festivals, working with some hip nonprofit in the city, or traveling around writing a book. Hell, I can’t even afford a car right now because my rent is so high. There’s just one of me and one income (in this case, my income is loans). Now if there were two of us…

Our resources would be pooled and I could take a heartsy nonprofit job that pays peanuts. My $800 master bedroom rent would become $400. Between the two of us, we could also probably afford a car to share. I want to make clear that this is not about handouts; it’s just about pooled resources.

Ring = pooled resources = ability to take shitty-paying job

I look at my aunt; she’s this single woman in her 50’s and she makes a ton of money working with terminally ill patients as a nurse. She’s uber successful; owns a home, two cars, supports herself. I was always encouraged to be like her when I was a kid. Yeah, well this woman also hates her job. She tells me it’s the most depressing job on Earth but she does it because she’s hell-bent on not only being self-sufficient but also being comfortable. That’s the difference between renting and owning, public transportation and having a car, technology or none, etc. She’s got no one to pool resources with so she’s making a ton of money in misery. Hell if I want to do that! I’d much rather find the beardy boy of my dreams, shack up, and make under $30,000. Remember: it’s not mooching. It’s pooling resources. (And love if you’re lucky.)

The nonprofit American dream: Girl with heart making <$30,000, boy with heart making <$30,000, a shared one bedroom rental in Columbia Heights or Mount Pleasant, two bicycles, two Smarttrip cards, two iPhones, and two cats. I’m kind of rolling my eyes because I know people in Philly that do this and they’re total superficial assholes but like, they can only look so superficial because they don’t make much money.

Sarah probably never thought about all of that. That kind of thinking makes me look shallow.

…is it so wrong to want to live with a boy and two cats so I can work a hip job that pays shit?!

I wandered around downtown Jacksonville for a while before the show. What a dead town. Comfortably dead, though. I watched some kids play in a fountain, I browsed a local bookshop that had a phenomenal etching of Jesus on the wall, I talked to my gay fake boyfriend on the phone (there’s really no better way to describe him), and I marveled at how empty the city truly was. Everyone had acted like walking around alone in the city was insane; that crime was almost certain to happen. It didn’t necessarily look safe but it didn’t look like Philly, Baltimore, or DC if you know what I mean. If I could walk alone in those places then I would survive in Jacksonville. And if something happened, then it happened.

I met up with the Cookies as soon as they arrived and helped them load their gear into the club. I sat down in the back of the room and watched things happen slowly. I was happy; I felt at home.

Being around for the entire show process is a beautiful thing; particularly this show, this venue, and this band. Everyone was just so nice and willing to share a part of him/herself. I’ve seen the Cookies in a number of different places over the past few years and we’ve come to know each other well so sentimental words are almost expected from them. When I emailed Kay she told me that it would feel more like a real tour because they would get to see me. Kind words and hugs from my friends were quite obviously exchanged but new friends would also be made.

Jason introduced me to the sound guy who was this completely pleasant fellow a few years older than me. Sound aside, he was completely joyous in the fact that he was happy to be doing what he was doing. We talked a bit and he told me that he was beyond excited because his girlfriend was pregnant and he’d be a father soon. He said he also worked a day job and was a college student. I probably spoke of my own college transportation woes and he revealed that he didn’t have a car but took the bus everywhere also. I thought long and hard about that guy’s place in life. I didn’t really know much about him but I liked him a lot. To my knowledge he wasn’t feeding the hungry, curing cancer, or solving any other huge world problems but who’s to say his purpose is not just as noble?

I also met Jason’s cousin and her husband; they were a very cool couple that looked younger than they actually were. We had an in-depth conversation about the military; this girl’s husband was about to be shipped off overseas and the both of them just saw it was the reality of things. I of course started to talk about jobs and The Paycut and noble purposes and placing weight on things other than money and all the various other things on my mind. This guy told me about how he had been in the military for many years and for the most part enjoyed it. To him, it was certainty and stability. He knew he had a job and he knew he had income. He made a point to tell me that it wasn’t about politics in the least. He told me that there was often the stereotype of ignorant young men blindly going to serve their county because of patriotism. No – he did this for himself and no one else. He said it was just like any other job to him. He didn’t particularly like the idea of going overseas potentially into a war but to him it was his job; it was a business trip. He wouldn’t dream of quitting because he liked his job; he liked what he did, he liked his co-workers, and he liked the benefits. He also said he was happy that Americans had come to the point where they could disagree with the war but still support the troops. Some of these things I am more or less guessing at remembering correctly but that last thing he hammered home so I didn’t forget. I did a lot of thinking about his place in the broad scheme of things and much like the sound guy I decided that I liked him and he too was excused from feeding the hungry.

The show was absolutely wonderful; bands played and conversations were had. When the bands stopped playing, someone turned on some dance music and we all started dancing. Joy. Joy. Joy.

There weren’t many of us so by that time we had all gotten to know each other. We stood on the sidewalk after loading everything up and we talked about the most ridiculous things. I took a photograph of Jason’s moustache. Someone noted that many of us were wearing cool sneakers and had our keys dangling on a carabineer from our belt loops in true hipster fashion. Jason, myself, sound guy, and a boy from the open band all stood in a circle with one foot in the middle and shook our bottoms which made our keys jingle. Jason’s cousin and I exchanged emails and she invited me to visit her sometime. The boy in the opening band told me about a show at the beach that weekend and told me he had guestlist spots. Jason and Kay (who by the way are probably the coolest married people I know) offered me a ride back to the church/school I was staying at.

I got back around 2:30AM. Everyone was asleep except for two guys around my age that were sitting and talking on the floor in front of the bathrooms. They had clearly had a night on the town.

These guys were leaders of a group of college kids from Penn State that were building houses with Habitat For Humanity. They slept on the same floor as us but kept a different schedule and never interacted with us. They asked if I was with the religious group and when I said yes they asked, “Do you guys hate us or something?”

I wanted to say yes because I was jealous of their freedom; they did their service work and then they went out to the beach or for drinks. They sometimes came in and woke us up in the wee hours of the morning. I would wake up and be pissed as hell because of the merriment in their voices. We went to sleep at 11 each night and woke up at 5:15 in the morning. They were never awake by the time we left for the fields. Fuck them, right?

I told them no; we were just cranky because we didn’t get much sleep and we had little free time.

We talked long enough to humanize and appreciate each other and then I realized that I had to be awake in two hours. I crawled into my sleeping bag and died. The next day I sleepily picked broccoli and to my knowledge no hungry person receiving the food ever registered a complaint about the fact that I went to see Casper and the Cookies.

-----

Why would I bother to tell that long-ass story? Because a) a lot of the other things I did were mundane and b) that’s where the learning took place; these are the events that touched my heart and made me think. I know this sounds odd but the more unconventional interactions I have, the better off I am. That 4-H camp-like setting that Society of St. Andrew created for me wasn’t realistic. I was supposed to go glean fields, come back and walk around my immediate surroundings in the 5 Points neighborhood or hitch a ride to the beach for an hour, sit in a room and talk about poverty, eat dinner in that building, then have church in that building. You know what? Fuck that.

Tales of Spring Break - Feeding the Hungry

2009-03-13T21:13:00.000-04:00

I went out for a walk during free time one day and this man came up to me and asked me for food and diapers. He told me his family was living on the streets and in shelters and he kept saying, “I need some Pampers for my baby.”

I told this man to follow me and I would at least give him food.

I knocked on the kitchen door and that particular night, the young people in charge of the program were making a special poverty meal as part of the program for the evening. I explained to them I need to come in and get some food for a homeless man but they wouldn’t let me in because what they were doing was a secret. They told me to go get Sarah.

Frustrated, I asked the man to wait a little longer as I talked to Sarah. When I told her this guy needed food, she looked at me like I was crazy. Like, we didn’t have any. She told me I could tell him we’d give him a bag of cabbage we gleaned earlier. I wanted to scream at her; “What the fuck happened to all the shit we’ve been talking about all week?! And use your fucking brain – he’s homeless! What’s he going to do with a bag of cabbages?!”

I went back outside and talked to the man some more. He was like a lot of other homeless people I’d met; he was dirty-looking and smelled like alcohol. I didn’t particularly believe everything he was telling me but I did believe he needed food. Thankfully, someone finally gave me a bag with two peanut butter and jelly sandwiches from the kitchen but even that kind of pissed me off because I knew we had a whole mess of leftover mac and cheese in the fridge. I gave him the sandwiches and he thanked me several times and shook my hand before walking off.

Why did the assholes in charge make me feel like I had done something nuts? All week long you’re telling me, “Feed the hungry. Feed the hungry. Feed the hungry.”

Here’s the damn hungry. Why did you all look at me like I was crazy for trying to feed him?!

This wonderful woman named Becky who is the program coordinator for Florida heard about what I did and told me she thought it was nice. I really appreciated that because I think everyone else thought it was dangerous and dumb.

