EXPERIMENTS

Experiment: The Nightgown

2012-01-08T20:50:00.000-05:00

Perhaps no article of clothing is more matronly than the nightgown.*

A trip to any catalog-era department store will confirm this. Row after row of high-collared, flannel or felt frocks evocative of curlers and rose-scented bath salts. The wearers comprising a strange dual-demographic of grandmothers and 7-year old girls - females nightgowned in the stages of femininity more concerned with softness and chocolate chip cookies than out-and-out hotness. The little-girl/old-lady set. Characterized best perhaps by the Olsen twins.

And yet. . . .

Something classically appealing about them, these gowns of the night.

Perhaps the name. Nightgown. Gown. It actually sounds so elegant. So glamorous, it makes you want to enter the room in grand sweeps of tulle and chiffon peignoir like a 50s screen queen. Standing with one arm draped over your own shoulder in sake of false modesty, while some handsome broad-jawed bachelor sips a martini. Shaken.

This is truly an article of clothing that always makes an entrance. At least if you are in a Hitchock or Howard Hawks movie.

So what happened to this relic of mid-century sleepwear? How did it fall so far, as to now only occupy the closets of the senior citizen crowd?

So anyway, I got one for Christmas. Yeah.

It was purely functional, I assure you. Turns out when you are carrying an extra 10-15 pounds on your front-side the mere thought of an elastic-waisted pj pant makes you nauseous. You need room to breathe. You need that belly space. You need a nightgown, or on second-thought, a toga. Or upon third thought, a sheet with a hole for the head.

I think the last time I wore a nightgown it was emblazoned with a very large New Kids on the Block logo. And I looked fabulous in it. And that cherub Joey McIntyre looked good on it.

But finding a nightgown in 2011 that felt comfortable without being matronly was a bit of a challenge. Turns out they are very, very out of style. LL Bean carries a few varieties. Lands End has some. The supply at JC Penny could only be described as plentiful. But none of these are what you'd call stylish.

My mother found one for me at Kohls that fit the bill. Functional, comfortable, v-neck, cranberry colored, knee-length. Not grandmotherly or childish.

And I will testify, gloriously comfortable. I don't know why people even bother with the restrictive waistband of the two-piece set. Why endure such discomfort!

I'm pretty sure that when Eliza Doolittle (Audrey Hepburn) exclaimed "I could have danced all night!" it was because dancing all night in a nightgown was so dang comfy! She really could have danced ALL night.

I say, bring back the nightie. And I really do think it won't be long. The depression-era lingerie found at Anthropologie and Asos (which Jared very rightly calls Miss Hannigan lingerie) has already made its comeback. I figure the flowy nightgowns of Bewitched can't be far behind.

So take your mannish old-navy flannel pj pants and throw them out the window!

Let's bring back the comfort! Let's bring back the glamour!

*Not counting the muumuu, which is undoubtedly part of the nightgown genus, so not that it matters anyway.

Alt Design Summit

2012-01-06T12:25:00.001-05:00

While I guess I'm announcing things, let me add another to the list in case any of you are interested/going:

I'm speaking at Alt. this year.

I get to hang with the other speakers like Design Sponge (aka Grace Bonney), the co-founder of Pinterest (pinteresting. . . ), Design Mom, and of course my dear old friend Hunter Sebresos! And I'll get to meet lots of other impressive creative types. Or, let's put it this way, they get to meet ME.

I'll be speaking on how design, craft, fashion, and deli meat bloggers can use basic ad principles to differentiate and strengthen their brand. "We're all Mad Men" is what I'm calling it (even though I very much dislike the show of the same name).

Are any of you going? Craft Queen Alison Faulkner will be going. . . . in case that persuades you.

I'll be there the morning of Friday, Jan 20th, if you want to see how a pregnant woman tries to channel Don Draper. Or Peggy whatsherface.

Experiment: Growing a Human Being

2012-01-03T19:01:00.000-05:00

This was tucked inside my fortune cookie last month:

Soon = 3 months. Maybe too soon. Sort of surreal. Always feel weird announcing personal things, because what more can you expect than a "congratulations." And congratulations, though well intentioned and sincere, never feel like enough when I'm on the giving end. Pregnancy announcements are like sympathy cards in that way - not a lot of options of things you can say.

So can I solicit some nontraditional congratulations? You know, like "Best wishes on your Asian son."

Or a name recommendation (boy). For instance, "Jean-Luc Pi Cardon."

Because after all, he probably will come out bald. And if he's anything like his father, articulately nerdy.

Experiment: Growing out a Pixie

2011-12-11T20:59:00.002-05:00

Hard things:

Eggs, boiled.
Times, by Dickens.
Growing out a pixie cut.

This is really old news, therefore not really news at all, but about a year and a half ago, I cut off 22 inches of hair. I documented the process with this very high resolution camera I found on my imac.

I've liked my Jean Seberg hair, but now that I know I have the bones to pull it off, I wanted to try other things. Since I've been growing it out, my wish has been granted! I've had the opportunity to try SO many new things - like -

The Dwight

The Emilio, circa Breakfast Club

The Muppet

The Beatle

The Beatle Muppet

The Emilio, Circa D2

What a roll I'm on and it's only been 6 months! What hairstyle would you like to see me try next?

Weird Al?

Delta Burke?

Bono?

Just let me know and YOUR wish will be granted!

Blag? What's a blag?

2011-11-28T16:57:00.000-05:00

Fact:
I'm too busy to blog.

Fact That Makes The First Fact Irritating:
I love to write.

8 months of no blogging? I really didn't realize I had been absent this long. But there is NO FREE TIME! It's been like this for years, but I feel like it's reached critical mass. For the last year I have had to "take care" of something every night. Social appointments become obligations, regardless of my relationship with the appointee. Work not only comes home with me, it sleeps with me. (In my DREAMS, gutter-brains! I DREAM about work.) Can I get a "sheesh?"

I'm pulling the plug on freelance for the next 6 months or so.
I'm putting an end to elaborate "happy birthday" video productions. Et al.
I'm going to spend more time with my even scarcer husband.
I'm going to say yes to watching the whole Woody Allen library. CAUSE I CAN.
I'm going to say yes to writing more over here, about things fundamental to me.
I'm going to say yes to blogging again.

I'm going to say "no" to everything else. Everything. I mean it. Just try and test me. No means no.

Experiment: Quiz Night

2011-03-22T01:50:00.001-04:00

During those formative preteen years, I'd stay up late and sneak my oldest sister's YM and Teen magazines into my room and (after reading every line of copy in the whole publication) would get excited upon reaching the interactive portion - the quizzes.

You know the kind - "Does He Secretly Like You?" "What's Your Summer Style?" "Does He Secretly Like Your Friend?" and "Does He Secretly Want to Hold Your Hand and Listen to Your New Collective Soul Album With You?"

The answer, it turned out, was a disheartening "no" most of the time. It also taught me that if boys had one defining characteristic, it was that they were unquestionably secretive. And thus they remained so. The prophetic voice of YM magazine (unbelievably, no longer in print).

These tween-tailored questionnaires didn't exactly disappear. Rather they became more sophisticated, banking on the fact that all humans are A) interested in themselves, and B) have too much free time.

Fulfilling my self-interested-American duties, I was compelled to continue taking them as they evolved.

Color Code Test née Hartman Personality Profile (Yellow).

Meyers Briggs (INTP).

Proust Questionnaire (Various, unsurprising).

These were grown-up versions of the old Teen and YM 3-answer quizzes. Slightly more open-ended, requiring slightly more pondering. Still solipsistic. Still kind of a waste of time, even though endorsed by Proust. Yet, somehow, quizzically irresistible. Like a giant piece of flourless chocolate cake just sitting there.

Cut to.

Weekend date. Killer work week. 8pm Friday. Husband and I both too exhausted to be social, or to do anything besides lay around and try to think of something to eat. Nothing sounds good. Not even Nicolitalia. Too creatively drained to think of something fun to do. Oddly, bowling sounds attractive, though the energy can't be mustered. Mustard. Hot Dogs?

Stroke of genius. I pull out my laptop and head to Seventeen.com.

"QUIZ TIME!" I say, for the first time in my adult life.

Jared is skeptical, but trusting. Tolerant, more likely.

We're in luck - the quizzes are the same superficial junk they were 15 years ago. We take turns quizzing each other.

Are You About To Get Dumped? (No - PHEW!)

Who Is Your Celebrity Boyfriend? (Corbin Bleu. Maybe they meant Cordon Bleu?)

What's The Perfect Trend For Your Body? (Channel Your Flirty Fashion Sense With a Bold Scoop Tank!)

Could You Date Justin Bieber? (Yes. A girly girl to the core, the perfect date for you and J.B. would be something that allows you to spend serious quality time together (slow dancing, anyone?)

Addicting. It's like they're almost more fun to take now than they were at age 11. And let's be clear - of COURSE I could date Justin Bieber. He would be so lucky.

We went foraging for more. We came across the best/most ridiculous quiz site in the world. "Best" if you're 12, a terrible speller, and into Twilight, Jo-Bros, or Anime, and "most ridiculous" if you're a 27-year old married couple who's usually watches Woody Allen movies for fun.

There were so many to pick from:

How Will You Die? (Water. One day when ur [sic] 40 you develop a deadly allergie [sic] to water and after having a drink ur [sic] throught [sic] closes up n u [sic] die)

How Many 5th Graders Could You Take in a Fight? (100)

Penguins From the 1920s?

What Will Your Husband's Name Begin With? (S.)

The Grand Fat Quiz - What Level of Fat Are You? (*Average. Fair.)

Who is Your Perfect Anime Boyfriend? (Yumichika Ayasegeuwa "Bleach." If you say so, internets.)

and finally

What Do You Want For Dinner? (Enchiladas. Right on!)

Thank you, Seventeen magazine online, for offering unintentionally amusing quizzes. Thank you, Quiz Night, for being way more weird and hilarious than most other activities.

And most importantly, thank you for helping an exhausted married couple figure out dinner.

Love,
*An Average Fatty

Experiment: Zumba

2011-03-07T23:17:00.000-05:00

Of the few trends I've fallen prey to (pagers, myspace, pixie hair), Zumba has definitely been the most unexpected. I know it's not by any means a new trend, but I'd never even heard of it before a few months ago when my Beehive girls expressed interest in doing it for a class activity. I just thought it was something weird 13-year-olds were up to. Like tamagotchis or something.

Outside of soccer, I'm not an "aerobics class" kind of gal. I like my exercise like I like my charming Star Wars smugglers. Solo.
Badum-ching.

So what inspired me to Zumba? (That can be used as a verb, right?) Who knows. Cabin fever? More likely because it was one of the classes offered through my mini-gym membership.

Maybe if you're here you already know about it or have tried it. Maybe you watch So You Think You Can Dance. But I'm guessing many of you don't know anything about it. And you really should know.

I want to tell you about it, really I do. I want to write a long DFW-inspired essay all about the hip-shakin, booty-makin craze that's sweeping mountain America. How weird and comfortable it is.

But the thing is, I'm too tired. Zumba is exhausting. It's taken the skip out of my step, while putting it back in.

Instead, I exhort you to read Alison's entertaining post. I've had a similarly strange and wonderful experience as my copywriter friend. I sort of fell in love.

Maybe it's because I was obsessed with Latin America for a few years in college. Maybe it's because I grew up in the most dance-party-friendly social circle in the Midwest. Maybe it's because I speak in made-up Spanish to myself at times.

More likely though it's because Zumba, though new news, is actually old news. Turns out, what the world calls "zumba" I call just a regular ol'late-night kitchen dance. I've been doing it for years.

EXPERIMENT: Romancing the Novel

2011-01-23T16:46:00.001-05:00

"With one leg in a cast and a heart hardened by bitter holiday memories, all Leslie wants for Christmas is a quiet and restful vacation at her aunt's Vermont home. But that was before she met the new neighbor, handsome Tagg Williams."

Well that sounds okay, I thought, standing in front of the holiday section at the library. It could easily be a John Irving book. Vermont. Snow. Disappointment.

I will say, reading a romance novel wasn't something that really ever interested me. I've been a hungry reader since childhood, but I never deigned to pick up a book of this breed. I may make great jokes ("breed" heh), but I simply don't read books as jokes. Allow me this snobbery. I also write poetry. Get over it.

However, I am a girl who likes to experiment. And a romance novel seems to be the perfect excuse to try it all, as they say. And a Christmas-themed romance novel at that. Also, after seeing Danielle Steel's monstrosity of a house the thought came to me, well someone must be reading her. A lot of lonely someones.

(A quick scan of the world's foremost source of cobbled information (Wikipedia) tells me this stereotype of the lonely female isn't entirely true. The core of romance readers, boast the RWA, are those in committed romantic relationships, more likely married than not, more likely Midwestern than not. In wikipedia-fact, romance novels are the most popular genre in modern literature, comprising almost 55% of all paperback books sold in the last decade. For your information.)

After 5 minutes of deliberation and quick scan of fellow library patrons, I checked it out in preparation for an 11-hour roadtrip (along with Wodehouse, hah). Moderation in all things.

The name - Mistletoe and Holly. Published in 1982 by Silhouette Romance, subdivision of Harlequin. A holiday romance with a tame-looking red and green cover. My first joke book.

The story is structured into three quick and distinct acts:

I - Leslie (a careerist - ad exec!) comes to visit lonely Aunt, has gruff run-in with comely neighbor Tagg. Tagg is a Gaston-cum-Gandhi character, a divorcee doctor gallivanting through Vermont countryside in lumberjack attire, presumably smelling of maple and Old English. In tow, Tagg's sprite daughter Holly, who serves less as daughter and more as puppy tactically placed next to men to attract females. Leslie resists Tagg's invitations to accompany him in various wintertime activities (sledding, cocoa-sipping, tree-chopping), probably because they are ridiculous date-ideas for someone on crutches. However, she is undeniably drawn to his quiet demeanor and physicality (Now that I'm grown I eat five dozen eggs, and I'm roughly the size of a baaaarge!)

II. - Aunt (bumbling Angela Lansbury type) encourages Leslie to spend time with Tagg, though Leslie is unsure. Aunt goes on an overnight trip to a friend's, and the electricity in the village goes out. Tagg the Hero arrives and carries Leslie (in a cast, remember) to his house "for [her] safety throughout the night." Peck under mistletoe, followed by light necking in front of roaring fireplace, until Holly ruins everything by coming downstairs for a drink. Tagg most likely annoyed daughter is not a puppy at this moment. Tagg reveals he is not a divorcee, but a widower. Leslie pities him and also herself. She demands to be taken home, where she indulges in a spiral of doubt and second-guessing. The thin, "intellectual" blonde wonders if she should let Tagg into her life, or he will hurt her like suitors past.

III. - Adorable Holly takes sudden interest in Leslie and comes over multiple times a day. Tagg apologetically fetches her each day, hoping to find an opportune moment to reveal his feelings and see if they are reciprocated. Sort of unsatisfying climax as Leslie decides she is in love with Tagg and wants to take care of Holly with him. Flashforward to Tagg and Leslie's wedding the next Christmas. Leslie is off her "crutches," in love, and is "walking again." Not the worst metaphor I've encountered in a book, but not the best either.

We were nearing Flagstaff as I finished the book, a wintery-landscape like unto Vermont. I closed the yellowed pages of Mistletoe and Holly and thought about it. As far as stories go, it wasn't horrible. It made sense (which is more than I can say about most movies of 2010). And it did get me in the Christmas mood. One more thing - this Reagan-era romance was incredibly tame. It was relatively smut-free, right between a PG and PG-13. Just a simple holiday story of love overcoming all.

So why all the critical disgust and judgment of romance novels? They don't seem to be any more insipid than their visual counterparts. Most rom-coms of the last 10 years have been incredibly banal and suffered from horrible scripts. If we read a novelization of one of them would it sound any more socially acceptable?

Beth is a young, ambitious New Yorker who is completely unlucky in love. However, on a whirlwind trip to Rome, she impulsively steals some coins from a reputed fountain of love, and is then aggressively pursued by a band of suitors. These suitors are among the most annoying of Hollywood's current male actors and as they drive around the city in a small Italian car, you kind of hope they will all die a fiery death.

Or how about

Abby Richter produces a morning news show that's about to be canceled. To boost ratings, her boss hires Mike Chadway, a local cable call-in host who promotes the ugly truth: sex is the only glue in a relationship. Mike offends Abby's sensibility: she has a checklist about the perfect man, and she's found him in her new neighbor, Colin, a hunky doctor. Mike offers to help her reel in Colin if she'll work with Mike on the show.

(When in Rome, The Ugly Truth)

Or how about

Creative Director Adrienne is about to engage on a 11-hour roadtrip with her hunky filmmaker husband Jared, when she decides to spice things up by bringing along a "comical" romance novel. However, her plans fall flat when the book turns out to be decidedly unfunny, and the two end up listening to Love Among the Chickens on audiotape and singing along to Cher. Things really heat up when they stop to buy Navajo jewelry and pick up a mysterious stranger - "Wandering Fingers."

I'm working on the novel now. You should read it. As far as romance goes, it'll be better than most rom coms. And you won't have to watch any Katherine Heigl. She is the worst.

Month in Pixels

2011-01-16T19:12:00.002-05:00

Regrets of 1992

2011-01-02T20:50:00.013-05:00

2010 was a pretty even-keeled year. I doubt there would be much drama in a 2010 recap. You know what year was full of misfortune and regret? 1992.

SPRING - 8 years old. On the walk home from school, pair of bully boys start teasing my older sister. Throw rocks at them. Called one an "asshole." Ran home with sister and made teary confession to Mom that I said "the A-word." Eat some homemade bread.

SPRING - 8 years old. School is over, chilled Midwestern March. Rainstorm. My ride has not arrived. Wait underneath awning outside school for an hour. Finally walk home. Soaking upon arrival, locked out. Sit in a lawn chair outside house for an hour in the rain, shivering. Play it tough. Like I want to sit in the rain. Mom arrives home, feels terrible. Warm up in the bath, Mom fixes bean burrito.

SUMMER - 8 years old. Summon courage, finally dive off high-dive at public pool in Geneva. Over-rotate and land on my back.

FALL - 8 years old. Fawn over Michael Pentek all year, even though as an adult I will find him kind of funny-looking. Draw hearts over his 2nd-grade yearbook picture, write "mea mora" in red pen (thinking my secret will remain safe from my non Spanish-speaking sisters). Square dance with him in gym class. Act relatively uninterested with him during gym, though I have carefully selected outfits on gym days for his benefit. Never tell him I write songs about him at home. Never, ever talk to him. Regret this decision for more than a few years.

FALL - 9 years old. Mrs. Keen promises 3rd grade class cookies to accommodate Geology units - Igneous (angel crisps), Sedimentary (brownie bars) Metamorphic (who knows). Keen never delivers on Metamorphic cookies. Remember this broken promise till this day. Harbor vendetta against all elementary teachers.

WINTER - 9 years old. Ask for a "poet's blouse" for Christmas. Also ask for Marvin the Martian stickers. Receive both. Wear poet's blouse weekly. Write a lot of poetry, mostly woeful stuff about Michael Pentek.

Happy 1992 Everyone!

Mythological Holiday Creatures

2010-12-13T01:08:00.003-05:00

Because I'm the type of person who takes on way more projects and freelance work than I can handle, of course I insisted on making some kind of video Christmas card this year. And with my filmmaker husband's assistance, we did.

Merry Christmas from the Cardons.

Sorry for the puns. Oh wait, no I'm not.

Experiment: Laser Tag

2010-10-05T22:02:00.004-04:00

First of all, the place smells like bad pizza.

A pizza cooked days ago, kept lukewarm under a heatlamp. Like worse than a Hot-n-Ready smell. A sweaty, public pool pizza.

This is because they have one of these pizzas (pepperoni) under a sallow heatlamp, sitting next to the cash-register. From the looks, a consumer-grade heatlamp. You might buy something similar from SkyMall, to accompany the Old Fashioned Looking Popcorn Machine you keep in your "game den." And the $2.50-a-slice pizza looks completely desaturated. Ninja Turtles would cry.

Speaking of Ninja Turtles, the whole place is actually sort of sewerlike. The walls are black and foamy with low ceilings. Accents of neon green and pink. It's humid. Teenage-boy-voice frequency. Which mostly means lots of awkward laughter that sounds like it's being choked out of them. They are excited. They occupy every last seat on the opposing benches. Team Green and Team Red. They throw taunts to each other, though friends. They are remarkably different in size, some still pushing 100 pounds, others like newborn giants. (Were teenage boys always so strange?)

We are the oldest people in the place by at least ten years. It is my first time playing laser tag.

The guy running the register is dressed in all black and I don't even think that's part of his work uniform. I bet he is 15. We ask him for two tickets for one 30-minute game of laser tag. He says we can't pay him for another 10 minutes. We don't understand but comply and wander back into the arcade area to kill time.

There is a birthday party going on. It's seems like a big downer, even for the 13-year old birthday boy. Maybe next year, kid.

We finally pay, get split up as a couple and join our respective teammates. Jared gets greeted by his team. I get a scan and a nod from mine. I am the only female in the whole place. They offer to let Jared select the game music since he is new (which will be blasted from the stereo system during play). He looks through the options and selects Star Wars. They quickly veto that ("no way" "stupid" "lame"), and instead pick something that sounds like it'd be under the "angry" filter on Killer Tracks.

This snobbery and shunning of Star Wars makes me upset. I conspire to rub up against them and make them nervous during play, or whisper sultry things into their ears to disarm them, then go for the kill.

I never get the chance. I am completely blindsided by the game.

The second I slip on the still-sweaty vest and grab the gun, I'm the last to get up the stairs. Upon entering the warehouse section, I'm memorized by the artwork, the black lights and the insane neon. Part dorm room, part glow-in-the-dark-gang-scene from Batman Forever, if you saw that.)

My first plan of action is to strategically survey the land. I want to know exactly how the passageways connect. I do this with zero interference. Then I hear some yelling and follow the noise, keeping my distance. I duck behind an old barrel labeled TOXIC. I get in position. I wait for someone to walk by.

I wait for someone to walk by.

Wait.

No one is coming. I am a useless sniper.

I strategically take the perimeter route to where I hear voices. I see some red flashes (indicating gunfire). I crouch down and follow the lights. I run (against the rules, absurdly) towards the silhouette. I take aim at his right shoulder blade and fire. HIT!

The tiny teenager just laughs at me.

I turn around. The entire Red Team is perched on a landing above me. I walked right into an ambush. It's a turkey shoot.

When you get hit by the other team, you have three seconds of immunity. After I get hit, I take about 2 of those 3 and run (against the rules) out of harm's way.

Where are my Green comrades? Why is it so humid in here?

Did I mention I am wearing a silk blouse (surprise date).

The remaining 20 minutes are just as disappointing. No one is playing strategically. They are only using 5 percent of the warehouse. No sneak attack. No snipery. Just teenage boys being irritating and smelling up the place.

I still manage to make about 20 hits in the next ten minutes.

I run into Jared the one and only time. We stop and give each other a quick kiss.

I turn a corner in haste and hit a guy in the face with my gun (accident).

I overhear a guy say, "Don't go after that guy's girlfriend. He'll probably kick your ass."

I get pissed off overhearing this. I can play dirty. I can play reckless. And I do for the last 10 minutes of the game. I run the whole time, sweating up my very stylish outfit.

I hit another guy in the head with my gun (accident?)

And then, just as fast as it starts, it's over. 30 minutes down.

I make my way downstairs, find Jared waiting at the bottom, remove the even-sweatier vest.

We get our scores. Jared comes in 4th overall. I come in 14th. Out of 19.

I am completed outraged by this as any natural athlete would be. I vow then and there never to play again. Not so much because of the humidity, the lack of respect for one of the great movies of our time, the CHEATER behavior of the teenage boys. Not even because of the pizza smell.

But because I was terrible at laser tag. Call me a snob or a pessimist or a bad loser but it's not worth playing if you can't win.

Experiment: BLT TIME

2010-08-31T00:50:00.008-04:00

Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato
- Texturally complex
- Salty and Tangy
- Good on many breads
- Lettuce is an under-performer

Bearnaise, Lettuce, Tomato
- Memorable, for all the wrong reasons

Bacon, Lamb, Tomato
- Lamb adds a nice substance
- Bacon is still dominant flavor
- Tomato succeeds

Bacon, Lettuce, Tomato Juice
- Tomato Juice does not work the same as au jus
- Mushy

Bacon, Lettuce, Turkey Bacon
- Dare to be great

Experiment: Raccoon Handling

2010-08-05T21:24:00.008-04:00

Is it wrong to pick a favorite married couple?

Because Paul and Jamie from Mad About You are so it.

Oh hey, Leah & Brandon. What are you two doing in this blog post about favorite married couples? Weird.   . .

Leah's the kind of girl who will crack an egg over the shower curtain (and onto your head) when you are taking a shower and then come back minutes later to toss over a piece of toast. Buttered. She will coerce you to try some new "candy" that turns out to be turtle food. Leah calls her English mom “the Juice Box,” and her dad invented the Snickers Ice Cream Bar. The Snickers Ice Cream Bar.

And Brandon? Brandon is the Werner Herzog to her Klaus Kinski. He also, I recently learned, goes by the nickname “Pip.” Together they fake fight at the top of their lungs to convince their strait-laced neighbors they are in a Jerry-Springer type relationship.   In other words, I love them.

They are also the caretakers of three baby raccoons. Raccoons who were abandoned in their infancy and need TLC before they are re released into the wild.

Is it legal to keep baby raccoons in your 300 square foot apartment? Probably not. But kicking three homeless raccoons back out on the rough streets of Provo? I’ll not abide it.   

It was a lovely summer night and they invited us over for some good old neighborly raccoon-greeting.

I'll be honest. I was terrified to touch one. Tiny human hands!

Brandon opened the front door and three kitten sized raccoons fell out. He was carrying a baby bottle full of reddish stuff.

“They just woke up – they’re a little drunk.”

The three of them wobbled along like they had learned to walk (crawl?) that very day. He proceeded to feed them, one by one, the smoothie looking concoction.

Nothing will make you feel more Emersonian than seeing a man with a beautiful red beard suckle a raccoon.

After they were fed they had an even harder time walking. The fat-bellied raccoons became less scary and more cute. I bent over to pick one up. They were soft. They were nuzzly. You could grab them by their skin on their back and just toss them around like pancakes.

They also are very well trained. All three of them galloped through the grass to play follow the leader.

It was beautiful. Just four neighborly neighbors sitting around in wicker chairs on the porch, having some beards, wearing some plaid, feedin some raccoons.

And I could not have been more wrong. I totally misjudged raccoons. (I still have a vendetta out for moles – prove me wrong, internet-active mole community).

SAD SURPRISE TWIST ENDING WITH NO POPCORN:

Leah and Pip have just moved to paradise, aka, Oregon. (Just another reason for me to move to the Pearl District?)

I am in need of a new favorite married couple who are caretakers of unexpectedly well-behaved wild animals. Banjo-playing is a bonus. Is there a couple out there like this? Or am I just chasing waterfalls?

(I worked two TLC references into this post, I am incredible.)