Down By Raspberry River

2009-03-08T01:43:00.002-05:00

Spring Break. I laid awake in the grass looking up at the moon and stars. Crickets were chirruping and water flowed softly in the distance. My hands rested under my head which caused my Fat White Belly to be slightly exposed in the moonlight. A warm breeze caused me to lift my chin a bit, close my eyes, and smile even though it was obvious my mind was not at ease. When I finally opened them, Zac was standing over me.

I blinked a few times and scowled. “What are you doing here?”

“I don’t know. This is your fantasy. Why don’t you ask yourself?”

“Seriously. Why are you here? How did you find me?”

Zac plopped down on the ground next to me and sat cross-legged. Softly and more cautiously he spoke. “This is Raspberry River. This is where you said you’d rather be.”

I suddenly became self-conscious about the moonlight illuminating my Fat White Belly and opted to sit up. I pulled my knees up to my chin and hugged them. I looked down at the ground and sighed.

We sat in silence for the longest time. I couldn’t look at him.

Finally I stood up, looked down at him, and shouted, “Why are you here?! Tell me why you’re here!!! Are you here to make me feel like shit?! Do you want me to hate myself?! Is that it?!!!”

Tears began streaming down my face.

He looked up at me and calmly replied, “No. You’re thinking too much. I’m here because you want me to be here. There’s no other reason.”

I continued to cry. “I don’t want you to be here! I already told you; you’re horrible!”

“And I told you to tell me what you really think of me.”

“No. I can’t.”

“Why not? This isn’t even real. This is your fantasy.”

“This is also the internet.”

“Oh. Really?”

“Yeah.”

I had stopped crying and there was an awkward silence. I sat back down and looked at the ground again.

“I don’t get it. How is this any different than Matt?”

“What do you mean?”

“You know exactly what I mean. The faux fur-trimmed hood, the sled dogs, the frozen tundra…..I have no clue how to read between the lines on your fantasies but I know for a fact it means you want to do him!”

“What? Are you insinuating that I want to do you?!”

“So I was right? You want to do Matt?”

“Well……dude is hot. But dude is also gay….”

Zac grabbed my hands and leaned closer to me. “Now you’re wasting my time. Tell me where you are right now. What are you doing?”

I looked into his eyes and I knew he could see everything. It was written on my face and it was now written on the internet. “I’m laying on a gymnasium floor at a small college in North Carolina in the middle of the night. I just spent hours in a van looking up at the sky and thinking of you. I can’t stop thinking of you. From the moment I first met you –“

I looked down at our hands. Our fingers were locked. His left hand and my right hand…..the moonlight reflected off the two silvery bands that were touching. I slipped my fingers out of his and ran them over his ring.

“The Ring. Zac…I can’t…”

“How is this different from Matt? Matt’s not just gay, you know. He’s also taken. Why is it ok for you to dream up hilarious nonsense pseudo-sexual fantasies about Matt and post them on the internet and not about me?”

I started to type the answer to the question several times but kept deleting it.

“Fine. What do you want?”

“I want you to leave Raspberry River and go to Lollypop Island with me. Michael is waiting for us there. And if you so desire, Matt will be there also.”

“Zac, I can’t. It’s just not right. The Ring…”

“This is your story. Don’t be afraid; we all understand that this is how you get by. And really – it’s just the internet.”

“…are you sure?”

“Totally.”

Zac took me by the hand to the edge of Raspberry River where there were two paddle boats; a swan and a dragon. He asked me to race him to Lollypop Island but knowing that I was a completely out-of-shape fatass, I declined. Instead, I suggested we take one boat which we would both paddle therefore getting us there faster. He agreed but the plan quickly went to shit as we argued for 25 minutes over which boat to take. I wanted to take the dragon because it looked cooler (it looked less romantic and embarrassing but I didn’t want to tell him that) and he wanted to take the swan because it looked “more aerodynamic”. We eventually ended up taking the dragon as I sank the swan in a fit of rage. We were quiet for the first hour or so of the ride.

“…so what’s she like?”

“Hmm? Who?”

“You know…..The Ring…”

“Oh, you mean my grandmother. Well, she’s—“

“No, smartass! Your wedding ring! Your wife! Stop fucking with me! This is why I think you’re so horrible!!!”

I pushed his sorry ass out of the boat and into Raspberry River which was illuminated by soft moonlight in addition to bright stadium lighting. The water was a lovely shade of pink and the whole setting reminded me of a cross between the Baltimore inner harbor and a putt-putt golf course. As Zac was flailing about in the water, I decided to save him with secret hopes of him granting me a wish like a mermaid or a gay person. He was much more slippery than you would imagine for you see, Raspberry River actually has some gelatin-like consistency to it in some spots. I kept losing my grip on him but he held on to the side of the boat like a trooper. Eventually, I got a good hold on his shirt and pulled him up until he fell on top of me in the boat. Both of us were soaked in slippery, sugary raspberry substance. (Not gonna lie; it was kinda hot in a really weird “whoa-maybe-I-have-a-food-fetish” kind of way. But only for like, two seconds.)

We both panted and sat back down on the bench in the boat.

“Why’d you throw me out of the boat?! Are you crazy?!”

“You were fucking with me! Stop fucking with me! (I can haz wish now, kthxbai?)”

“No, I wasn’t! You’re crazy! That’s not a wedding ring; it’s a family heirloom! My dead grandmother gave it to me before she passed away! Jesus Christ! (Can haz no wishus; I’z notta mermaid!)”

“SHUTUP, YOU M—wait. Wha…what did you just say?”

Zac scooted closer and took my hand. He whispered softly into my ear, “it’s not a wedding ring.”

I sat silent for a moment. After a long pause I looked him right in the eyes and said, “I want you. You’re right; I want to do you. You are so fucking cute and witty and charming, I can’t stand it. I want to make dinner for you, I want to draw you pictures, I want to go on roadtrips with you, I want to hold hands with you at the zoo, I want to kiss you on the Metro late at night, I want to spend Thanksgiving with you, and I’d totally accompany you to a hockey game if you were into that.”

And what the hell; self-consciousness concerning food fetishes be damned –

“And I want to lick every inch of your raspberry gelatin-covered naked body clean.”

Zac just stared at me for a moment as if dumbfounded. Then he started to shake. Then came the laughter. Uncontrollable laughter. He laughed so hard, he snorted.

I just sat there uncertain of what just happened. I guessed that he just wasn’t all that into the food thing but that was ok; we could totally find some other kink to keep him happy. When he finally regained his composure he looked at me and said, “Just kidding! It’s totally a wedding ring. I have a perfect and beautiful wife at home that I love more than anything else in this world and we’re very happy. I just wanted to hear what you really thought of me.”

My heart broke into ten million tiny pieces and in a fit of rage, I sank the dragon paddle boat and watched Zac drown in Raspberry River. Shortly thereafter, his body floated back to the surface and I watched a school of multi-colored sprinkles eat his body and then shit it back out for a school of chocolate sprinkles to feast upon. I grew wings and flew to Lollypop Island where there were only ridiculously sexy gay men that would never break a girl’s fragile heart. I blew my Bear Whistle which turned me into a bear and I lived happily ever after doing things with lollypops that you couldn’t possibly fathom unless you were a unicorn.

Too Stressed To Learn

2009-03-07T22:24:00.006-05:00

St. Andrews College

Welcome to spring break. I'm supposed to be sleeping on the gym floor of St. Andrews College in Laurinburg, NC alongside six strangers but here I am, sitting on a couch in a computer lab blogging. My mind is swirling with the things I have to do and the hourly goals that have been set for me. I find myself wanting to know when the learning begins; I need to hurry up and finish school so I can start learning because the things I am doing right now are just convenient enough to satisfy the requirements for the piece of paper that says I know how to jump through hoops. The worst part is that all I can think of is graduate school after this; I need to catch up with everyone else my age, I need to get another piece of paper to make more than thirty five thousand dollars per year, I need have more education so people won't mistake me for nineteen anymore, I need this higher degree for anyone in the DC area to take me serious, I need to go to graduate school to find a suitably intelligent mate. And so on and so forth. Education is making me batty. Since when did I give a shit about education? My family told me I was smart and I believed them. I love learning but it just doesn't seem to happen when so much pressure is involved. If for some reason I don't get through this, look for me working at a grocery store somewhere in the mountains of West Virginia. I am convinced now more than ever that making eight bucks an hour at Food Lion while writing and having adventures outside of mainstream society is more noble, more stimulating, and more worth-while than experiential learning. I've never done it but it sounds appealing at this point.

Ash Wednesday

2009-02-25T21:25:00.005-05:00

Tonight I walked out of the Ash Wednesday service with tears streaming down my cheeks and head full of jumbled thoughts. I am ashamed and embarrassed to say that I didn't really know what Ash Wednesday was until today at Bible study. It's about repentance; turning back to God. The problem with this is that in order to turn back to God, I have to turn my brain off or at least away from all of the things swirling around inside of it. That didn't happen. I sat nervously around these tables with a slightly larger number of people than usual and tried to do these things that would help me to be closer to God. I closed my eyes and partook in silence but my mind......my mind would not go to God. My mind would not even go to the "brokenness of the world" which was something I was supposed to be observing. My mind couldn't get past the brokenness of me. That's why I cried. That's why I cry at church. I cry out of guilt for always feeling so selfish and unworthy.