Haikus for famous people

2010-07-18T19:10:00.004-04:00

Mr. Howard Keel

Bless your beautiful hide and

Your mustache of youth

Sir Larry David

I'll eat your jokes for dessert

Surly curmudgeon

Hey Dolly Parton

I'm thinking of a number

Between 9 and 5

Sad times Chris de Burgh

Fame dying, lady blushing

Might even say red

Gilded Betty White

Just die already so folks

will stop exploiting you. Irony?

Theory: Soccer as Virtual Reality

2010-06-10T23:08:00.000-04:00

Tomorrow sees the kickoff of the 19th FIFA World Cup, which, in a way, is a homecoming.

I am at home now, on this field. Belly-down on green shag carpeting, the smell of clean, perfectly clean dirt – cleaner than any kitchen cleanser. The light quiet. Muted hustling of feet. How is this not my home?

I am a soccer player. Meaning?

It’s strange the way identities pull themselves together and, to a degree, how little we are consulted in that decision process. We can fake interests all we like, try on new hats, explore new options in the form of recreation and career and calling, but the things that truly come to denote our lives, those things come in search of us. We can accept them graciously, as the gifts they are, or we can deny them.

Do we become what we love? What our body loves?

My body loves soccer. On the field, I am completely complete. It’s always been this way.

As children, we played for different reasons. Hobby, friends, parents who needed free time, orange slices, just you know, something to do. Others were not there for those reasons. We were there because we were supposed to be. Tiny thighs already bulk with the markings of a pro.

Thighs like jodhpurs at 5, thighs that you will hate for that, but that will give you speed like a missile and allow you to chase anyone on the field and reclaim possession of the ball. Calves melty with muscle. It’s as if your legs marked you for sport before your mind could decide if you even liked it. You will be good at this. You will be great.

You loved it. You loved everything about it. You were a complete natural. You loved the ripe smell of the goalbox, the kiss of the ball on the curve of your foot, the svelte leather uppers of your Copa Mundials, the chase of the center fullback locked on a right wing, the tackle, the snap of the ball as it leaves your foot, the complete exhaustion, the impasto Van Gogh swirls of green and mud.

And how it is not vulgar to compare it to art. Not at all. The thinking and not thinking. The relief in letting your body be the brain for awhile. This happens in art as well, losing yourself in a painting, your hand making all the decisions. Kicking, pacing, tracking, intercepting. Breathing deep compensatory breaths. Forfeiting master control for 90 minutes. Reacting. Zoning out, but maybe being more zoned in than you ever have before as a human being.

If you want to excel, you have to sell your body to soccer. I have two screws in my ankle right now that will attest. And an arthritic knee. Most days now I swim to stay in shape. It’s likely I’ll need multiple joint replacements in the golden age. Why harp the glories of something so destructive?

Have you seen it? Have you had the distinct pleasure of playing with a great team and worthy opponents? There is nothing else like it.

It’s a beautiful game. The most beautiful in the world. Speed, geometry, agility, finesse. As methodical as chess. As loose as the surf. You play with your whole body. The primal rush of a sprint. We were hunters once after all. We were quiet. We caught our sustenance. Now we catch a ball. It feels similarly glorious, I imagine. Trapping and holding that ball. Competing for it.

That hollow globe which one day, after a sweaty Kansas night practice, I seem to control as if by magnetism. I was owed this, and now it’s here. It arrived. I can put the ball anywhere I want with sniper precision. The Jedi Mind Trick is real and it has come in this form. I can call the ball back to me as well, like a pet. And when I do call it back it feels alive trapped against my chest, my thigh, my foot. Remember that? And when you noticed for the first time that you were juggling, completely involuntarily?

Your body knew how. It knew a language you didn't. And boy, it was fluent.

I don't play too much anymore. I want to save my ankle. I want to be able to teach the game to my kids. But I can watch. I'll be watching this month.

It’s painful in ways to be a spectator in a sport you used to own. But everything eventually comes back, in some sweeping outpouring of love or God or karma or fate or whatever it is you believe in. I can watch the game, and I can literally feel the game. Feel what it’s like to make that slide tackle. Feel what it’s like to score off that diving header. It’s a little bit more than vicarious living. It's like virtual reality. Or it is virtual reality. (The next wave, right Jaron?) I know it is. I've got that sweeper intuition.

Color Winners

2010-06-01T22:41:00.010-04:00

Really guys? I expected much weirder of you.

HAha joking joking. Really. You were all so superbly superb.

The race was so close it took me a MONTH to determine the winners! (<---lie)

I got distracted by life. You know how it goes. The foibles and follies of L I F E. (<---half lie)

I got distracted by thinking about Babies. (<---truth)

To Trevor/Sherry who wooed me with 2 of the 5, I present this gift:A sweet little Iranian film about someone who never could have won this contest (he is blind). It's stunningly beautiful. A gem.

To the three runner ups,

but only because In Living Color: Season 1 was too expensive.

Please send your most current mailing address to my email inbox. To all the entrants, send me your addresses and I will send you a colorful custom portrait of you and a loved one. You specify the loved one.

Theory: I Should Work for Ikea

2010-05-05T14:15:00.002-04:00

Branding means constantly thinking about and defending your color choices. What will communicate Authority? What will evoke Friendly Political Discourse? Rootsy yet Technologically Forward? Delicious? It’s lots of fun to sell by color. (And even more fun to sell by music because you get to use words that make you sound ridiculously effete in normal conversations: modal, percussive, etc. Even I make myself sick sometimes. Also, since when do I write about work so much?)

It’s so interesting what colors communicate. It constantly surprises me how differently they’re seen. For my synesthete allies, it’s expected. We all make connections between colors and items and moods without even thinking about it. For clients and everybody else, red can only mean anger, love, war, or Christmas. Come to think of it, even these four aren’t conceptually that far apart.

People seem to be stuck in these cultural symbolic ruts like this, from time to time, and it might be a good idea for us to push out of this.

Apropos, how is it that people get the job of Professional Color Namer?

You know, like the people who decide your sweater will be available in Honeydew instead of Light Green?

How do I get that job?

I think I’d be really good at it, and it would make your Ikea catalog much more interesting.

"Yes, I'd like that DRAGÖR in Stroganoff." See! So fun to say!

Alright, friends. Show me what you got. I'll pick my favorites and send the winner, well, something colorful.

Love,

Swedish Meatball

Experiment: Make a Web App

2010-04-29T00:45:00.022-04:00

The Food Nanny is in beta! Go test it out.

In particular, check out the Nanny App - it's an online meal-planning tool with tons of recipes, the ability to add your own, the ability to customize how many people you're cooking for, and at the end it CALCULATES ALL THE FRACTIONS FOR YOU. (I cook for 2 usually, not 6, and I hate having to figure out what 3/4 of 1.5 cups is. MATH.)

And yeah, The Food Nanny is one of my babies - from branding and design strategy to app architecture and production. I usually don't talk much about work, but I'm particularly happy about this 9-month project and I think it's one I will use time and again.

Look how far I've come.

(Don't try to win. You won't ever win. The hit states for the pinata are a bit wacky.)

Experiment: Diorama

2010-03-21T23:01:00.002-04:00

There's a large subset of people I know who've had a terrible time giving up their childhood. They're paralyzed at the thought of having full time "adult" jobs. Responsibility. See adulthood as some lesser, unfun land of death and debt and taxes. Not seeing the liberty in it all. Call me naive, but I love the liberty of adulthood. I love that I can still enjoy the things I did when I was young, and in addition I can afford to do things that are even more fun, like go to Dave & Busters. HAHHAH. I love that joke.

You can still make dioramas. Dioramas never get old. Still total fun. And so empowering to make a miniature world. The characters are bound by your laws, your blueprints, your spatial dimensions. Your mistakes. Even those turn into something cool in the end. (Did you see petite Philippe Petit?) Makes you kind of realize how cool it's going to be to create other things some day, like universes. Universes where there are no Dave & Busters and no DMVs and no Lady Gaga.

It's Sunday. I'm remembering Deiter Uchtdorf's take on creativity and spirituality. He says it better than I can. Or at least he sounds cooler saying it.

The desire to create is one of the deepest yearnings of the human soul. No matter our talents, education, backgrounds, or abilities, we each have an inherent wish to create something that did not exist before. Creation brings deep satisfaction and fulfillment. We develop ourselves and others when we take unorganized matter into our hands and mold it into something of beauty.

You might say, “I’m not the creative type." If that is how you feel, think again, and remember that you are spirit children of the most creative Being in the universe.

Isn’t it remarkable to think that your very spirits are fashioned by an endlessly creative and eternally compassionate God? Think about it—your spirit body is a masterpiece, created with a beauty, function, and capacity beyond imagination.

But to what end were we created? We were created with the express purpose and potential of experiencing a fullness of joy. Our birthright—and the purpose of our great voyage on this earth—is to seek and experience eternal happiness. One of the ways we find this is by creating things.

What you create doesn’t have to be perfect. Don’t let fear of failure discourage you. Don’t let the voice of critics paralyze you—whether that voice comes from the outside or the inside.

The more you trust and rely upon the Spirit, the greater your capacity to create. That is your opportunity in this life and your destiny in the life to come. Trust and rely on the Spirit. As you take the normal opportunities of your daily life and create something of beauty and helpfulness, you improve not only the world around you but also the world within you.

The God I believe in is unbelievably creative. The master painter and the master scientist. And I'm betting He loves dioramas.

Experiment: Scouting

2010-03-18T00:47:00.009-04:00

Guess who's the new Cub Scout Den Leader!

It's like someone just knew how khaki-crazed I am. A premonition.

I need some help though. The Wolves just won't really listen to me. 8 year-old boys! Delightfully strange creatures! How do I get them to be obedient?

I feel mislead.

Experiment: 30 Day Purge

2010-03-02T15:19:00.002-05:00

No sweat.

I got rid of so much stuff in the last 30 days.

Motorola pager
Dora the Explorer pillowcase set (unopened)
Pretty Together by Sloan (CD)
photos of Tory L.
a knockoff Chanel bag
A bunch of ticketmaster stubs I'd been keeping for TEN YEARS including Live, Remy Zero, Travis, JOHN COUGAR MELLENCAMP
like 2 years worth of Wired and J.Crew catalogs
a few dozen wedding announcements I've been holding onto for some reason, including hers - they were sitting in a giant bird's nest. Incredible. I guess I feel bad about throwing away photographs.
Motorola bluetooth earclip. Used once.
9 pairs of soccer socks (kept 3)
Doc Martins sandals circa 1999 (not the exact model, but close)
2 pairs of jeans (one dating from 1999)
over 800 notes from grade school and middle school (kept about 50 truly hilarious ones)
Death to Smoochy on DVD
my New York City Public Library card (whimper)
a half-finished scarf that's the color of vomit
my Paulo & Bill workshirts
a really gross bag of old make-up, including the sparkly blue eyeshadow from my SENIOR PROM.
a pendant necklace of kittens suckling a unicorn
Oyster card
the christmas tree
the off-white fabric I've been carting around for too long and not doing anything with
bubble wrap from every piece of bulk mail I've been sent in the last two years
Hannah's Hang-out Guide
my fake engagement ring. I blame Micci.
my grad school acceptance letters
my short story rejection letters
a rose temporary tattoo
my very first Western Digital hard drive (it was enormous and only held 80GB. my first portfolio was on here!)
lots and lots of mucus (Bronchitis)

To celebrate, I'm going to buy a Wii.

Experiment: Meat Packing

2010-02-28T18:34:00.003-05:00

It's 5:45 am and I am in the parking lot of the Deseret Meat Packing Facility in Spanish Fork, Utah.

It's dark, starless. I am finishing up my Luna bar and tying my tennis shoes. Jared is rubbing sleep from his eyes. At 6:00, about the same time we have finally gotten warm, we leave the car to enter the plant. It is still dark outside, but inside it is weirdly bright, Pantone 1215. Tall tropical plants, gold nameplates, chairs that don't really get sat in much. The waiting room kind of looks like a mid-90's dentist office.

Or it's what we presume is the waiting room, no one is waiting on anyone.

"Hello?" we ask. Nada. Then comes a woman, Joan, who is the volunteer coordinator. We are some of those volunteers. We have volunteered to pack meat. Actually, I have no clear idea of what we have volunteered to do. I am here out of 70% curiosity, 30% desire to give service. I couldn't let this opportunity pass me by. How often are members of the public allowed entrance, let alone physical work-opportunities, inside a meat packing plant? Not often, I'd venture. And I intend to muckrake (a la Upton Sinclair), or at least use giant garden-variety pitchforks to rake apart slabs of cow. Just wait, it's coming.

Joan starts to explain the rules. They are all reasonable and unsurprising.

No chewing Gum
No jewelry.
No sandals.

If meat falls on the floor, don't pick it up. It's contaminated.

She exhorts us to read the rest of the rules "THOUR-ougly." We pick up the laminated yellow sheet and take turns. 16-point font. Nothing memorable.

Before we're allowed access to cowtown, we have to step into the clean room for orientation with one other guy with a football build, Courtney. It's here we are suited with our white lab coats, embroidered with Deseret Meat on the breast. We get our hairnets. We get our mandatory earplugs, but I pass, and slide them into my white coat pocket like they're cards I'm trying to hide in a poker game. I don't want to miss a thing. Need all of my senses.

On our way out of the clean room, we each take a turn dipping our sneakers into a vat of some liquid chemical disinfectant. (One of the accounts I worked on for awhile was for animal biosecurity, so I know, or think I know what I'm getting into.)

And then, without any real fanfare, we're in.

We were told to dress warm, and this is why: the whole facility is set at a cool 40 degrees. Gotta keep that beef fresh.

The place is a vision to behold. It's aluminum grey, and looks really, really clean. Well, except for those giant sides of cow cadaver gutted on meat hooks.

The concrete floor is polished and stark, except for little puddles of blood here and there, Pollock-style. Even these somehow look sterile.

Our guide walks us to our station, through a few small rooms, and I try to stall as much as I can to scan the activities of each room, but our guide walks briskly. I don't blame him, it's cold.

"Okay, wait here."

We're left alone, in what appears to be the largest room, the heart of the factory. There are 30 or so industrious workers (what time did they get here?) about their duties. A few guys furthest from us are using pitchforks to transfer chunks of meat out of a giant cardboard box into a smaller cardboard box. All meat products appear to be wheeled in and out in giant cardboard boxes lined with plastic tarps. This seems a bit weird.

The most surprising thing about this place is that it doesn't really smell. Sure, it's got this mild warm smell, the way a grocery-store meat counter sort of smells, but really, it's nothing to throw up about. It's also sort of got that acidic disinfectant smell about it, which pairs nicely (or at least, tolerably) with the meat scent.

A loud beeping starts, like a truck backing up, and behind us a garage-door-looking device pulls in towards the ceiling. This must be where they make sausages. You know those moving clothes racks at the dry cleaners, that spin around and stop at your item? This is what the sausage machine looks like, but instead of blouses and trousers, there are rows and rows of empty sausage casings. They look a little bit sad in their deflated state.

The man who's shoveling the filling around looks a little bit sad, too. He has his lab coat on, and over that he's wearing a bloody butcher's apron. He has a hairnet and a mouthnet to keep his beard in check. That's the other thing, about 75 percent of the men working here are mustachioed or bearded. And that there little detail, is totally living up to my expectations of a meat packing plant.

He's shoveling, yes, with a huge steel shovel, sausage meat from a coffin-sized trough into a funnel shaped device that is connected to the dry-cleaners machine. Then, another series of beeps and the garage door falls down to the floor, and my voyeurism comes to an end.

A jockey-sized man approaches us (Moustache). He informs us that we'll be packaging hamburger patties.

"You got fast hands?" he asks me.

"Pretty fast."

He points me toward the right-angle meeting point of two machines. The funnel machine and a machine that looks like it makes giant bubble wrap. Upon closer inspection, this bubble wrap is just the bottom half of the hamburger patty packaging. I'm instructed to put the stack of four patties shot out by machine A. (funnel machine) into these little plastic dimples, which are then fed through B. (sealing machine) and come out store-ready on the other side. Easy enough.

Jared is evaluated for size and strength and put to work at a meat trough overflowing with ground chuck. He shovels meat onto the candy blue conveyor belt, that runs upward and dumps the meat into a giant funnel. "An escalator for meat!" I say excitedly to my co-worker, who is the only other female in this whole joint. She is also way too old to be working here. I ignore tact and ask her age.

"84."

!!! 84 year-old lady in a meat packing plant. Mind blown.

By now it's 6:30 and I'm raring to get started. I'm told that we're waiting to get the machine warmed up. The funnel machine that presses meat into patties and separates each patty with a square of wax paper. If it's not warm, it won't press the meat out into circular patties, it'll just mush them up together.

The Technician (Moustache) makes small talk with me.

"I bet you were surprised when your husband signed you up for this, huh?" he chuckles.

"No way, I signed him up."

"Well, hah! You've got a lot of moxie!"

"That's not the first time I've heard that," I boast.

I turn around and excitedly mouth "'moxie!'" to Jared, who is obediently wearing his earplugs.

Ga-runk. Ga-runk. Garrrrrrrrrr. The machine starts to hum.

"Feel this," says Technician Guy.

He motions for me to put my hand on the side of the machine, which I notice is labeled "MEAT HOPPER." Sure enough, it's pretty warm. Go time.

Jockey-man nods to Jared (Beard), who picks up the shovel and starts loading the meat.

And what do you know, hamburger patties start coming out along the belt. It works! So simply, too! Not like the Rube Goldberg gig I'd imagined/hoped for, but really quite simply. The first 300 or so stacks of meat come out clean and I quickly start filling them into the plastic. They come at me at about a 5-second interval, plenty of time when you've got such fast hands, meh heh heh.

The 84-year old is doing quality control, inspecting the patties for irregularities, making sure they only come out four to a stack. I am dutifully filling the plastic circles with meat, occasionally turning around to make a "look at what we're doing!" face to Jared. He's hunching up his shoulders from the cold, only really enjoying his task because he knows I am mine. But every once in awhile when I turn around, he goes into these overblown muscle-man poses with his shovel. Hot.

This is easy. I am a cool cucumber.

I am mentally humming Factory Girl by Whiskeytown (fantastic song btw) and imagining what my life would be if this were my FT job. What I might do to relax after work, who I might be married to? I am imagining this is all happening in rural Illinois, like probably the near the Quad Cities. Probably like Moline. The routine of this patty packaging task is perfect for this kind of romantic dreaming.

About 20 minutes in I start seeing some problems. Not with my alternate fantasy-life, with the task at hand.

The patties are coming out 3 to a stack. I'm not sure why this is happening, but the 5 second delay still allows me to grab an extra patty from a different 3-stacker and pile it on the first to make the full four. It's a little bit rushed, but I can still make it happen before the whole sheet of plastic casings goes to the next machine to be sealed. Quality Control lady is unfazed, so I don't mention it.

Then they start coming out 5 to a stack, then with extra wax papers between each patty. Some patties are malformed and falling apart. Bwah!

I am trying my best to get all the patties correctly configured before the next one comes, but there is some definite bottlenecking and I'm forced to set some aside on the small metal shelf I've been given. I look to QC lady for guidance.

"The machine's lost its heat," she says without looking up.

She continues inspecting my work. So I continue to work, shoving sort-of formed patties of four into the pockets as fast as I can. At this point, I'm more than a little stressed. The beef doesn't stop coming! And believe me, when it comes to conveyor belts, you do not want to get behind. It's a little bit like that I Love Lucy episode where she and Ethel freak out when they can't package the chocolates fast enough. But unlike their conveyor belt troubles, I can't just pop the product into my mouth and keep going. At least with not getting really really sick.

"Can we stop this for a sec!" I shout at her. She can't hear me. She can't read lips either it seems. I hold up my hand in a "stop" motion, eyebrows raised.

Out of nowhere comes jockey-man. He hits the giant red button on the machine. He literally scratches his head for a minute. Then disappears.

I step away from the machine. Jared puts down his meat shovel. I leave my appointed station and go talk to him.

"Had enough?" he jokes.

No I hadn't. So we wait there for 10 minutes, then 20 minutes, then thirty. Technician guy reappears. He unscrews some nuts, screws some back in. Turns machine on, off. I guess it's still not getting warm enough. That old Meat Hopper. Good fer nothing machine.

It's only an hour and a half into our 3-hour volunteer shift, I've only got slight blood stains on my lab coat, and this situation isn't looking good. We stand around for another 45 minutes, talking to another volunteer. A rich retired guy. An odd fixture in this place. He's got elastic band booties over his wingtips. He seems to be enjoying this morning even more than I am.

"Aren't you glad we don't have to eat this stuff?" he says. "I sure feel bad for those unlucky who get that for dinner."

He motions to the microwave-sized slabs of cow whose destiny is ground beef.

(Turns out, 100% of what's packed in this plant is donated to the financially needy. Hot dogs, hamburgers, steaks.)

"You think you'll be able to eat ground beef again after being here?" he asks me.

"Probably."

"Not me. Ehhh," he shudders, turning away to look at sausage casing room. "Even worse," he points.

It's 8:30am. We've been waiting about an hour for this machine to get fixed and the romance of meat packing is losing its appeal.

"Okay, let's go," I concede. "I just wish I could have been used more."

"I'm hungry," says a very cold husband. "Let's go get an Egg McMuffin."

We find our way back to the clean room, discard our hairnets and throw our soiled coats into the laundry linen-bag.

We are about to leave, when Joan has a light go off in her head.

"Hang on." She runs out of the waiting room.

She comes back with two four-pound tubs of frozen ground beef. She hands it to Jared. She is smiling ferociously.

"Um, thanks," we mumble.

"Isn't this just for the poor people?" I whisper on our way out. "She thinks we're poor, doesn't she?"

And you know what I realize, going out into the bright 9am morning? It doesn't matter what she thinks, because we are experientially rich.

We also kind of smell.

What I have learned:

1. A meat packing plant is not that much of a spectacle. But the people working/volunteering there are.

2. It's good for your soul to have these kind of experiences. A friend gave me this book for my birthday a few years ago, and it talks a lot about having as many new experiences as you can, in fields you know little to nothing about. I know that things like this do wonders for your creative well-roundedness. That being said, if you ever get a chance to go to or work at a factory of any kind, do it.

3. I'm glad I'm not a poor person, for many reasons. One is that I don't like red meat very much.

4. There appear to be no on-the-floor volunteer opportunities at any US cheese factories. If you find out otherwise, please notify me promptly.

Experiment: 30 Day Purge

2010-02-12T11:12:00.002-05:00

Day 14

Death to Smoochy, Full-screen edition.

There are some comedies that stand the test of time.

This movie is not one of them.

Experiment: "Leisure" Cards

2010-02-06T01:57:00.037-05:00

When Jared and I got married a few months ago, we vowed to do what we hadn't done during the social exclusivity of our engaged relationship--actually get to know our neighbors.

I was thinking aloud one night about how quickly We are to disclose our interests, tastes, feelings, photos to a wide digital audience (friends, family, secret blog readers, Facebook acquaintances) but rarely broadcast these same interests to our "analog neighbors" (if you'll allow me the liberty of using that term).

The past 3 places I've lived I've barely known the names of my neighbors, let alone their interests or occupations. (It was only when I had to knock on my Morningside Heights neighbor's door to plead with him and the other French exchange students, to please, oh please, stop blasting Mariah Carey at 4am, that I actually saw who lived across the hall from me for the first time. Turns out they were cute, and the song in question was "Fantasy," which, let's agree, is certainly one of Mimi's best. It was okay in the end.)

Nevertheless, what is it that makes us [me] so afraid of neighbors? Why don't I A) know them B) care to know them? What happened to good old neighborly ways? Block parties? Yelling at your neighbor (but by his first name) for the treat his dog left in your yard?

So when we moved into our first house in a more family-centric neighborhood, I decided to do something a little bit different to get to know my new neighbors. I made these.

"Leisure" Cards. To hand out when I meet my neighbors. A new (yet decidedly old) kind of social networking. Actually talking to my neighbors in person. Knocking on their doors to say hi. Passing my info along, along with my likes/hobbies, in the chance that ever twain interests shall meet, my neighbors can, in the words of that awesome jingle, come and knock on our door.

Plus, my work is cutting corners and won't let me order actual business cards. So leisure cards will have to do.

It was a nice Saturday, so we cooked up some pretty fantastic cherry chocolate chip cookies and made the rounds.

Some neighbors weren't home. We left them our leisure cards/cookies anyway. Hopefully they don't look like junk mail.

The neighbors who were home were really great to meet. Like the nice middle-aged mom who immediately invited us in. She's got 3 rambunctious young boys and a cocker spaniel who looks like a human trapped in an animal's body (Jared and I have been calling him "muppet dog" for about 3 months - now we know his name!)

Or like the kid brothers who answered their door and said their mom couldn't come to the door, but told us their names and interests anyway. The taller one also did explain as we were leaving, "I'm the oldest, and also the only one who speaks Russian." Yep. We asked him how to say goodbye in Russian, repeated it back to him, and went on our way.

And then there's the Spaghettios (not their real name, but rhymes with it). A young family with, I kid you not, 6 kids under the age of 5. When we knocked on their door the 4-year old boy came running out of the house past us wearing a leopard-print bodysuit, no shoes. The parents are pretty awesome, and within 5 minutes Mr. Spaghettio and Jared were exchanging LOST theories. They even took us up on an "interest" on Jared's leisure card, and came over tonight to play games.

What I have learned:

Leisure cards = success! Though we'll see if more people actually get in touch with us after this neighborly gesture.

Experiment: 30 Day Purge

2010-02-01T22:26:00.000-05:00

Day 4

Tory.

Most women in their twenties who keep photos of 17-year old boys are called Harry Potter fans.

I am called. A total creep.

I swiped these out of the yearbook room my senior year of high school. Don't let the androgynous name fool you. As you can see, Tory was all man. Or more likely, I suppose accurately, all teenage boy. And I crushed upon him for a few hot months. The full-bred Italian, the soccer star. The man of the mane.

It makes sense - if you abide by a similarly skewed moral logic - for an 18-year old to possess such souvenirs. But I'm pretty sure I had plenty of chances to throw these away since then. And yet, I didn't.

Packrat at heart.
Packrat of the heart?

I invite all of you, gentle readers of this blog, to follow my late lead and toss away proofs of old crushes. It's alot easier to sneak digitally nowadays. But please empower yourselves. You don't need those stolen photographs anymore. Rid your iphoto of unrealized love.

Experiment: 30 Day Purge

2010-01-29T13:18:00.003-05:00

Not exactly Hollywood Juice Diet Style. More like A&E Hoarders style. It's not quite so bad as to be like a mental/compulsive disorder, it's just I honestly can't be convinced to throw anything away. This hasn't been problematic, really, because I don't buy a lot of things to begin with. But even so, little trinkets manage to build up after the years, the few things I've purchased, things I've acquired, been given. Things just amass. Moral of, don't buy me gifts. Unless edible.

Action.
Each day for a month I will be forced (mutinously! by my own brain and hand!) to just get rid of something. Can it. Chuck it. Throw it the way of Nick Nolte. Currently, all my ephemera is hiding out in the "1/2" of our 2 and 1/2 bedrooms. Nicknamed, The Room of Requirement, because honest to you, everything you'd ever need to start a colony can be found within. Plus it's a weird yellow and we're not really sure what to do with it.