I immediately began to experience intense fear when Denise began marking foreheads with ashes. I don't understand what happened inside of me but I felt like running away. So I did. I cried in the bathroom but then I just felt something tugging at my sleeve imploring me to leave. I silently took my things and left.

I.....I don't understand. I got on the internet to numb this feeling of intense fear and anxiety and looking at blogs and message boards is kind of doing the trick but this is not right. Why do I feel this way inside? I am supposed to be turning back to God but I just ran out of church because I was so frightened. My stomach is in knots right now and I feel simply awful. What hurts the most about this is that in my head I can see myself back at home at my mom's church and having the same reaction for no apparent reason. I would start crying uncontrollably and I would have to leave and my mother would yell at me.

How do I stop this from happening? How do I come back to God?

House Shows, Train Rides, and Playgrounds

2009-02-23T10:41:00.004-05:00

Normally I don't like to preface my dreams because I find that it's more fun for the reader that way but I feel like this one was kind of special. It's been about a week or so since I had it and I still keep coming back to it. It was a particularly colorful and adventurous dream; it perfectly embodied the spirit of all of the things I think I'm really about. The way I felt in the dream was nice; I felt like myself. That would be the self that goes on amazing solo adventures, meets a lot of new people, takes photographs, and feels an odd sense of peace and belonging in chasing something she can't really define. I falter at decision-making when it comes to nearly everything else because I'm never quite sure what I want or what I think or what's right.......but this thing that I am chasing and finding through music is something that feels more true than anything else. That's my calling. Not doing it is like going against my nature but yet here I am, not doing it for the sake of society and practicality. Are degrees and jobs and money really more important...?

There were three distinct parts to this dream: house show, train, & playground.

I was at a house show in the suburbs. The house was big and old with wood floors and a stair case that creaked when you walked on it. There were lots of art school-looking kids hanging around and drinking. The living room was dimly lit and there was a big oval-shaped rug on the floor. Kids were sitting on the floor listening to someone playing the guitar on the couch. The musician was a weird mix of Drew Danburry and Herman Dune.

After the show, the musician asked me to travel with him and I was so pleased I could have cried.

We sat on the ground in a large echo-y train station which resembled a Metro station in DC. We talked about our lives and I asked him about his wife. I think he said something like, "Yeah, she's there."

The train came. It was deep green lined with gold; very beautiful. The compartment meant for the musician and I was at the very end of the the train. It was tiny and consisted of two benches attached to the wall and a table between them. No room for anything else. I remember the benches being incredibly high and the musician had to help me up. We boarded the train from the right side and I sat on the left with my back to the end of the train.

The train pulled out and the musician and I made more small talk. I eventually fell asleep with my head on the table.

I awoke to feel a breeze. The musician was gone but the train was still moving along. The window was open and outside everything was beautiful and warm. I stuck my head out the window, closed my eyes for a moment, and smiled.

The sky was bright blue with a few fluffy white clouds and the sun was shining. There were miles of bright green fields; some of grass, some with great stalks of corn. In the distance was a clear and colorful city and giant windmills turning in the breeze. Everything was presented in layers of gently rolling hills. It was the most beautiful thing I'd every seen.

This was supposed to be Europe but I knew that it was a new sort of Europe. It was somebody's sustainable "green" vision of Europe. It was the future.

I stood of the little back balcony of the train and enjoyed the breeze until the train came to a halt in the middle of a corn field. From there I could see a playground in the distance and further, a city.

I was standing at the foot of a colorful piece of playground equipment. The metal bars, platforms, and slides were all shiny and painted bright shades of yellow, red, blue, and green. There were small children running around me and parents sitting on benches. Kids were laughing and playing and it just made me really happy. We were surround by corn on three sides and on the forth side was a grassy plain which showed the city in the distance. It was a large and colorful city; everything was in beautiful bright colors rather than drab shades of black and brown. The city matched the playground. I just stood there in the middle of things and looked around. I felt a sense of belonging in the fact that I didn't belong at all. That was exactly where I was supposed to be even though I was an outsider.

__________

I think one of my favorite things in the world is when my practical and impractical worlds converge. I'm unsure of how else to express that; it's like I live two lives and sometimes one takes up more time than the other but they're both my life even though they're generally really separate. Examples of convergence would be taking Kristin to see shows even though she's someone I met through the honor society at LFCC or going to see Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin when I was at a conference in Seattle. I've always kind of wanted my show/music/photography/travel life to be a part of my education/work/family/day-to-day life but it seldom is. Convergence makes me giddy even if it's just someone making a comment about the band on my hoodie.

This year I made a promise to myself that I would go on a mission trip over spring break with LCM because I've never done anything like that before and I feel like it would be good for me. The trip was announced and I signed up; I'm going to Jacksonville, FL to do something with leftover crops. I honestly didn't think to look for shows because I was trying to be pure about this; this is about helping others, not me. The other day I happened to look at Casper and the Cookies' myspace page and lo and behold, they're playing Jacksonville the week that I'll be there. When I saw that, I was so happy I almost cried. Really. I almost cried. There is just so much joy involved in seeing the musicians I know and love as part of the other half of my life. You know, if Mason booked a band I know and love for an event here I probably would cry from happiness.

It's almost March and I've gone to a measly three shows. That's not enough adventure for me. I need more house shows, train rides, and playgrounds in my life.

Doing What For Who?

2009-02-15T15:07:00.006-05:00

I've reached the point where I mostly know what I'm doing, when I'm doing it, and who I'm doing it for concerning experiential learning. It that statement sounds like a precursor to a confusing educational experience, that's because it is. My degree is in integrative studies; integrative, indeed! Everything I do seems to run together and I frequently forget why I'm doing whatever it is that I'm doing. Luckily I can say from experience that real life is not like that. You know what is similar to real life, though? The fact that things are dreadfully boring one moment and then all of a sudden you've been given fifty million tasks to complete by some ridiculous deadline. I once asked my good friend working in graphic design if she could ask her boss for an incomplete. Bad news -- it might work in college but unfortunately it doesn't work like that with clients.

I had been tossing and turning in bed at night for weeks because I still hadn't heard anything about my marketing internship for New Century College. Last week was particularly bad, actually. Thankfully, the email finally came on Wednesday and I felt relief for a short while. That didn't last long. Now I am feeling anxiety about all of those hours I need to complete. One hundred and thirty five hours. I've decided to put in 6-8 hours on Wednesdays and Fridays. I haven't done the math or cleared it by Sarah yet but I think that should be sufficient.

My first assignment was to find the names and contact information of all the guidance counselors at all of the high schools in Virginia and DC. I put in six hours on Friday and to my sheer delight found the job to be just mindless enough to listen to music while doing. I do in fact see that there is some importance to what I was doing; this information is going to be used to let high school students know about NCC. However, the gathering of that information contributed to my music listening time. Had I not done this task, I wouldn't have taken the time to listen to Bon Iver's Bloodbank or Plants & Animals' Parc Avenue. I'm not saying this to be snarky; I'm saying this because music is important to me. In a way, I look forward to Wednesday. I'm probably going to spend some more time with Parc Avenue (so far it's been wonderful) but I will also select a few more albums in my "to listen to" pile to listen to while I work.

I haven't officially started my work for Luthern Campus Ministry. I haven't had time. Ben sent me an email with my first task but I haven't even looked at it. I'm unsure of when I'm going to do that. Unofficially, I've done plenty. For the past three weeks I've hung flyers on Monday nights after class for United College Ministries and some of those flyers overlap with LCM activities. I also planned last week's service with Ben Masters; let me just tell you, it turned out beautifully and made me very happy. I am always incredibly self-conscious when it comes to church matters because I don't know the Bible very well and I'm horrible at remembering church music. I came up with this theme of joy and connected all of these non-churchy things to God but then the Bens had to come up with the Bible and church music portions. Both of the Bens -- they do such a good job of backing up my ideas with substance that will allow them to be taken serious in that churchy sort of way.

Of course, I'm not really sure how to count hours on this. Surely church planning counts; I have learned A LOT from it. It's taught me a little bit more about the Bible and church music but also about how to work with other people and not be in charge. Justified; church planning counts. The execution of the service? I'm going to count that as well. The grocery store trip and cooking the food for the service? Does that count? I made phone calls back and forth to figure out the food situation; it was business. The food wasn't for me (though I did nibble at it). Whatever; it counts though it carries less weight than planning in my mind.

Oh, man. Adding another dimension of confusion -- weighted hours. Remind me to not think of that anymore, please.

I'll probably do some significant flyering on Monday night for LCM and maybe Tuesday I'll be able to open that email and get some work done for Ben Buss. That's the plan for now.

Is the mysterious Personal and Social Entrepreneurship EL credit even worth mentioning at this point? At first the professor was making it up as she went along but now she's given us this project that is similar to the underpants gnome model from South Park. And actually, that model makes a little bit more sense to me. Pick something where there is a need and find a way to make a profit or make it more efficient. Instead of starting something ourselves, we're going to organizations and.......? We're not volunteering. We're observing? Finding ways to make them better and somehow getting a business plan out of that. I don't know; it wasn't terribly clear to me. I also strongly dislike how the project automatically went to social matters such as hunger and homelessness. Heavy social matters are not my forte. Sorry.