Exhibit A.

For "A Jerk."

My high school pager.

You know, clearly a staple of 15-year old life. So, you know, my all my celeb friends can get a hold of me. The friends I have, who for unknown reasons, wouldn't be with me at high school parties or boys' soccer games. Who'd have some urgently important piece of 411 that they'd just have to find a pay phone and alert me (this was before the days of truly consumer grade mobile phones).

The only other people besides lame high schoolers (Lindsey and I had identical Motorola models) who really carried pagers those days (1999) were dealers and doctors.

"Paging Doctor Aggen. Yeah we just wanted to alert you that Ben Panos was spotted at the Overland Park Sonic ordering a grilled cheese. Oh, and also, your favorite Third Eye Blind song is on the radio so hurry home and tape it."

My boyfriend would also send me little digital love messages*. Like the proto-text message. I think this pager was a bit twitter-like in its limitations, in that only messages of certain character counts were permitted.

*Like what, for instance? A new AAA battery can answer that question! Let's break into the archives of the late 90's.

TURTLE FACE.
CAN YOU COME OVER?
JOAN. OF ARC.
I MISS YOU, TURTLE FACE.
TURTLE FECES.

Romance, romance, romance.

Is this why I kept this useless bit of technology for so long? That a part of me couldn't part with the romance? These tiny love-notes? Or did I keep it because I thought it was kitchy? Or so I could like, totally Relate with Dennis the Beeper King? Or is it because I'm worried it'll swing back into vogue and I want to be ready at the onset?

I don't know that questions of this weight have easy answers.

I do know that having chucked this relic of 1999, I already feel the small pains of nostalgia, and question if I did the right thing.

Turtle Face.

negligence

2010-01-19T21:16:00.009-05:00

how could i forget? getting married to Jared. He's the best!*

Did you know his webseries got some love from the New York Times?
And New TeeVee? And he was totally a cover-boy?

Here is a teaser trailer for Season 2, but you can go see all of The Book of Jer3miah at the LDS Film Festival this week.

I am lucky he married me. Stay tuned for many good things from Team Cardon.

*said like Toad in MK.

2010-01-11T21:03:00.006-05:00

SCIENCE.

Who saw this coming.

Formalized science in high school is like the academic equivalent of waterboarding for 99 percent of rightbrains, who'd rather be writing A-grade book reports on novels they've merely skimmed. I guess it wasn't just the teenage rightbrains, it was really everyone, except for that one kid. You know the kind, who bleeds ambition and whose constant handraising irritated you mucho.

Irregardless of this, the total insufferable tedium of high school science, I always performed at/above capacity. I just never took any real pleasure from it. Sure, dissecting fetal pigs was smelly fun, but, as a rule I found the concept of scientific absolutes and rules deplorable. I like(d) options. (This is also why I hated that greater of two evils, mathematics.)

Clearly, this sentiment manifests a total misunderstanding of scientific rigor. Science is a lot more creative than high school (and undergrad) teachers spun it. There's wiggle-room if you know where to look. And there are really quite miraculous things that science can teach us/me.

Like space. Space is just totally cool. It turns me into nothing more than cranial putty. Prrreeetttty.

Joking aside, I guess you could say space opened a lot of doors for me, scientifically. It made me start wanting to WHY. And WHY I did. I WHY'd all over 2009.

I watched meteor showers in the early am. I started subscribing to lots of science blogs. I looked at a lot of space porn. I took the time to read how hydrogen bombs work. I tried to learn about infinity. I used a NASA-grade telescope to look at Saturn. Apparently, I said the following to Jared in my sleep: "Our love transcends space and time." I started reading the Concrete series. I watched a lot of LOST. I cried in the first 5 minutes of Star Trek. For Halloween, Jared and I dressed up as Stephen Hawking and A Brief History of Time. (I tried to conduct legitimate experiments.) ETC.

Plus, the cream - I'm married to the sci-fi nerd of all time. Jared can't be here to defend himself right now because he's busy reading Dark Tower: Wizard and Glass.

But don't worry, I'm sure later he'd love to show you his Star Wars playing cards, or maybe if you're LUCKY, the Essential Guide to Vehicles and Vessels.

I really can't make fun of him much though. I really love science and the genre that it spurred. I just happen to like the more socially acceptable kind. And you probably do too, for that matter.

Love Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? GUILTY.

Love the Huey Lewis ballad Back in Time? GUILTY.

Love Huey Lewis? GUILTY. Of being awesome.

HONORABLE MENTION

karaoke.

2010-01-05T00:42:00.007-05:00

Get a good look at this face. This is the jerk who sucked away my 2009.

I first heard mention of David Foster Wallace in my MFA orientation (I guess something good came out of that whole sham). He died about a month after I started reading Brief Interviews With Hideous Men, in November of 2008. I was surprised how sad this made me. The saddest 'lil girl in Utah.

It's just that when you find a new author you love, you change. That sounds totally trite, I know, but it's the truth. You think differently. You speak differently (especially with an author who's got such a psycho vocabulary you are sure he is just making up words at will). You write differently. You just want to devour everything they've touched. Read and watch every interview you can and find yourself as amazed with the artist as you are the work itself. You kind of have to give yourself to them. Your time, your attention, your love, your mind. A holistic surrender.

Please appreciate my sincerity. It's more than respect. I love this man's mind.

DFW is funny. Bizarro, laugh-out-loud, anecdotally, you name it. He nails all breeds. Then of course, he's a certified genius. Critics love to write him off as a smarty-pants, though many have shut it posthumously.

I think writers love to love him because he writes nonfiction like he's the Eye of Providence and writes fiction like he's a frickin alien. Other writers love to find this bravado irritating. But through all the love letters to DFW on the one hand and all the undeserved vitriol on the other, people seem to agree on something at least. The man's got heart.

There is something so intent, so sincere about his work. He's a perfect blend of heart and head. At the conclusion of my first DFW book, I sold him to others as Vonnegut w/ Heart. A much smarter, more interesting Vonnegut. With a lot more heart. A total original (that dorky bandana!) A total midwestern middleclass underdog. There's this charity about him, this sincerity that I don't find in a lot of his contemporaries.

Above all, he is the antithesis of everything I hate about postmodernism. There is meaning, and there's lots of it, and, well, he really means it.

I am happy to recommend the following:

Brief Interviews With Hideous Men
This is Water
Consider the Lobster
A Supposedly Fun Thing I'll Never Do Again
Infinite Jest (technically, I am not entirely finished. It's a very large, complicated narrative. But I was immediately hooked. I even brought it on my honeymoon. It was the heaviest thing in my bag)

Thank you, DFW for making me so excited about writing again.

Honorable Mention

SUM by David Eagleman is a fantastic speculative romp through the afterlives.
Field Knowledge by Morri Creech is transcendent (I was lucky to find my favorite piece online).
The Night in Question by Tobias Wolff was some good short storying.
THEM by Jon Ronson is funny, with a motive.
Rabbit, Run by John Updike is linguist crack.

2010-01-04T00:24:00.002-05:00

Supergroup city!

So much sheet swapping in 2009. Monsters of Folk, Volcano Choir, and Vetiver all put out decent albums. I'm not going to discuss them here. No, I've decided that music journalism is one of the kinds of writing I most despise. Not because I think articulating the feel of music is impossible (it is challenging) or because I think it undeserving of critique. None of that. (As a teen I spent hours upon hours in Borders soaking up Q and NME, or paste before it went hacky. I used to love it.) It's just lately I have barely read anything that hasn't felt kind of showy/indulgent/pitchforky. Instead, a musing.

I oft times like to wonder what it would be like if I could only understand things literally. Like band names.

Volcano Choir
Scientists around the Pacific Rim use seismographs and other tricky instruments of measuring the earth's heave and haw to record the sounds of molten volcanic activity. They end up just using a crappy little Sony or Emerson tape player to record the audio, which is a probably because if it falls in the lava, or someone's cheeseburger lunch accidentally ignites from the heat and blows and the ketchup clogs up the recorder input, replacement is relatively inexpensive. Sometimes they (the recorders or "Lava Whisperers") accidentally pick up native animal sounds, and then this just screws with the purity of it, the lava. It sounds almost like a weirder than usual Brian Eno album, a lot like humming and soft hiss and gargling salt in your throat. But you can't even touch the CD, ever. It would turn your hands to flesh soup. You also can't touch the mp3 because it is of course intangible. Even if you found some way to dissect the internet and touch the electrical current of song, it too, would burn your hands from the electro-energy. How did I learn this? LOST, of course.

Monsters of Folk

It's November, 1989. During a screening of Back To the Future II Tim Gillermo gets up the nerve to put the moves on his date. He works his arm around the back of her red leather jacket and settles it on her shoulder. He starts exploring downward to her young, Malibu Musk-y skin, dewy as ever. Only it's not dewy. Its more like an entire miniature deciduous forest has implanted itself onto her forearm. Tim looks down. It's not her forearm. Tim looks up. It's not his date. It's an old Appalachian. He's gnawing on a corn dog. On second thought, it's a giant rat tail, maybe opossum.

He looks to his buddy to the left, Rick. Rick is not rick. Rick is a lenticular, switching between three Bob Dylans in I'm Not There (which is really a headtrip because the film won't be released for another 15+ years, and so on).

Rick throws himself up from his seat as the Bob Dylans and the Appalachian start frothing at the mouths. He runs frantically through the aisle, over other young couples and kids. The Dylans and old Appalachian start chasing after him, chanting threats. He manages to clear the aisle and is rounding the exit when he suddenly trips and falls forward, breaking the nosepiece to his glasses as he lands. He may have also twisted his ankle. He looks behind him. It's Rumplestitskin, crouched down low with one leg out. He's brandishing an ax-saw. The trio of terror converges upon him. He screams.

However, this cry for help occurs at the exact same moment in the movie where young Jennifer (upon meeting old Jennifer) screams and passes out in the doorway. Nobody hears him.

Tim passes out in the theatre exit.

Vetiver

God, on the third day of his creation, creates a perennial angiosperm. As far as grasses go, it's okay.

SEE? Much more fun to read than a music review, huh?

I'm settled; the musical concept of the year goes to the supergroup. With all this incestuous musical get-up, my question remains, when is someone going to team up again with Dolly Parton? Kate Bush? The totally awesome Juice Newton?

Honorable Mentions

Honestly, it's been so long since I found a whole solid album. I think I'm going to write a Barthes-type essay on the death of the album. Another time. When I'm feeling showy/indulgent/pitchforky.

I liked the stuff from Fanfarlo. Andrew Bird. D.M. Stith. Grizzly Bear. Cymbols Eat Guitars. Dead Man's Bones.

I liked the new Yeah Yeah Yeahs.

I'm not going to argue with anyone that Merriweather Post Pavillion was great.

In fact, I'm liking this equation. After all, my most listened to song acc. to itunes was AC's remix of the YYY single Zero (supergroupy move, this mixing?)

But I think my favorite of the year goes to Seals & Crofts. This song is the best. Not joking. Incomparable.

Not really worth mentioning

Rock. Is it just dead? Or has it evolved to something outside the label of "rock?" Why is it if I want to have fun music I have to dip into dance or rap?

2010, here is your charge - make [rock] music fun again!

And give me some more supergroups!

2009-12-31T00:12:00.002-05:00

A Serious Man

I can't find anything wrong with it.

It's been a particularly good decade for the Coens (if you forget and forgive Burn After Reading). Everyone is slapping the "mature" label on this latest effort, which though deserved, is like saying No Country For Old Men is a "western," and stopping there. Yes, but?

A Serious Man is also really funny. It's like you're watching emotional slapstick. And this thing I adore about the Coens - they cast these Norman Rockwell type faces who you instantly fall for.

As for maturity, it raises some interesting (sincere) questions about faith and doubt, and respects its audience enough not to hit it over the head with obvious answers or nonanswers.

If the litmus test of a great film is repeatability, then this one wins out - it's the only Awards-season contender I'd actually like to see again.

Honorable Mentions
Moon
Star Trek
Up
Where the Wild Things Are
2012

Not really worth mentioning
Every other movie of 2009? and I saw a mass of them. Hopefully next year will be less boring.

Thoughts?

2009-12-29T20:08:00.002-05:00

The IT Crowd

Love is the word. Unsettling is another word. Purkinje is another word; it doesn't have anything to do with this post, but nevertheless, it is a word, and quite a weird one at that.

I describe this show to people as the next British anti-sitcom.
Jared describes it as "Live-action Simpsons."

Whatever we're calling this spade, I think it's the best thing on since the BBC Office. I watched all 3 seasons in a couple weeks. Be warned: you might want to turn it off at first. Subtle it is not. It's almost jarringly over the top. The first few episodes are a bit clunky. I recommend skipping episode 1 altogether and starting at 2. I also recommend forming a crush on that tall drink of water on the left.

Honorable Mention
LOST

I gave this a much-deserved second chance this year, and sailed through seasons 1-5 in no time. (Thank goodness for Netflix Instant Play.) Chances are, if you're reading this you don't need the sell. You know it's an incredible mind boggle. Time travel! Smoke monster! Shirtless Sawyer!

Not really worth mentioning
Mad Men

I gave this a less-than-deserved second chance this year and watched all of Season 1. I thought having worked as a Mad Woman (can I call myself that) at Ogilvy I would find it interesting. Nope. It's full of pretty, boring things. Including the characters. And a handicapped story that never really learns to walk.

So, what'd I miss?

anthropologie ripped me off!

2009-12-17T14:21:00.009-05:00

remember that one experiment of mine? (You know, the one I haven't touched for a year). That's not the point.

The point IS, that fancy-scrappy francophile sister of urban outfitters ripped me off.

shock and horror.

you know, i too fell in love with anthropologie in 2002, like the whole rest of the female world. but for the past 3 or 4 years every time i enter those gilded doors, i have a look at the clothes and more often than not think, i could make that.

and Re: your "about that time" earrings, i did make that.

i would demand in-kind compensation, but honestly, i'd rather get wardrobed from jcrew. i'm starting to think anthropologie is past its prime.

experiment: turkey-carving

2009-11-26T21:16:00.006-05:00

I'm actually not a huge fan of turkey. I just like the ceremony. Of the whole day, I guess.

I like waking up late to maple nut wedges (which are missing their gooey centers, thanks to Alexis). I like going through all my high school formal dresses and trying them on to see if they still fit (they all do - even if they are too horribly outdated and too taffeta to ever wear again). I like playing SEGA in the cool basement for a few hours. Sonic the Hedgehog, Aladdin, NBA Jam. I like filching a crescent roll or two before they're formally offered. I even like the exhausting dinners themselves. Fighting and not fighting with family. I like rolls. I like dark meat. I like mashed potatoes. No, I love mashed potatoes.

It's a bit different now that I'm married. Better in some ways, not in others.

Sleeping in. Sleeping in. Sleeping in. Reading a book that seems at first weird, and then perfect for Thanksgiving. Eating a low-key breakfast (no maple wedges). Going to an 11am showing of 2012, which isn't perfect but engages you for the full 2 hours, 40 minutes. Coming home to snack on leftover Kneaders. Dancing around to Gene Autry Christmas records. And then preparing the turkey. Fastidiously following the recipes. All of which were ripped out of the Nov. issue of Cooking Light. SAUTEED CARROTS WITH SAGE. HARICOTS VERTS WITH WARM BACON VINAIGRETTE. BUTTERMILK-PARMESAN MASHED POTATOES. HOMEMADE CRANBERRY SAUCE. CLASSIC ROAST TURKEY.

Thinking the thought: isn't it weird that so many people are eating the same exact meal today?

Taking the turkey out after 2 hours, 40 minutes (you could have watched 2012 again in that time, had you the inclination. Or wiser yet, 2001). Smelling the sage. Running your hand across the skin, thinking, "was I supposed to have basted this?" Thinking, "have I ever read something where baste wasn't used as a verb relating to poultry-preparation?" Thinking, "I should try to use baste in something I write this week in a new connotation." Setting the table. Realizing the turkey still has to be carved. Not knowing how this is done. From the look on his face, knowing Jared does not know how this is done.

Googling. Watching some videos. For too long. For two hungry.

And then, going for it, our own way.

wow. did you catch all those jokes? you are WELCOME.

what i have learned:

skip the online video tutorials, even Martha. it's a turkey, for crying out loud. just get a knife and have at it.
turns out carving a turkey (and watching someone carve a turkey) has one serious side effect - dad jokage.

Experiment: Roller Derby Tryouts, Part I

2009-09-25T12:02:00.002-04:00

For those of you who have never had the distinct pleasure of attending a roller derby match, let me clue you in a bit to what it is you are missing.

Roller derby is really less of a competitive sport than it is an excuse to gawk and feel better than other people. I imagine it's similar to the way ancient Romans felt watching slaves and other gladiators get mauled to pieces by bloody-jawed beasts. You feel subhuman being there, rejoicing in the spectacle, but you also somehow feel more human and carnal than ever. Vulgarity and ugliness aren't just tolerated, they're encouraged. The Derb becomes at best the most thoughtless of activities. Sit on a cold concrete floor and just react.

In addition to.

Rollery derby is people watching heaven. First you have the crowd, an audience split 3 ways - honest-to goodness fans (the 30-60 crowd of rowdies, these are they who know the team, who probably go to the Tavernacle after-party and hit on the roller girls), the younger hipsters (who are there ironically and take photos with their D-SLRs and iphones), and then the stragglers (salt and peppered middle aged men who look like they got lost on the way to a Dave Matthews concert).

And then I suppose there's one more, the fourth and much smaller, but more visible (audible) category of audience. The deejays from local radio stations like X96, KissFM, Douchebag97.7 The Edge. You know who I mean. Them. They're the emcees, who make killer brickbat-style running commentary ("She just creamed her corn!")

Oh yes, and the derby girls.

There's no people like derby girls. They are a class of "athlete" all to themselves, and I use that term as loosely as the fleshy folds hanging from their waists. Looking like the rejects from the girls golf and shotput teams, these slightly worn beauties really run the body-type gamut. A surprisingly large number of them are very apple shaped, very top heavy.

One (aptly and cleverly named HannahBull) steps in at about 225 I'd say, 125 of that above her pelvic bone, shape reminiscent of an ice cream cone piled 2 scoops high. Others have thighs that could wrestle a whale to the ground and sticklike arms and torsos. It's honestly a bit like that island of misfit toys from Toy Story 1.

I also really thought there would be more of a 70's vibe, and expected most girls to look a bit like Janeane Garofalo in Reality Bites. Short, dark, bettypage haircuts and redder than red lipstick with bad skin. But retro kitch had been replaced almost excusively with Hot-Topic-like outfits and accessories. Most all team members had large knit fishnet tights, purposely ripped Wicked Witch of the West striped socks, neon yellow and pink scrunchies, gold lamé hotpants (yikes) and mesh mesh mesh mesh mesh. It was almost a shame they had to throw their team pinnies on over their creations.

And the names. The NAMES! The most puntastic names you could imagine.

from L t R: Etta Bull, Beracooter, Pennie Traits, and (winning the No Subtlety prize) Dirty Pirate Hooker.

Even the referrees had punny names. Sir Loin. Colin DeShotz. Colonel Lingus. Bruce.

The sport itself is an interesting one, too. Little known fact: there is actually a strategy in this game, ways to score points, rules and referrees. It's not just girls on skates hitting each other and mouthing off. I know! Crazy huh?

Within 30 minutes I'd figured out the gameplay, and (like I always do as a spectator) found myself thinking, "I could do better." I'm not an amazing roller skater, but I've played some roller hockey in my day. And I sure know how to body check.

I immediately flipped through the program in my hand, hoping I'd come across something about tryouts. And sure enough, they were listed for the following month. I immediately started thinking about the most important part. A name.

Jared and I had a really great time brainstorming potential names for me, and in 15 minutes we had the following:

Thorougly Maulin' Millie
Helen Killer
Loco Ono
Helleanor Roosevelt
Scarlett O'Scara
Sylvia Rath
Nancy Ragin'
Joan of Bark
Lucy Lewd
(and my favorite)
Brute E. Huxtable

TBC

Experiment: Planning Your Own Wedding

2009-08-23T17:46:00.000-04:00

I am so excited for my harajuku wedding!

I will wear this L.A.M.B original, and be accompanied by my bridesmaids:
Love (Corinne), Angel (Adrienne), Music (Casey), Baby (Lindsey/Kendra).

This [cake] is banana! B-A-N-A-N-A!

This [sake] is non-alcoholic. N-O-N-A-L-C-H-Y!

What I have learned:

If the price-gouging and ugly dresses and vendor pressure and fighting over your guestlist and overall absurdities of wedding planning are too much for you, consider a Harajuku wedding, like me! It's made me so much happier and relieved so much stress!

I just hired a Japanese exchange student, Akiko, who has been an angel (not Angel, as we've established that is Adrienne C). She's taken care of all the details in the most organized and stereotypical of fashions. And all within a matter of days. Her secret? She wisely told vendors it was for a "themed party," not for a wedding. What a smart girl!

And she's even hired a band who can do an awesome rendition of this song (which is, let's be honest, killer. Girl. Crush).

Wedding planning. You know? Can I get an amen?

experiment: the vast unknown

2009-07-28T14:42:00.002-04:00

What I have learned:

Nothing, yet. But this will probably be the most challenging experiment by far. And also the most fun.

experiment: tapas

2009-06-22T23:55:00.003-04:00

I have no idea why it took me so long to come around to tapas. It was probably my holier-than-thou, Sex and The City trend-bucking, the same philos steering me clear of Magnolia Bakery (which I eventually broke down and visited after a year of NYC residency. Nothing but a pile of mediocre frosting. Billy’s is much better, though Yummy’s in LA takes the cupcake-cake).

I just have a harder time trusting trendy foods, esp. anything immortalized by SatC or Hitch (Rice to Riches, I’m talking to you). Yet, in my quest to become the ultimate foodie it’s often necessary to experiment with all sorts of foods, even trendy/novelty items. Sometimes those experiments prove fruitful, and sometimes you end up with a mouthful of something that has the same texture as a wet towel.

My formal introduction to tapas started with mega-chef José Andrés’ Zaytinya, the apotheosis of small-plate dining smack in the heart of our nation’s capital. Jared and I had gone to a rehearsal dinner the day before at Andrés’ other DC restaurant, Café Atlantico. After an amazing three-hour lunch complete with banana foam(?) for dessert, we were hooked. We decided to try out his more reputable Zaytinya the next night.

The Tapa, as explained to us by our way-too-old-to-be-a-waiter waiter, was the brainchild of a Spanish king—sort of a cookie to his milk. Or wine, in this case. The king would stick a piece of bread or the like over the top of the wine jug to keep out the flies and other impurities. This protocork eventually evolved beyond breads and other yeasty nibbles into the much more intricate and delicious offerings you’ll find on modern tapas menus. They did stay on the small side though. Gourmet appetizers, really. Which, as someone who toggles between menu items for hours before ordering and always likes to try a bit of everything, is my DREAM setup.

And it doesn’t hurt that Andrés’ wildly inventive fares also happen to be freakin incredible. Here’s what we chose:

Cerkez Tavugu
shredded chicken in a walnut-cilantro sauce
(Walnut-cilantro. Brilliant)

Kabak Köftesi
squash-golden raisin fritters, walnut pistachio sauce
(yes)

Octopus Santorini
grilled baby octopus, marinated onions, capers , yellow split pea puree
(great, though my least favorite. I grew up hating seafood. Mostly because I grew up in a land-locked state).

Crispy Skirt Steak
cucumber-radish cacik, green chili zhoug sauce
(like the heaven and hell of steak – cool and then BAM – fire).

Peynirli Pide
Turkish tomato sauce with cinnamon and oregano, covered in haloumi cheese
(CINNAMON in pizza sauce. Whoa!)

I seriously licked the plates clean. And ever since I’ve been on a major tapas trip.

Martine, an atmospherically-wow restaurant in downtown SLC, also happens to win the Adrienne’s Favorite Tapas award.

Fried Shepherds Goats Cheese with Caramelized Sweet Onions and Lillet-Orange Blossom Honey Glaze

Pretentious-sounding name aside, mmmmmm. Crispy honey outside, warm and soft and cheesy inside. Perfect in so many ways. Please do yourself a favor and get it. I’m convinced the Gaza Strip would be a safer and more loving place if they would spend their time making these instead of C-4-lined vests.

what I have learned:

Sometimes food is appropriately hyped. I suppose. Know of anything I should try?

If you’re going to take a date to a tapas restaurant, make sure you really enunciate when you’re explaining your plans, or they will hear “topless restaurant.” And then they will be let down when they realize their misunderstanding.

experiment: editing a novel

2009-06-10T18:46:00.001-04:00

There was a wild and brief point in my life when I thought I wanted to be a book editor. Nothing sounded fabber than sitting in a NYC publishing office all day reading novels. Clearly, I didn't pursue this past my high school lit-mag days. And good thing. I'm convinced copywriting is much more challenging and fun, and brings home much more bacon. Yes, literal bacon. What can I say, I love breakfast for dinner.

I still enjoy the occasional editing gig, though. I've edited (uh, rewritten?) all sorts of scribble (grad papers, applications, short stories, love letters . . . break-up letters) but the prospect of editing a novel, for a good chunk of money, for someone I don't know personally, was yes, kind of a trip. Let me disclaim: I'm not a professional editor, nor have I ever taken any kind of editing class. I can offer no formal qualifications, other than, "Yeah, I can do it. Totally." Confidence will get you most anywhere.

As Sara (not her real name) was narrowing down her list of possible editors she decided to have the three finalists undergo the "audition" process. She sent along the first ten pages of her 298-page working draft.

It was an editor's wet dream and nightmare. Horrible. Tripe.

On the one hand, that means you feel useful as an editor. Your mission is clear. You get to swipe away at the manuscript freely, marking it up until your margins are crowded red. On the other hand, that means you spend an hour reconstructing something that will for all intents, never get published. The narrative struggled. The imagery struggled. The usage struggled. I struggled.

Random Excerpt:

“'I love it! It is so beautiful Timothy', she spoke gently a little overwhelmed by its beauty, and the wonderful craftsmanship.

'I love it!'

He said nothing. He grabbed her hardly, and kissed her with passion and lust.

'Its beauty does not compare to the sight that stands before me now', he replied kissing her again.

The men outside finally pulled the last piece of Hannah’s luggage from atop the carriage to the ground. They anxious to settle in town, rent a room, and go to the saloon, where they would fall down drunk by the end of the night. They wait patiently, for Timothy to return outside, and pay for their service, as Hannah promised he would.'

Seriously! Stephanie Meyer hits pay dirt and all of a sudden every amateur author in Utah is empowered and starts churning out the crap. I did some quick math, and realized that at this impossible pace, the pay would come to about 3 bucks an hour.

I came to this realization after I had already ripped the thing to shreds, so I just sent her my revisions anyway. She wrote back a few days later and said she knew she needed to fix some things before she could actually hire an editor, but that yes, she would keep my email address handy when that time came.