The good news is that there's a whole class involved with this chaotic project so it's not just me. I have out'd myself as extremely dissatisfied with the mess so I already look like a jerk but on the other hand, I've already made a decision -- I'm going to volunteer at the Katherine K. Hanley shelter tonight with LCM and while I'm there I will speak with someone about the place hopefully. Of course, I'm not exactly sure what I'm looking for....should I be asking about problems they're having? Holes in the budget? I guess I'll cross that bridge when I get there.

The disappointing thing is that I really had my own project in mind that had to do with Personal and Social Entrepreneurship. It was perfect; I was going to try to start a vegetarian cooking club on campus. I brought it up and it was shot down pretty quickly because no one could see it as being in the same category as feeding the hungry, helping the homelessness, taking care of the elderly, teaching the children, and so on and so forth. Someone tried to think of it as a health-related but to me, that's not what it is. It would fill a social need. All of the things I ranted about concerning WGMU and not fostering of a sense of community........that would be the point of this. Getting together a group of individuals with something random in common -- vegetarianism -- and gathering at the table for a meal and conversation.

So there you have it; I'm not exactly sure how I'm going to find time for all of this stuff in addition to the classes, homework, and paper-writing but this is what I signed up for. Oh, well.

Department Of Ten Years Ago: Pat McGee To Play Mason Homecoming Concert

2009-02-03T11:56:00.010-05:00

The culture at George Mason University makes me want to bang my head against a wall. I've found that decisions here are generally not the work of an entire organization but of one or two people that seem completely out of touch with popular culture and have no interest in fostering a sense of community. I give you Exhibit A: the 2009 Mason Homecoming Concert.

Ladies and gentlemen, welcome to ten years ago; someone booked Pat McGee to play at our homecoming concert.

Don't get me wrong; I like Pat McGee. Er, well I used to like Pat McGee, at least. I haven't really thought about him for oh, ten years or so. I honestly didn't know the guy was still playing. Back when I was in middle school, I heard the song Rebecca on WNRN and went out and bought the album at Plan 9. I'm pretty sure I saw him play at Trax at some point if that gives you any indication of how long ago this was. (Charlottesville talk for those not in the know.)

Now honestly......how many college kids that go to George Mason University have even heard of Pat McGee?

I could be completely out of touch with reality here; I have no clue what's on the radio these days.....but I do know what's playing in popular area rock clubs and the answer is not Pat McGee. Pat McGee is not talked about on the blogs and forums I frequent online, either. Pat McGee is probably not huge on Facebook. This really boggles my mind. It's kind of like that time Fighting Gravity got booked at that Virginia Community College conference in Virginia Beach and I was definitely the only one there that knew who they were. It was just awkward.

So who did this? Seriously; I want to know. Someone needs to 'fess up. Don't tell me this is the work of the concert committee; I'm supposedly on that and no one ever said a word about Mr. McGee. It would greatly surprise me if the girls in charge there have heard of PM and I'm almost positive that no one at those meetings would consider themselves fans.

Second question: how much is Mason paying this band? Don't tell me Pat McGee was a budgetary move unless he's playing for free. We could have gotten a bunch of local emo/metal bands (there seem to be a lot of these in Northern Virginia) or some indie bands or even a youthful hip-hop group. (We live so close to DC; I'd personally like to see a live go-go band. Is that in with the kids these days...? Do kids know what that is?) I've made a point to pay attention to the free music on this campus even if no one else does. The best thing I've come across was a hip-hop group that played a mix of covers and originals for a "rock the vote" type of event put on by the concert committee. It's true that people just showed up for the food but the band was good enough that some actually stayed; a feat I have yet to see accomplished by bands at other events. If people are into hip-hop, then why not book a hip-hop band?

I guess the bottom line is that I keep coming across instances like this where there's a chance to bring people together but it's completely wasted. That bothers me. In my mind, it's not about what I like but it's about what will foster a sense of community. Mason is so fragmented that I'm not really sure I have an answer as to how to do this but I'm fairly sure that Pat McGee is not it.

(**Apologies to Pat McGee; nothing personal. I still like your music and if I'm around, I'll try to catch the show.)

An Introduction: Second Semester and Experiential Learning

2009-02-01T22:05:00.007-05:00

I haven't legitimately written in a while because I've had a sort of writer's anxiety. I'd say it parallels the sort of anxiety where there's something you may enjoy but the longer you don't do it the more inclined you are to not do it. I've been through various bouts of this in my life; I've amassed a variety of to-do's in my time including contacting old friends, writing papers, making elaborate plans, and most recently the process of show-going. Tonight as I was speaking on the topic of joy with (my wonderful friend) Ben I realized how much my heart aches for live music and the adventures it usually entails. When I chose to attend George Mason University full time, live in Fairfax, and not own a car I basically chose to give up that part of my life. I broke up with Adventure and so there's nothing meaningful to write about; everything bookish seems usless and quite honestly, the Things Which I Am Supposed To Learn seem like nothing more than act aimmed to please those I'm paying to give me a piece of paper that validates me to work a job that pays more than eight bucks an hour and provides me with much-needed health insurance.

This is the beginning of my second semester. Last semester, I took fifteen credit hours and got perfect grades. I was encouraged by the praise of others and the way my grades looks on a computer screen so I registered for seventeen credit hours this go'round. Here is the breakdown of those credits:

14 credits - If I complete all of the work (on time with a reasonable amount of thought put into it), I will most likely get an A.
5 credits - Experiential Learning.

I won't call the fourteen credits easy but I will say that structure is comfortable; I like knowing what I'm getting into. I am actually good at reading books, taking notes, and filling in bubbles on Scantron sheets. I'm also a decent researcher and essay writer (except for the times when I feel the need for honesty and self-expression). Ignoring the usual assumed frustrations with unprepared or un-knowledgeable professors, I'm just going to say that I have fourteen credits squared away. I know what they are and I know how to get them. They're attainable in the fact that they're not the least bit mysterious to me.

Experiential Learning is what you get when you sign up for New Century College. I have a certain amount of skepticism about the program as I do with most everything I get involved with but I honestly can't knock it yet; I made a promise to myself that I would graduate in two years and if I'm able to do that I will gladly eat any negative words I may have spit out and offer up one of those cheesy little testimonial blurbs for them to slap on their website. "If I got through it without quitting, then this program must be MAGIC!" Next to my quote, there would be a photograph of me in my cap and gown giving the thumbs up sign.

Experiential Learning is theoretically amazing. The intentions behind it are warm and fuzzy; I get to learn what I want by actually doing it. If I were living in a city, this would perhaps be the greatest thing ever; if I were still in Philly I could get credit for interning at Philebrity, taking photos at Johnny Brenda's, writing blog posts for GPTMC, and about a million other desirable "hip" sorts of things that would leave me feeling connected to a culture I enjoy. Instead I am given a few weeks to partake in this mad scramble to find volunteer work within walking distance of the school. Fairfax could be a haven for suburban community do-gooders but for an adventurer like me, it's grounds for depression.

There are not enough hours in my day for a commute to Arlington or DC via bus and Metro. I'm also somewhat skeptical about showing up on NPR's doorstep and offering to work for free; somehow I just don't see them going for that. Even if I took the time to fill out forms and get in there for an interview I just imagine these people being appalled at my shoes and offended by the things I value. I've also got to think about money. The Metro costs money and I wouldn't be getting paid to do this work most likely. Uggh. Even a free bus ride wouldn't really be beneficial to my schedule so I've limited my school year Experiential Learning to walking distance for the sake of practicality.

Five credits. Five credits which are a work-in-progress. Five credits which I have spent the past few weeks panicking about.

Three of those credits were originally supposed to go to learning to operate remote broadcasting equipment for WGMU but I decided to nix that idea as I felt that the kids involved with the station were not really fostering a sense of community which I felt was an integral part of college radio. I am still disappointed because radio is something I actually want to learn but confident that I made the correct choice because those people would have just made my blood boil.

At the suggestion of Janette Muir, I spoke with Sarah Sweetman concerning a marketing/public relations internship to promote New Century College instead of this WGMU business. I filled out the paperwork and squared this away but am currently terrified because I've already started off on the wrong foot. These few paragraphs have probably already indicated that I am a skeptical control freak; when I don't know what's going on, I think the worst and freak out. Sarah had given me few details about what was going on because she didn't have them; she said this thing would start at the beginning of the semester sometime. The semester began and when I heard nothing, I emailed her. After a week of no response, I was freaking out about this daily. You see, these credits are attached to hours. 45 of them per credit. I know from last semester that hours are like a ticking time bomb; thinking about these hours invokes the same feeling of anxiety as waking up ten minutes early and counting down the time on my alarm clock when I'll hear an obnoxious loud noise. I want to start these hours now so I can stop looking at the clock and worrying.

I emailed again. I freaked out. I got a quick response that time. Oh, boy; the response criticized my tone and confirmed my suspicions that I am the least professional person on this planet and am probably not actually fit for jobs that pay more than eight dollars per hour. I haven't even started the job but I already offended my supervisor and I wanted to curl up in a ball and cry. Nice.

The worst part was the urge I had to retaliate; I wanted to write back and explain that I definitely don't recall being told anything about starting in February because if I had that knowledge then I obviously wouldn't have continued to send emails or bug my advisor about it. I would have also said something about answering emails; not answering emails is (forgive me for writing this in comparison to academic affairs) Stupid Boy Stuff. If I want to worry about communication issues, I will dwell on Ben not answering my phone calls for two weeks or the wonderful world of internet dating. (I guess I could have said unprofessional and given a more relevant example but Stupid Boy Stuff is currently on the brain.)

Of course, I felt like an ass. I felt guilty. I wanted to sink into the ground and not do this thing.....but then I thought of The Prize; The Piece Of Paper. Two Years. More Than Eight Dollars Per Hour. Health Insurance. Those things are obtained by humility. They're not supposed to be easy to get. I emailed back with a short apology but then realized that in the end, the email was at least effective. Though she was mad, she told me that whatever I'd be doing wouldn't start until sometime in February. The patient email I had written didn't elicit a response but the one where I was freaking out did. Did I actually learn Things Which I Am Supposed To Learn from this...? It hasn't even started yet but I'm already confused.

Last week I was given the task of finding a nonprofit business to share my talents with (in the form of 40 hours of service). My immediate response was to structure the thing in one fell swoop over spring break in an effort to lighten my weekly load and also make it so I could learn something the way I prefer to learn -- adventure style. I thought of the weeks I had spent at Pop Montreal and Popped Philly. I dreamed of SXSW. I realistically thought of a mission trip with Lutheran Campus Ministry. My bubble was immediately burst and my parade promptly rained on. Weekly work was required in order for weekly journal entries to be made. Great. Could I tack this into the question mark of an internship I was already tied to...?

Last week's Wednesday Bible study group ended up being a problem-solving session for me; it was quickly established that I would be doing communication, planning, and promotion-related tasks for Lutheran Campus Ministry under the super nice watchful eye of Ben Buss. In my mind, the work began at the planning meeting later that night when ideas were being thrown out and I shouted out the word joy. Ben Masters came over today and we leisurely searched Youtube and my external harddrive for evidences of joy to incorporate into the service. These EL hours should be blissfully spent without a whole lot of worry; I'm not out adventuring for the sake of music but I am doing the things I'm good at for my favorite organization I've come into contact with since moving to Northern Virginia. I'm just hoping I can get away with learning about myself in relation to people and religion rather than the actual tasks I am completing. Take note -- this is love and sincerity; a rare thing indeed.

That leaves one more credit unaccounted for. That last credit is really a mystery to me; it goes along with the Personal and Social Entrepreneurship class I'm taking. The professor worries me a great deal; she walked in the first day and handed me a poem about attitude and an unfinished syllabus which only had plans for week one on it. Wow; red flag that says I might not like this class very much. This woman had a lot of passion and knowledge but seemed ill-prepared to teach. I don't like that. I do my homework so shouldn't you? No mention was made about this Experiential Learning credit or hours or paperwork, etc. I am worried that this will not pop up until the middle of the semester in which case there will be a mad scramble to........well, I'm not sure. Finding volunteer hours is one thing but it wouldn't surprise me if this woman actually wanted us to start a business on short notice. She seems kind of crazy like that. I'm already envisioning myself wearing a chef's hat making hash browns at a kiosk in the JC or perhaps starting a wildly popular blog concerning something trashy to market to hipsters (a la I Bang the Worst Dudes). I don't know; what else can I do on short notice from here? On the first day of class she showed us a video of businesses that started for under five hundred bucks but what she doesn't realize is that a) I don't really have five hundred bucks to spare and b) I don't really want to start a business. The only reason I am not complaining about this on a massive scale is because she allowed me to convince her that the whole class should go get free pizza in the JC and as you may or may not know, this is usually a difficult thing to convince a professor to advocate. I guess I'll just have to wait and see about that last credit, huh?

I am awkwardly placing this on the internet with the knowledge that people can see it; the parties mentioned within can find this. People Google themselves, bands uses Google alerts, and blogs can see when I've linked to them. I'm doing this in an effort to integrate my life. I'm saying, "Here are my honest thoughts, these are the things I am learning, these are the things I care about, these are my friends, this is my music, and I am the same person no matter where I am."

I just hope that's okay.

The Advising Meeting

2009-01-27T11:19:00.002-05:00

Since it's snowing outside today, I found it fitting to re-publish this story...

I woke up early and prepared a large meal of blueberry pancakes, fruit, fancy cheeses, and peppermint tea. I arrived just on time and was welcomed by my handsome advisor in the NCC lobby. I asked him how much time I had and he said one hour. I admitted that I had already chosen my classes and taken care of everything; he looked over a piece of paper I handed him and told me I did a swell job. When he asked why I bothered to make the appointment I told him that I had brought him breakfast. He got really excited and said, "Oh, boy! I LOVE blueberry pancakes!!!" At that point he motioned for me to follow him into his office.

I followed him through a snowy forest of pine trees. My nose was really cold but other than that, I felt great. We came to a small camp in the middle of nowhere where we sat down on logs by a fire. I took the Gladware containers out of my backpack and started to prepare the food. I asked Matt what he wanted and he selected a few cubes of parrano and some strawberries to start with. He took his mittens off and began to eat. I found some sticks and poked them through the pancakes and hung them over the fire. I sat directly across from Matt and when the pancakes were warm enough, I flung them at him. He caught them and ate them with his hands. I did the same thing. Both of us were very happy even though it was cold and snowy.

After we ate, I asked Matt what time it was. He pointed to a clock hanging on a tree which read 9:30. "Oh, I only have 30 minutes left." He thanked me for breakfast and asked if I wanted to go for a ride on his dog sled. Did I?! Oh, yes. I did. He introduced me to his 9 blue-eyed husky dogs which were named Communication, Critical Thinking, Strategic Problem-Solving, Valuing, Group Interaction, Global Understanding, Effective Citizenship, Aesthetic Awareness, and Information Technology. I patted Aesthetic Awareness on the head; she was my favorite. Matt traded his glasses for comical-looking goggles and pulled up his faux-fur lined hood. I sat on the sled and Matt stood behind me shouting encouraging words at the dogs.

It was fantastic; like driving with the windows down in the middle of winter after a sweaty concert. The dogs dragged us over snowy plains and rainbow bridges that led to other snowy plains. I looked back at Matt and he admired how handsome he looked in the big coat with the faux-fur trimmed hood. I asked him about his full beard which he previously told me he would never grow. He answered that it was a necessity when he got into the whole dog sled scene. I asked him what time it was again and he said I had 10 minutes. I asked if we could talk about cute boys and he said, "Totally!"

We talked about cute boys for 10 minutes and he made me a list of all the hot young professors I should seek out. He had the dogs take us back to the NCC lobby but before we got there he asked me to help him push everything into a small closet. We took the snow and the trees and the dogs and the rainbow bridges and the fire and the warm clothes and even his beard......and tossed it into the closet. A lady came in and told him his 10:00 was there. He winked at me and said, "Good luck next semester! I'm sure you'll do fine; I believe in you!"

As I walked out the door I heard him go, "Ooh, ooh, ooh! Wait!" I turned around and asked what he wanted. He opened a desk drawer and took out a shiny green stone hanging from a thin rope. He hung it around my neck and told me it was magical. "If you ever want to return to the Land of Snow and Rainbows, just close your eyes, hold this stone, and think about it. If it doesn't work just email me."

"If it doesn't work, I'm gonna come find you in the Gay Office in the morning."

"Pride Office, you mean."

"Yeah, totally. Thanks. By the way, you were so hot in that fir-trimmed hood."

"Thanks."

"Seriously, dude. You should wear it more often. It matches that one pair of shoes you have..."

"Really?"

"Yes!"

"Hmmm. Maybe. I've gotta go now. Have a nice day!"

-November 1, 2008

Hope?

2009-01-20T23:50:00.007-05:00

I was one of those crazy folks that went into DC today for Obama's Inauguration. I did it because I was bored. I did it because I was lonely. I did it because I thought it might inspire me; make me feel better. I waited in lines, sat in crowded trains, walked among many people......all of those people seemed to be experiencing some sort of joy I just couldn't muster up. And really; the sense of joy was eerie. I've never seen people so happy and willing to wait in lines or be in crowded trains. People were nice. It was weird.

Yes, it was incredible. I know. I was there. It didn't really matter what I saw, though. Something felt off to me.

I stopped in Clarendon on my way home to eat at Whole Foods. I called my mom to tell her about what I had seen and she told me that not five minutes before she had been told to pack up her things at work; she had been laid off.

Whatever vicarious joy I had at least tried to experience immediately disappeared and I caught tears rolling down my cheeks. That overwhelming sense of guilt and responsibility that is always within me came into conscious thought once again.

What can I do?