What I also realized (in between thoughts of "is this a joke?" and "is English her first language?") was that, most likely, I had been totally punkd. Probably by some supremely wily 7th-grader who solicited semi-pro work before turning in a short story for her English class. Which story I (and two others) had eagerly rewritten for her. It's actually pretty genius. I had to give her some manipulation points.

What I have learned:

I am now terrified to ever send out a substantial manuscript, for fear that editors will have a similar reaction to my work.

Craigslist can't be trusted. Any person named Adrienne can tell you that much.

Hypothesis: The Tappet Brothers Decrease Stress

2009-06-01T14:39:00.008-04:00

Hypothesis: I am dating Alex P. Keaton

2009-04-26T16:00:00.005-04:00

(The Keaton Theory has disproved the Bueller Theory, popularly accepted by the scientific community since September 2005.)

experiment: kumquat

2009-04-21T10:22:00.001-04:00

[TO BE READ IN DAVID ALAN GRIER'S "MAYA ANGELOU"*]

what a curious citric creature is the kumquat!
the shape, the swell and weight
of the skin.
the undulatory sweets and stings as it's juiced
over tongue.
sourer than the grapefruit.
sweeter than the lemon.
tearing at the enamel, straining to be
swallowed. brisk. taste well made for a marmelade.
sized like an old-fashioned bullet
in your hand, just begging to rain
over the heads of your siblings.

ah, kumquat! tart mercies unpeeled,
pulps ill concealed in the crook of your
two front teeth.

what i have learned:

- they are pretty fantastic.

- there's a lime/kumquat hybrid called the limequat! i paid decent attention in hs bio but i don't remember the punnet square on that one. dream come true.

*someone please post Maya Angelou for Fruit Loops on youtube. I really want to watch it.

experiment: skort

2009-04-10T20:37:00.002-04:00

I tried one on today at Savers.

what I have learned:
I'm no Blossom, but I think I looked pretty hot.

experiment: guns

2009-04-06T20:11:00.009-04:00

I shot some guns last week, during what is now in the running for Most Disturbing Ward Activity*. (Hey everybody, let's eat Costco cakemuffins and rub up against each other while we "learn" how to shoot semi-automatic weapons with almost zero instruction or safety precaution! You should come! Especially if you freelance and don't have health insurance! It'll be a "blast!")

You're here? I didn't peg you a gun person

was kind of the consensus as I made the rounds, surveying the 5 or so "shooting stations" (card tables and overturned coolers topped with guns of all shapes and sizes, laid to rest over both personal (yikes) and beach towels).

Yet they were right. I wasn't really there for the actual shooting and I certainly don't fancy myself a "gun person." I merely thought it would be a very ripe fruit of social observation. To watch social dynamics at play (the same reason why people - presumably - go to gun shows or car shows or monster truck rallies or the Iowa State Fair or rent Trekkies†). Pure spectacle.

A lot of people showed up on the brisk Saturday morning, so although there were probably about 40 guns, not everyone could always be shooting at all times. During set-up most congregated around the muffins. I passed the time by sizing up the attendees, deciding who was most likely to go crazy and turn around and just start spraying bullets into the crowd (a genuine fear of mine, one that had nearly kept me from coming).

I also started to interrogate Chase˚, the short master-gun enthusiast of the group who was a little grumpy and who resembles - honestly he does - a thumb.

He laid out all of his, um, rifles (they were long and rifley, but not all were rifles) on the table, and then angled them slightly, so they'd all line up, and then stood back to admire, like a hostess at her dessert spread.

Are you a member of the NRA?
No.
Yeah, I can't stand Charlton Heston either.
[Blank stare at guns]
So why aren't you a member?
I don't have enough guns!
[shocked] There's a minimum requirement?
[No answer]

He then picked up the obvious showpiece of his collection, a polished, wood paneled rifle, and fondled it just like you would the prettiest of your babies.

Is that real?
Uh, yeah.
It looks like a toy-gun! Like in a musical.
[Insulted stare]

So where's the sawed-off shotgun?
[Silence]
Why is it anyway that a sawed-off shotgun is more dangerous? I don't remember.
[Silence]

[pointing to a camouflaged-skinned gun] Has this gun seen combat?
No.
Were you in the military?
No.
Yeah but how about those Kid Rock army ads? They make you want to join, right?
[Silence]

Have you ever killed a man?
WHAT? (he's all earplugged at this point)
HAVE YOU EVER KILLED A MAN?
[At this point our garrulous host takes the gun, the camo gun, walks toward the (very ignored) hot-pink "safety line," and (holding it at his hip like it's a basketball and not a deathmachine) blasts off a round. He hits a few clay ducks. He turns around and smirks at me like a little boy]

By this point, I'm terrified. I'm also joined by another guy in my ward, Dane. He's got his mirrored sunglasses on, hat backwards and is ready to join 3 Doors Down and Mister Rock in kicking some Iraqi ass (to his credit, he's also the one of the least ridiculously-attired men present).

You look like Goose.
From Maverick?
Yeah.
That's disappointing.
Oh, he can't act, but Val Kilmer's not bad looking.
You mean I look like Iceman.
Ooops, yeah. Him.

We stand now, laughing at my mistake, watching a petite girl almost get chucked back from the kick of a rifle that probably weighs more than she does. She turns around and smiles in recognition and in "oops-did-i-do-that?" while doing so completely ignoring our 30 second safety instruction rule (Not to Ever, Never Ever, Turn the Barrel Around When You're Not Shooting Without First Pointing it Skyward) prompting two whole rows of onlookers and oglers (she's the "cute girl" in the ward, from what I can tell and had attracted quite the crowd) to duck and "whoa, whoa, whoa!" and for her to Steve Urkel once more. Smile. Giggle. Smile.

After my heart rate returned to its normal pace, I turned my gun inquiries to Dane/Iceman.

Do men give their guns female names like they do with boats and cars?
Yeah, they do. See that one [pointing to a sniper rifle], that's Nancy Reagan.
Where's the Lynne Cheney? I want to shoot the Lynne Cheney.
I bet the Nancy Pelosi's a real kicker.

Finally feeling more in my comfort zone amidst all the shooting and compensating, I let the clever and clearly level-headed Dane instruct me on use of the AK-15.

And you know what? It was pretty fun. So next I tried a pistol, handgun, rifle, and some other gun that was long and heavy. Before I knew it, an hour had passed, and I was chumming it up with the gun owners and cutting in line to get another round in. Who knew.

*Also in the running: Medieval Nights, An Evening with Joseph and Hyrum, the ever uncomfortable Ward Swimming Party, and Financial Preparedness Night, (which I guess is not so much Disturbing as it is just Boring).

†Which is funny only for the first 20 minutes or so and then becomes a bit too mean-spirited for my tastes. The IA State Fair on the other hand, attracts a different kind of curio: the kind who live to eat and the kind who live to judge them. I proudly fall in the former category, while my father campaigns for the judgers. While my cousins and siblings and I ran around the Des Moines fairgrounds eating corn dogs and then sprinting back and forth between the potato sack slide and the Gravitron (the best fair ride ever. period), my dad amused himself with a simpler (lazier) pleasure: tallying the food of the morbidly obese. After I'd maxed out on the grease and gravity-trips, I'd dizzily trot over to the picnic table pavilion where my dad would sit alone with a half-eaten plate of potato salad, too busy watching the enormous man a few tables over work his way through a familypack of fried chicken to eat anything himself. It'd take a second before he'd notice me, slumped on his thigh. Then he'd whisper to me "that man's on his 11th piece of chicken. 4 breasts, 4 thighs, and and 3 wings." When he was in this mode, you knew two things: one, you could just kind of slip change out of his hands without much trouble or finagling, and two, he would be here, watching the chicken man, all night.

˚names have been changed to protect the author.

What I have learned:

There's no people like gun people like gun people I know. For (surprisingly) good and for bad.

Don't make jokes about gun people's guns.

Everyone in Utah has a gun. Or maybe just everyone in my ward.

I am not a gun person.

But that does not make me better than those who are.

My handgun accuracy leaves something to be desired.

I would have made an excellent sniper, which I like to think fits me pretty well.

Val Kilmer is not Goose. Goose is that E.R. guy.

experiment: hypertext narration

2009-03-26T22:40:00.002-04:00

PROLOGUE

Though I’ve been following the inevitable turn toward electronic publishing for quite some time now, I have particular interest in this concept of interactive fiction. What you're about to read (if in fact, you do commit yourself to this 30-minute long caprice of mine) is a stab at that.

This started about a month ago as nothing more than a short story, though in ideation/early draft phase the thought occurred to me to find additional ways to leverage it, repurpose it, experiment with various distribution channels and audiences. (Also, at the time I was leafing through "Electronic Literature," by N. Katherine Hayles, sort of the preeminent scholar on digital publishing and content creation).

So after the muscle draft, I went back and modified it slightly to fit within the bounds of the hypertext narrative. Meaning, it's footnotey. There's a backstory. Click on links if you want more info, or visual clues. Click on as many or as few as you like. Your level of engagement is up to you.

Also, I know this is getting rambly, but I must point out the unstoppable trend in the last ten years towards the inclusion of deleted scenes on DVDs. I say, "why just for movies?" There are definitely authors whose deleted scenes I'd like to see. I like to think of this sort of like that (not that I even hold a small, votive-sized candle to those just mentioned). Extra content, some of which is relevant, some of which is less than. Hopefully it skews toward the former. (Where is the emoticon for “fingers crossed?”)

So hurrah for experimental, hypertexual "collaboration," with willing and unwilling contributors! For links used with or without permission, but publicly available and linkable and therefore legal, right?

Get outta here, prologue!

FIELD TRIP
by Adrienne Aggen

We sped along, in that wavepool manner of a busride. Jolts and swerves and quick giddy halts at stoplights and tolls. Our driver, an irritatingly jolly man, was doing his best to negotiate the construction blocks and tried to laugh it off as he sent kids sliding across the laminate seats into windows and aisles. I clung to the edge of my seat until we got out of Oak Park, relaxing at last past the poorest part of the city. Here was calming repetition. Numbers and patterns.

I strained to follow the rows and rows of soft shabby houses, lining up the bright buildings in my eyeline as they sped by so they’d look like carousel horses. The up and down of taller intervaled industrials in the background. Back to the poor houses, extraordinarily varied in color and care but identical in size, therefore suitable for deciphering and identifying pattern.

Occasionally a door would pop open and ruin my makeshift zoetrope, and then I’d shift and stare down at the long yellow stripes of the road and try the same thing there, until my eyes quit and eventually the stabs of paint turned into a never-ending highway noodle. I had to be careful of not getting too close to the window because it was sensitive to the fog of my breath, blocking my view of the slum. A lot of my classmates were just figuring out this science and writing dirty words and diagrams on their windows for a laugh.

An important day, a field trip. A weird kind of freedom and intoxication that comes with knowing you’ll be in an unfamiliar environment. Unusual things are generally more tolerated. Expected. It’s like rules get thrown out the window once you’re off your home turf. I might say it’d feel like Guantanamo, except it’s the complete opposite. Pure Liberation. And I planned to take full advantage.

Rightly, it wasn’t hanging well on me that I felt nervous. I had even avoided eye contact with her all morning. I was also starting to develop an unfamiliar queasiness. Most likely from the near hour bus ride from St. Charles, from the constant shoves and yelps behind me as Garrett pounded his troublemaking fists into the seat and my back.

Miss Rackett tried to allay Garrett’s fear of highways and girls by dosing out fruit snacks medicinally, like Ritalin. After about five minutes he wilted and fell asleep, a cherry gummy nestled in between his pointer finger and thumb. Now he occupied an entire seat and his former seatmate Katie Lang excitedly packed herself into a bouquet of three girls across the aisle, a forbidden arrangement. They were clearly happy about this situation. And loud. Loud in the most beautiful kind of way that girls are loud. Girls of all different stripe.

Taking a break from my road and development tallies, I leaned forward onto corduroy knees. Anxious. Wishing the rules of second-gradedom allowed me to speak to three girls at once—or even one at time. I tried to get a peek at them to reason out their curious hysterics, but couldn’t quite make my head around the half-foot of vinyled foam without giving myself away.

Instead, I turned away and commenced a new autoplay: trying to maneuver my cheek up as close to the window as I could without actually touching it. I imagined my cheek filled with negative ions and the bus window with positive and tried to get as near it as possible without being sucked in magnetically.

I remembered something I’d heard about more kids getting sick from school buses than they did from school bathrooms, and immediately pulled away. I didn’t want to chance it. I simply couldn’t afford to today.

I pried my woolen mittens off with my teeth and stuffed them both into a vacant pocket of Scott’s jacket, which was a bit generous and sort of made me look like stuffed buffalo whose head hadn’t been properly preserved and had shrunk. But I loved the coat's color, I felt important in it, I felt like some of his teenagerness was rubbing off on me simply from the perfunctory sticking of arms through sleeves. It would give me the courage I needed.

I dug through the pockets by feel and verified the small bubble wrapped package. The mug was there, sure enough, still intact. She had this weird thing for foxes and wolves, and really loved Wyle E. Coyote even though I much preferred Marvin the Martian. It cost a cool $12 bucks, but it would do its job. I wouldn’t have given up eight weeks of allowance for just anyone, but for her, naturally. For the girl of my dream.

I say dream, because for the past three weeks, I had only one dream. A singular vision where Sage took one look at the mug, mimicked the grin of the cartoon character, and threw her girlish arms around me.

I quadruple checked the accompanying notecard to see if what I had written was still actually there. It was, featuring the steadiest writing of my life. I reread it. I liked, in particular, the manner in which I’d closed this correspondence. “The friend you never had, Paul.” Much better than the first letter I’d given to a girl. More confident. Cooler.