My mom is not ambitious or out-going like I am. She's never really known what she wants other than to make ends meet. She's not a skilled worker; she's always worked in retail settings and stayed clear of the cities. In the past few years, I've suggested she take a college course or two in the evenings to stimulate her mind and hopefully trigger some sort of unknown interests but her response is that she was never good at school and she wouldn't have a clue as to what sort of class to take anyway. Even now I'm at a loss trying to dream up some sort of job for her; in addition to the time of year and the economy being the way it is, she really doesn't know how to do a whole heck of a lot. Her past three jobs have been receiving jobs and before that she worked cashier jobs. She's never gotten paid much and her jobs have always been boring and repetitious. She needs something that will stimulate her mind and excite her......but I'm just not sure what.

I obviously feel guilty about the way I am living right now. I live like a rich person up here in Northern Virginia. That doesn't mean I'm happy but I've got a clean warm house, respectful and polite roommates, enough money to buy good food, and I go to college. I don't work, either; not for money anyway. I've got government money, scholarships, loans, and I recieve support from my grandmother and aunt. My mother never had this opportunity. I was trying to think up a way for me to share it but I don't think there is one.

Again; what can I do?

I'm at a loss.

Obama talks about fixing the economy but that's going to take a while. The people talk about Hope in regards to Obama. The thing is, in order to have Hope you have to also have Faith and Believe. Those are really hard things to have/do right now. I don't have them. I just don't. I honestly can't rely on anyone else to fix things for me because the past shows me it won't happen. Trusting Obama to fix the economy is like sitting by the phone waiting for a Stupid Boy to call. Hope does not make the Boy call. Things will eventually get better but not if you don't pick up the phone and call that Stupid Boy yourself.

Elementary Rabbits (Part II)

2009-01-19T01:18:00.006-05:00

I found myself in elementary school again. I was in one of the classrooms in the wings of A.G. Richardson back in Culpeper County. As I recall, the building was clover-ish in the fact that it was three loops; one for each grade 4th-6th. At the top of each loop were bathrooms with a water fountain between them. I sat in this classroom among former peers and perhaps a teacher and wondered why I was present. I sensed that I had acted up in some way and that I should leave. I didn't belong there. I never did but in this case, I honestly didn't belong there because I was an adult among children. Acting up was just a way to excuse myself.

Children lined up in the hall, chattering and giggling away. They wore jackets and backpacks. Some stood on tiptoe to reach the water fountain. I made my way through the small crowd and into the bathroom.

The bathroom was a dressing room of sorts. The walls were painted deep red and the only lighting came from yellowish bulbs surrounding a large mirror on the left. The entire room was filled with faux flowers; mostly petunias in bright shades of purple and pink. They didn't match the walls at all. I sat on a ledge against the back wall in the small room and a handsome light-skinned young African-American man sat in a chair in front of the mirror. We spoke informally but I'm unsure exactly what we spoke about. I don't think we had much in common. Though he seemed to be famous I could sense we had known each other from somewhere. I tried to remember who he was.....I am still trying to remember......but alas, it's just not coming to me.

He wore giant diamonds in his ears and had a brilliant smile. I thought he looked a bit like a fellow I did a project with last semester but it wasn't him. This guy was clearly someone from my past but.....who?!

The room filled with white rabbits. Some were normal-sized and some were much larger and not terribly rabbit-like at all. I absent-mindedly petted them as I spoke to the handsome young man.

Eventually, I got up and walked back out into the hall where the school setting remained but was now interspersed with rabbits.

I recall talking to my mom on the phone later and asking her what she thought of the movie. She told me that she honestly enjoyed the sequel much more than the original. She referred to it as "The Rabbit Movie".

Someone Still Loves You National Eye

2009-01-17T23:29:00.005-05:00

I sat in a cardboard box with my feet hanging out in my grandma's unused living room talking on the chunky portable phone to Phil from Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin. I had a lot of trouble hearing what he was saying; at one point I asked when he was coming east again and he told me he'd be in New York to see (garbled words) sometime in the spring with his girlfriend. I was a bit surprised because I could have sworn he said Bella Morte which is a goth band my best friend and I used to go in Charlottesville see when we were in high school.

"Whoa. Did you just say you were going to see Bella Morte?"

"No. I said Queen Eleanor and the (garbled words again)."

"Oh, ok." I didn't particularly care about the rest of the band name.

There was great amounts of silence in the conversation where I would say hello over and over again and then someone would answer me and pick up the conversation awkwardly. I finally realized that I was talking to Will now rather than Phil. At some point I figured that it would be easier to turn around and talk to the guys in person rather than on the phone since I didn't really know who I was talking to and when.

I managed to scoot my little box around with my butt still planted firmly in the bottom but now I was facing the hallway. The room was suddenly much larger and grandma's trunk that doubled as a table (and also to my knowledge still contains my childhood Lego collection) had been removed. In its place was a shiny red drum set. The various members of the band were doing whatever it is people in bands do when they're not playing shows. Will came over to say hi and I hung up the phone. We chatted for a bit before Phil came over and thanked me for the mixed cd. I asked him which track he liked best and he said he really enjoyed National Eye's Dread Flight of the Crimson Bee immensely. All of the other guys agreed. He walked over to a karaoke machine in the corner and turned the song on.

Will, Phil, and John Rob began to dance around the room. Well, not so much John Rob but Will and Phil got really into it. They were clapping their hands and shaking their butts like my little step-sister used to do when she was five.

I told them I was really super happy that they liked the song and I told them all about National Eye; how Rick and Gretchen were nice people and they had a really awesome cat named Harpo that thinks he's a people. I also remarked to the band member that was sleeping on the couch in front of the faux bay window that he looked a lot like Rick, actually. Gretchen appeared in the hallway and agreed with me. I looked down and Harpo was at my feet staring up at me.

Gretchen thanked me for sharing the music with the Boris kids and then went over and started talking to Phil. I walked down the hall and went into the pink bathroom.

I was washing my hands when I saw Gretchen in the mirror. She was standing in the doorway and excitedly speaking about something though I'm unsure what. I thought about it and took it to mean that National Eye and Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin were going to do a collaboration.

The Impossible Commute

2009-01-17T04:08:00.002-05:00

I bussed out to the Vienna metro station in the dark trying to get to the inauguration. Everything was chaotic; half of the metro fare machines were broken and the rest were being used by swarms of college students. I'd try my best to get up to one but it never seemed to happen; someone always beat me to it as this was a free-for-all and there were no lines. I frantically looked out the windows and down the escalators to see trains coming and going at lightning speed, each packed with crazed inauguration-goers.

I finally gave up on trying to get to a machine and retired to the corner of the room with vendors. There was a young lady selling sets of Crayola crayons and I spoke to her about her business and my brand loyalty to her company. I picked up a coloring book on the table and flipped though it. It contained simple images of fruit, flowers, and various other things found in nature. I told the young lady that I would buy something from her but I don't have kids. I awkwardly told her I had to go and I recall her laughing while speaking in that really fake sort of way that the hostesses of my mom's jewelry, candle, or scrapbooking parties would when talking business. She gave me her card before I walked off.

I stood before the entrance of the metro station and realized that I wouldn't be able to go to the inauguration. I also realized that I could see my breath. I looked down and I was wearing shorts.

Ode To A Mushroom Burger

2009-01-14T23:05:00.004-05:00

I Love You

I love you, I love you, I love you, yes I do
But the words won't come & I don't know what to say

I should tell you, I love you, I do
My words should explain, but my words won't come
I shouldn't hide my love deep inside
My words should explain, but my words won't come
I should tell you just how I feel, & I keep tryin'
But something holds me back when I try to tell you

I love you, I love you, I love you, yes I do
I love you, I love you, I love you, yes I do
But the words won't come & I don't know what to say

If I can find the words in my mind
The words could explain, but the words won't come
If you can see what you mean to me
My words should explain, but my words won't come
& oh how hard I try to tell you I love you
But something holds me back when I try to tell you

& I don't know what to say
& oh how hard I try to tell you I love you
But something holds me back when I try to tell you

(mushroom burger by Good Stuff Eatery, words by the Zombies, & the sentiment is all mine)

I Am Warm And Powerful - Updated!

2009-01-11T12:41:00.006-05:00

My talented friend Meghan just updated the Someone Still Loves You Boris Yeltsin fansite, iamwarmandpowerful.com with a completely new layout and her own original illustrations. There've been a few kinks to work out and the site loads kind of slow for me but the new content is great; particularly the Tape Club section. There's a good amount of stuff on there that served as an introduction to the band for me (Grace and Gwyn EP, Someone Still Loves You Michael Holt) but there's also a bunch of stuff I hadn't even heard before like the alternate version of Let's Get Tired or MC Migraine Head's Bitches In Holand. In addition to the weirdly awesome outer space/ocean themed illustrations throughout the site, there's a section of artwork and photographs submitted by the band themselves that's worth taking a look at.

In related news, it's also worth mentioning that the SSLYBY Super Store has finally been updated to include hoodies and a totally sweet t-shirt featuring a kitty in a box...!

The Story Of Okkervil River

2009-01-10T01:02:00.005-05:00

Let me explain something to you. Right now, I am completely useless. I am a lonely fat lump of nothingness that sticks close to the corner of the living room where I steal wireless internet and glance out the window to watch the neighbor kids smoke pot behind the shed. I'm like this because I don't have a car to take me anywhere or to sleep in. It is perhaps that last point that is crucial because if I had a nice comfy backseat to sleep in, I would have dreamed up some elaborate travel plans for this painfully extended break from My Education.

Anyhow, this evening my pan of eggs and grits was accompanied by the sweet sound of Okkervil River's Will Sheff reading from Tatyana Tolstaya's White Walls which contains the story of the band's namesake. I'll be honest; I haven't a clue what the story was about but oh, goodness; I turned into a pool of mush at the sound of Mr. Sheff's voice. As far as I'm concerned, the man could read from the back of a cereal box while sitting on the toilet and it would still be sexy.

I mostly ignored Okkervil River in 2008. After The Stage Names came out in the summer of 2007 and I finally saw the band perform in September of that year at Johnny Brenda's, I sort of felt that I could finally lay that particular excitement to rest. I didn't really think to listen to The Stand Ins until a few weeks ago when I was flipping through channels at the Jones' and came across the video for Lost Coastlines. There was a spark; a flood of familiarity.

Looking back, I realize that Okkervil River has a way of consistently evoking that spark. I don't quite understand how, but they're masters of taking me back in time to where they've made their mark before.

November 16th, 2005; 1:18am: Will Sheff may be the most amazing writer ever. Well......probably not but I sure do enjoy reading his lyrics, reviews, interviews, and articles. I sorta wish that as an artist, I was more like him.

I'm still really upset about missing Okkervil River. I want to meet Sheff and tell him how amazing I think he is.

I met Will Sheff in New York outside of the Bowery Ballroom. It wasn't quite by chance; I had some idea that I should be lingering around those parts but I really wasn't expecting to actually meet the man. I had come to town on a complete whim to see Pants Yell! play the Cake Shop due to Sterling's sweet talk the previous night in Philly. The whole trip was a disaster; I ended up stranded in New York with nowhere to stay so I wandered the Lowest East Side all night until the 6:30AM Chinatown bus back to Philly showed up. It was perhaps one of the most lonely points in my history of musical adventure but thankfully, it made for a good story.

Of course by now, that initial meeting seems more like a dream. I walked up to Sheff and was completely flabbergasted. I was of course surprised because I am never short on words but for some reason when I opened my mouth, this is what tumbled out:

"Wow. You're...really tall."

Oh, God. Seriously?! The sad fact of the matter is that I really met Will Sheff and that's really what I said. I'm pretty sure that other words came out of my mouth, but I don't remember them. They were all completely wrong and I looked like an ass. (I still managed to snap a fairly decent photograph, though.)

Oct. 15th, 2006; 9:09pm: I couldn't help it; after the show I walked back to the Bowery Ballroom and plopped down on the sidewalk amid smokers and drunken couples headed home early. I could just barely hear it.....they were playing Westfall. I was freezing cold, partially because of the weather but more so because of emotion. I adjusted my scarf, lowered my head, closed my eyes, & did my best to tune out everything except for that seemingly distant music.

Memories started to flood in. I thought of home and then I remembered that weekend in Arlington with my honor society friends. It was the first time in my life when I really felt like I belonged among people. I was listening to Okkervil River that whole weekend in preperation for their show at Iota. I played them in the car for Kristin, Shannon, & Liz on the way to see the Capitol Steps. I probably said something like, "Ahhhh! SO GOOD! Aren't they just amazing?! Listen to the lyrics..."

They probably responded with something like, "Oh, Katie! You and your music...!"

And that's how it was.

That weekend.......I knew it was too good to be true. Like mostly everything else, it ended abruptly and in tears. I had no cell phone at the time and had decided to not check my email for a few days but when I saw a computer in a classroom during a scholarly group discussion, I just couldn't resist. I checked my email and boom -- life had changed in an instant. Derek was dead.

My exit was strange. It was both fast and like slow motion at the same time. I had come with friends (a rare occasion, I assure you) but I floated off alone feeling even more numb than usual. Alone, alone, alone. Why always alone? Why did Derek have to fucking overdose on heroin and turn up dead in a bathtub in Virginia Beach? Why did he have to do it then? I felt like a child standing in front of some magnificent window display with a parent tugging at my arm to drag me away. "No, you can't have that."

No friends. No Okkervil River.

I opened my eyes and felt the cold again. The tears just kept coming. No friends. No Okkervil River. This time, I only had myself to blame.

As I mentioned before, I finally got around to seeing Okkervil River in September of 2007. I cried like a baby. I also managed to make an ass of myself once again.

It's 3:30am and here I am looking at photographs and thinking the 3
words which I joyously shouted in the frightened face of Mr. Will
Sheff Himself -- IT FINALLY HAPPENED. Without further explanation, he
was whisked away. If I had known that I would only get 3 words, I
would have chosen better. I would have picked the words I gave to
Brian; keep it magic.

Those were the words written in an email to Jonathan Meiburg after the show that night. I had met the polite and soft-spoken Mr. Meiburg after I had accidentally shouted in Will's face. I later noted of the incident that, "(Sheff's) eyes got big with surprise or maybe fear and he may have even taken a step back. Before either of us could respond, he was whisked away to the backstage area by another fellow and I never saw him again."

On the plus side, Jonathan really seemed to like my photographs.

Since then, I've mostly put aside the band and the handsome literary-looking man that I can't seem to speak to......but now I have started listening to the Stand Ins and it's beginning again. Poor me and poor Mr. Sheff; the next time Okkervil River comes to DC, I will probably give it another go. Perhaps the third time will be a charm and I'll manage to say something somewhat intellectual.

The Relationship Between Experiential Learning & Spontaneous Omelet Creation

2009-01-08T23:19:00.004-05:00

As a student in the integrative studies program at George Mason University, I'm expected to do copious amounts of Working Without Getting Paid. Occasionally it will be referred to as an internship or volunteering but well, it's not really voluntary if it's required, is it? I marched up to the school a few days ago to try to wrap my mind around this New Century College marketing project being overseen by Sarah Sweetman but I've still got my doubts about this particular endeavor due to the fact that whoever I would be working with hasn't even come in yet. I have no idea what the scale of this project is and there are about a million other uncertainties involved. In general, I'm not a huge fan of not knowing what I'm in for.

The idea of doing market research for something I'm actually involved in interests me, though. I also enjoyed the idea of professional interaction with students and administrators from other schools; I found myself romanticizing First Contact. That is, I could potentially be responsible for someone's educational course of action by introducing the idea of this integrative studies program.

I hold Matt Bruno responsible for my current educational course of action. Was my First Contact with New Century College romantic? Oh, you know it was.

I had arrived early for orientation that day. It was my first day on campus and I was excited to see a number of tables filled with Free Stuff and Free Beverages that had been set up in the Johnson Center atrium. I went from table to table collecting mugs, water bottles, pens, letter openers, and various other swag all while practicing the fine art of shmoozing. I believe I was on my third or forth cup of tea when all the way across the room, I spied An Attractive Young Man. I rubbed my eyes and blinked several times just to make sure because, you see, An Attractive Young Man in the DC area is like a rare bird. I quickly shoved a handful of teabags in my pocket and floated across the room to get a closer look.

I looked up at this tall handsome stranger and he smiled at me. Then I looked down at his nametag (I distinctly recall his nametag) which told me his name was Matthew Bruno. I was all at once crestfallen at the thought of this man being my superior becuase he didn't look too much older than me and goodness gracious, he was gorgeous. Nice body, kind of scruffy but at the same time very soft-looking, VERY well-dressed, cute smile, and beautiful blue eyes that told me......well, Fuck. There's no way this man is Not Gay.

We made some small talk about the weather then he invited me to sit down. There were two chairs facing each other at this small round table. The lights were dim and I couldn't really see his face until he sat down and was illuminated by the candle between us. I'm pretty sure I heard a violin playing in the background.

"So could I interest you in a meatball sub?"

I clutched my heart with one hand and began to fan myself with the other. "Wow. You sure do know the way to a girl's heart. But uh, unfortunately I went vegetarian a few months ago so um, do you have anything else?"

The handsome young man shoo'd away a waiter that has been lingering nearby with a covered platter. "Hmmm. Do you like omelets? Spinach and feta maybe?"

I nodded eagerly and he pointed at the table and magic sparkles came out of nowhere followed by a cloud of smoke. When the smoke had cleared, there was a plate in front of me with a spinach and feta omelet on it. He reached behind his ear and produced a fork and handed it to me.

"WHOA! Where did you learn to do that?!"

"Ah, I'm glad you asked. I actually went to undergrad here at Mason and there's this integrative studies program called New Century College..."

The point is, I should be able to do what Matt did presentation-wise. All he did was stand there and give me information but somehow, it was easy to take him serious. That brings me to my next point...

The main challenge to myself is to come across not as a student but as Someone Who Gets Paid. When I am making phone calls, sending emails, or standing in front of a group of people I don't want those people to know I'm a student. I don't want them to question my validity or knowledge on whatever it is that I'm supposed to be knowledgeable on. I don't really know if this is a possibility but it's something I'd really like to strive for. I need to be able to hide my immaturity a little better when it comes to the working world. I'm just plain Not Professional. Not in speech, not in writing, not in manners, and certainly not in appearance. (I feel confident that I will rack up at least 10 hours on this project trying to find professional-looking shoes that will fit on my fat, swollen feet and not hurt.) At the least, this needs to be camouflaged. At the most, this needs to be changed.

Normally, I would be excited about a project that included creating the project because it gives me more power and room for creativity. Of course, the problem with this is that is doesn't work so well when you're expected to write about it and determine what you're going to learn from it. I had this problem last semester when I set up a group project for NCLC 249; we were supposed to teach computer skills to children and seniors at a community center but uh, very little of that actually occurred. Computers were supposed to be the point but in reality, they clearly were not. What we presented and wrote about was glorifying 20% of what took place. I am aware that goals will not always be met and unexpected things will be learned but this particular project went from dealing with technology to dealing with children. Those are two completely different things. I would prefer that this next project come with some sort of guarantee that I will in fact be dealing with more than just 20% of the things I'm actually in this to learn about (marketing, public relations, market research, IMC, communication, planning).

Perhaps it's stupid of me to continue to try to figure out the logisitics of this project before it's completely created but in my mind, I see it as being not so different from the IMC (integrated marketing communications) plan I created for one of Lafarge's joint compound products at the beginning of last year. This project was set up incredibly well; though it was a mock plan, I had to interact with actual people at the company and the thing was turned in to the director of marketing (my teacher). To come up with some additional goals I tried to think of things lacking in that project; what did I want to get out of it that I didn't?

I think I need a better understanding of framework concepts, i.e. time and money. I've always done fairly well with fitting school work and projects within the framework provided but I honestly don't know a single thing about what's realistic when it comes to real life business. The goal of this project is to get the word out about NCC which will obviously be an on-going thing. I need to have some sort of idea of how to set realistic deadlines; I'm not sure exactly how long certain things take.

Concerning money -- it would be a huge help for me to learn to fit things within a budget because I have absolutely no experience with this. (The IMC plan I worked on before had an unrealistic budget which was not really focused on too much.) I've never taken courses on accounting or economics and I am dreadfully bad at math. I have no idea how much things cost and that's something I need to learn. Unfortunately, I am really bad at conceptualizing money (what does it mean to make 30 thousand dollars; how much is that?) so I'm almost scared to add this to a list of things I am potentionally going to learn by doing.

Hopefully since this is real work, I will be dealing with competent individuals. If I bother to elaborate on this, I will look like an asshole.

Sigh. All of this is weighing heavy on my mind. Thankfully Sarah has given me the option of initially registering for two credits and later for three if I feel like I can handle it. I think I'll do that. I need to write up a list of objectives and strategies to send to Matt tomorrow. Oh, Matt...

"This all looks great except for one thing; Spontaneous Omelet Creation is not an objective. Sorry."

Meandering Connections To Guster's Goldfly

2009-01-07T01:06:00.008-05:00

It's 2009, man. I'm still listening to Goldfly.

Why am I still listening to Goldfly? That album is a good 12 years old. I'm pretty sure I picked it up used at the old Plan 9 at Albermarle Square when I was in the 11th grade. I was in the 11th grade for about three months total. I was given the boot from Culpeper within the first week and turned down at both Madison and Liberty. At Liberty, they turned me down because I carried a Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox as a purse. When I went into the principal's office, my mom told me to take it back out to the car because it embarassed her but I refused. This principal reasoned that if I wouldn't listen to my mom, I probably wouldn't listen to anyone else. I knew this woman for all of five minutes but I didn't like her. She came across as an angry lesbian if I remember correctly.

I ended up at this other kind of school. I called it a hippie school but really, I did the research; it was a Waldorf school. I spent a good amount of time looking into the history of Rudolph Steiner's version of learning but of course after years of public education, it was inevitable that I would fail at that also.

The same thing that happened at Culpeper happened out in the foothills of the Blue Ridge, as well. I was going about this business of learning usless but interesting things; basic Spanish (which I already knew), ultimate frisbee, pretending to be making something out of clay, and being taught Chinese history by a 21 year old girl that went to film school in New York. I never understood the difference between loving someone and wanting to be someone so there was this amazing cute girl learning usless but interesting things by teaching them to a small group of teenagers and I was obsessed with her.

Goldfly came about after my favorable introduction to Parachute. I had this friend named Rachel and we would listen to Demons and Medicine over and over again and marvel at how great they were. I always felt like Demons was my song; I took the lyrics to heart back then. That was perhaps the very first song I heard that I really identified with. I thought so much of the words that they were used as my senior quote in the yearbook when I eventually did return to Culpeper.

I find a need to be the demon; a demon cannot be hurt.

I hear that song and I think, "Wow. Seriously...why did no one ask me about this? How come no one ever questioned this? As many people that dealt with me from family to teachers to administrators to psycologists to doctors.....why did no one ever think to ask about me in terms of music or writing? Why did no one think to ask what this meant to me?"

So I listened to Demons and never articulated my feelings for Laura..........or Ducky or Meghan or Maura or, you know, Scully from the X-Files. We all just danced around what I thought for sure must be lesbianism or at the least, bisexualism. Those that knew or figured just called it obsession. And I guess it was but no wonder! I kept it inside and in journals so how else would this thing find manifestation? No mental health worker ever brought it up. Not even in the hospitals. Those were all about cutting, Papa Roach, Linkin Park, and that terrible Butterfly song. Is that what teenagers were identifying with? If that "cut my life into pieces" song had been my Demons, would someone have paid attention? Man, mental health facilities were designed in really generic terms. I certainly hope it's not like that today.

I still sometimes think about Laura when I hear that album. I wonder what happened to her. She'd be about 30 or so now; the same age as Jorge Pezzimenti. I remember her pink scarf, her scale-y braclet, and her cute ears. I am fairly sure she was an indie girl before the term indie was widely used or had the same meaning as it does today. I remember being jealous of her usless but totally cool film school education. I also remember feeling offended that she was my teacher when she had absolutely no credentials whatsoever. I always thought that I could do what she does. To this day, I still have that perception about 75% of them time. Laura was proof that all you needed was an undergraduate degree in whatever and you could have a job with a title. Looking back, they probably paid her shit.

I was always hurt at the thought that she was probably not a virgin.

I don't remember the official reason why I left that hippie school. Hell; I don't remember the official reasons why I left Culpeper the two times I did. I just remember that I couldn't deal with seeing the girl I loved with some guy, I couldn't deal with this cute girl I was crushing on in a position of power over me, and I couldn't deal with not being able to convey my feelings to a woman via written words. Demons, indeed. Those were the roots of my actions and yet, they were never discussed. I was always too scared and too embarassed to define whatever I was going though. I hid behind what they called acts of "open defiance" so I wouldn't be hurt.

But I was always hurting. Never the way anyone else perceived, though. My senior yearbook also boasted another red flag quote that a young 6th grade version of myself adapted as her personal motto:

Trust no one but yourself.

Where was everyone? Why did I dwell on this for so long?

Did anything change...?

Eventually I forgot who I was and became an adult. I could tell a million old stories but few of them feel like me. Everything before 18 was something else. Well, almost everything. My musical past is still me. It always will be. Those are the things that always feel like me; from Salsoul Orchestra Christmases to driving with the windows down and listening to Journey to seeing the Pietasters for the very first time. Music is real, man. Demons is real.

Demons is a song about making someone believe lies. When I listen to it now, I am drawn to these words:

Honest is easy; fiction is where genius lies.

It made me think of two current and relevant things. One of those things is writing papers for college. This semester, Matt Bruno taught me how to write a paper for college. It's a lot like lying; I have to give myself another voice and talk about the things They told me I was supposed to learn. College papers are essentually fiction to me because even if I'm writing a first person reflective analysis, it's not completely me. This is the sort of fiction where genius lies because I'm pretty sure that this is how the Real World works. Matt asked me nicely to put my Marvel Super Heroes lunchbox in the car and since I'm now an adult, I listened to him. He was right. I got all A's in my first semester at George Mason University. I give him about 40% of the credit because after all, it was his version of me that wrote all those papers. Plus, it's his fault I'm in the program I'm in.

He would probably be cringing at my honest, meandering writing right now. You know, God bless that man for dealing with me.

The second thing is something I told Ben recently. I said that everyone should write autobiographies but change things to the way they wanted them to be. I feel like if we all did that, we'd have better self-esteem. We'd probably be happy in a smug sort of way and of course, we'd all be living out-right lies but.....wouldn't that be funny? I've long been a fan of doing things simply because "it would make a great story" but really, when will I ever get the chance to go dog sledding in Alaska during an advising meeting? Desperate times call for desperate measures. Just like the dreams I've interspursed with stories of bands, tours, and homelessness, I want my reader to stop and ask, "Wait. Did that really happen?"

And shortly thereafter, "Okay, you're clearly full of shit."