As is the case with most elementary school transport, we arrived late. The tour guide, a squalid woman in museum red who must have affirmative-actioned her way into employment by being Ugly was at the ready. As the children assembled around her, I watched her eyebomb Garrett, who had snotted all over the donations box.

You! she shot. Was she pointing to Tommy, the new kid next to him in the denim hat, or me? I made the grave mistake of raising my eyebrows in response and inquiry where the other two did not. She surely was pointing to me. I knew it as certainly as I knew that Stephanie Walbrecht, though nice to everyone, really didn’t mean she “wanted to hug me I was so funny” even though she wrote it on my valentine two weeks ago.

- Him, Ugly pointed. You.

She lifted a heavy finger toward me and poked it in the air like she was branding me.

- You are to buddy up with Him.

Garrett sniffled a snarfle so loud it echoed against the stone, even over the collective chats of the children. He then turned a hot face and quite tumescent nose toward me, his buddy. He offered up what I could only guess was a high five, his way of accepting this arranged-friendship. More quick-wittedly than was characteristic, I managed to fake a sneeze and gave a shrug of my shoulders as means of refusing his hand.

- Germs, I chuckled.

About Garrett. Garrett was one of those kids who your parents make you invite to your Intergalactic Birthday Party even though he doesn’t have a Klingon name like your other friends do so your mom just writes GarretTor on his nametag. He’s the kid who’s brought you a present he dug out of the trash. He’s always digging things out of the trash, things of no value. It’s not like he’s even looking for money or cool, used action figures. Last year for show and tell he bought a piece of PVC pipe and a rusty tricycle that was missing both its back wheels. He’s the kind of kid who has a pocket full of Kleenex, none of which are his. No wonder he’s sick.

Ugly snapped her fingers to attention and looked over the pen of children, like she might say more. Instead she forcibly pulled Miss Rackett to her side and whispered in her ear, no doubt trying to deputize her. She stuffed 40 or so tin museum badges into Miss Rackett’s hand, which of course was too petite for such a gesture and half of the lapel badges spilled over.

You’d think a major museum would find a better method of tracking children. Especially since, except for confirmations and holidays, children don’t wear lapels.

A scream of toddlers toddled past, with big-breasted nannies that didn’t match their charges in skin-tone. Ugly swung her head around with the same force of the museum’s famed pendulum ball and began to chastise the women. To my delight, she was unsuccessful, as they didn’t know much English and she didn’t know much Spanish.

While she threw a finger up to her inflated lips and shhhshd, Miss Rackett swept up the badges from the floor and timidly waited for the next directive.

- Throw them in twos and don’t give them any maps, Ugly said. They’re too young for maps.

Miss Rackett nodded in acknowledgment, instantly losing my respect, as I not only knew how to use a map, but had recently mastered Dr. Dragon’s Cartography Challenge.

I tried to hide the map I had picked up from the kind sir stationed at Information on my way in, but Garrett ratted me out. (As he was in mid-narc I noticed his dandruff (could it be, on an 8-year old?)), which had silvered his coat collar. Maybe it was just dust. Or some dangerous dry particulate. I couldn’t decide whether to be disgusted or frightened.)

Sure enough, Ugly snatched the map out of my hand as if it was a low-grade explosive I had brought into the museum. I teetered between anger and shame, hoping Sage hadn’t witnessed this incalculable humiliation. She hadn’t. She was occupied by her braid, whose ribbon had started to come undone. I released the tension in my shoulders. I could stand some condescension more than I could embarrassment, so it wasn’t quite so dire after all. Especially because I had already mentally mapped out the Sarcophagi and the Outer Frontiers exhibits.

This last one. This last one was special. It would be in the Outer Frontiers exhibit, during the light-year presentation where all the holes cut out of the black cloth were twinkling their mighty constellations, under that smear of artificial stars, that I would hand the gift to Sage.

Ugly said a few more private words to Miss Rackett, then dismissed us with a flail of her hand, like she was an army general. She even had the epaulettes on her shoulders to prove it. I wondered if each ribbon signified a child who had died from panic or fear.

As we dispersed from our frightened or oblivious huddle I started to devise a scheme to rid myself of my new buddy ol’ pal, and in doing so, took note of the complex stairways linking floors two and three. I counted the stairs in fives 51015202530354045 -

- What do you want to see, Paul?

I turned.

Sage stood to my right, normal as morning.

Yes, Sage. Looking radiant in her purple overalls and plum colored turtleneck with matching plum hair ribbons. This outfit might look childish and absurd, costumey, on anyone else, but it nicely offset her silvery-white hair and glacier eyes and made her look even more regal than usual. She should wear this outfit, (augmented by a simple fir headpiece) when it came time for the two of us to enter court and begin our rule of North Antarctica.

Caught in this splendor, it took me a minute to realize that it was not she who had spoken to me, but her best friend Tabby. Ol’ Tabby Apple, as the boys called her, mocking her babyfat.

Though I was flustered by this confrontation, I’d looked up the exhibit rotation on the museum website a week prior in anticipation of the trip, so it didn’t take long to rattle off my wish-list in response to her question.

- I’ve heard the Outer Frontiers exhibit has a remarkable example of the space-time continuum, the Egyptian Wing has the world’s oldest intact Sarcophagus, I heard the submarine might be cool. Oh! And I’m hoping for some antediluvian artifacts, of any sort, really.

The two girls shrugged.

- Oh. said Tabby.

- Hnn, said Sage.

It soon became clear that this had come off less casual, less nonchalant than I would have liked. I sounded dreadfully like a second grader.

- I want to see the fairy dollhouse!

Garrett practically screamed this, butting his rhinovirusy face into the conversation.

Sensing my chance to recover with an unparalleled cool statement, I jumped in.

- Dollhouse, Garrett? Really? You can see a stupid dollhouse anytime, like your sister’s. I can’t think of a bigger waste of time. Plus you’ll probably have to get in line behind all of them.

I head-nodded to a bunch of yoddling young girls, presumably two years our junior and from an inner city school where it’s acceptable, and maybe even dignified to sprawl out on the floor while others see how close they can get their feet to your face without landing on you mid-air.

My three classmates looked to observe this display of showy, intellectual flaccidity and then back to me.

- Dollhouses! I said, in mock-excitement.

- Oh, said Tabby.

- Hnnn, said Garrett.

Sage looked like I’d just knifed her.

No. Not possible.

Not possible that someone who can recite the entire taxonomy of the American Grey Wolf is also interested in tiny dollish structures! Only it was more than possible. It was actual.

Sage shifted her feet, cocked her head toward the floor and didn’t open her mouth. Her beautiful, spring-pink mouth. That would now never, never ever, touch mine.

- Yeah, well, maybe we’ll see you later at the dollhouse exhibit. I heard it’s pretty cool from an engineering standpoint, I said

and grabbed Garrett by the neck and walked as fast as I could toward the Ocean Technologies exhibit. I didn’t look back until I reached the deep blue and yellow sea posters, and by then she and Tabby were gone.

The exhibit housed a few WWI Doppler Radars, an oversized periscope that displayed (through its dirty, fingerprinty lens) alternating Indian, Atlantic, Pacific, and Antarctic seascapes and marine life, and the showpiece U-605 Submarine. Garrett resigned himself to looking through the kaleidoscope of marine life, along with every other kid on a field trip that day, which left the pristine steel sea-giant free for the taking.

First I inspected each welder’s seam, counting the nail heads along the base as I did so. 806. A small informative plaque near starboard explicitly prohibited any touching of the boat, but the chaperones and curators were so busy trying to circumvent fighting with the periscope riot that no one was paying much attention to me.

I slid two fingers over the stern and walked to keep up with my fingers, never letting them leave the steel. I stopped periodically, and tried to guess where the pump room lay, the galley, the torpedoes. I did this by applying soft pressure with the tips of my fingers, like the doctor had done one time when he examined my belly by feel. I walked around the boat four times, studying its surface dimples and wondering what sort of deckhand I would have made. And if they would have allowed me in uniform and what kind of hat I would have been given. What kind of sailor I did and didn’t want to look like. I looked at my watch. Four hours to go.

Mistrustful of the women and teenagers who ran the coat check, I had kept my puffer jacket in the crook of my arm, folded over on itself, which was making me sweat a bit under my right armpit. I reached into the left pocket and once again checked to see if the mug and note were still there. The last thing I needed was for them to fall out during the IMAX presentation, forever lost on a dark, sticky floor.

I decided they might be safer nestled in the pouch of my sweatshirt, so I looked carefully around to make sure my secret remained so, and transferred the contents of my jacket pocket into my sweatshirt’s front snug. It had openings on each side that didn’t have the security of zippers, but it did nicely accommodate both my hands, and it became a sort of crowded muff, which would keep its cargo safe.

I had just finished doing so when a tall unknown man deposited Garrett on the bench next to me.

- Is this him? The man asked Garrett, thumb towards me.

Wet-eyed, sniffling Garrett just nodded.

- Ok, just stay here and everything will be okay.

His look of gentle concern vanished and he turned to me in a fit.

- Don’t you think about leaving him again! You are responsible for your buddy! From now on you are to link arms with him at all times unless you want me to report your behavior to your teacher! At all times!

- What about if I need to go to the bathroom? Garrett asked.

Good boy, Garrett.

The guard’s face got all twisty as he contemplated this development.

- Except, if one of you needs to go to the bathroom, of course, he replied.

I instantly scanned the floor for a drinking fountain. Come on, drinking fountain.

- Are you listening to me? he asked. Stay with him! Got it?

I was too stunned to say anything.

I didn’t even offer a response until the gangling man sped away, surely off to ruin the life of some other misjudged child.

- But he’s sick! I shouted, a pointless decrescendo.

Garrett, miraculously, instantly better, sprung up from the bench and motioned for me to do the same. He was still wearing his red purled hat and jacket and looked just like a walking incubator of disease.

- Okay, look. We are only going to link arms until we get to the Egyptian exhibit. After that you’re on your own, and you’re definitely not to touch or talk to me.

He stared still, probably thinking about something sick.

I stood in a languish, and stuck my only free arm through his. The other arm held my jacket and its hand held onto the contents of my sweatshirt, securing them in place.

- And if you do anything to embarrass me, I’ll tell the whole class. I doubt you’ll ever have a buddy again, I concluded, for effect.

After the Fisheries and a really dumbed-down Children’s Nature Exhibit, came the IMAX. As the only scheduled event on our itinerary, I wanted to be prompt. Which meant I had to hustle us along through the Electricity and Industrialization exhibit, and Ancient Egypt as well.

As my sick sidekick and I rushed through, I noticed something brewing underneath my belly. An untimely sickness. The kind that would have never allowed me employment aboard a submarine or any other sea craft. And Sage was nowhere to be seen, so I couldn’t quite chalk it up to nerves. I shrugged it off.

The feeling worsened as I was surveying the head to body ratio of the ancient Pharaoh as compared to modern, Caucasian men. I felt a cough bellowing up in my lungs. By the time we’d fled Egypt I was sneezing with some regularity.

I didn’t want for anyone to see me unlinking arms with Garrett, (especially not Ugly, who I hate to admit I was genuinely terrified of), but my cough demanded a hand, so I let go of my sweatshirt treasures for a second and turned to cough.

As I did, the pull of my cough yanked Garrett toward me. He lunged in direct contact with my torso. His leaking nose slammed square into my left shoulder, wiping the muck against my favorite outfit. His elbow knocked into my pocket and his cheap aluminum watch dinged against the mug.

- Ow. What’s that? Garrett said, rubbing his elbow, cradling it in his other arm.

He poked at the bulge of my sweatshirt, which clearly held the contents of something shaped not very much like a fist. Some nearby students turned, including dream girl. Who wouldn’t look me in the eye. Still upset about the dollhouse jab, I suppose. Rightly so.

- What have you got in there? said Blair Furst, motioning to the pocket.

The little brunette was postured strong with her arms folded against her chest.

I sucked in my lips together and bit on them and just pretended like I hadn’t heard her. But I had, and Blair knew it, and she knew that I knew it and so did Tabby and Sage. Blair was notorious for ratting all the other kids out, the ones who threw dried up frogs at each other at recess (which I couldn’t blame her for) and tattling on the ones who took extra cheese from the potato bar at lunch (which I could blame her for. I did that).

- Did you steal something from the Egyptian exhibit? said the Cheese Nazi.

- No way! I squeaked, folding my own arms in response to her pose, but held awkwardly low over my belly.

- What is it? Sage asked politely. What's in there?

- No-nothing!

By this time the attention of the sweet looking museum guard had been piqued. He woke from his halfsleep supervision to monitor the imbroglio. I felt a wide, earthly panic rise up from my arms and settle over my head. The man looked at Garrett and me with equal consideration, trying to pinpoint the culprit. He strode forward in patient steps, his thick non-marking museum shoes inching toward me or toward Garrett. He was a giant, nearly 7 feet tall, I’d guess.

Though usually respectful and obedient of the law (I’d linked arms with sick boy for over an hour straight!) I stuck my arm through Garrett’s and pulled him along with me as we fled around the corner and down the southeast stairs. As soon as we were out of sight, safe in the darks of the IMAX wing, I stopped. Garrett was panting but smiling from the game he thought we were in the middle of. I was sweating, but then again, I had been before the chase.

- Well. . . I huffed, surprised at my own defiance—and exhaustion—and continued, We’re . . we. . are. . . supposed to meet . . the class here . . .anyway . . . in 15 minutes. We’ll. . .we’ll . . . just wait here.

I unlinked myself from Garrett and sat down, feeling even more deathly from my stomach’s yeasty quiver. Of course I was getting sick, being in front of the sick kid on the bus and getting railed on with his cries, screams and coughs. I hadn’t thought it possible to contract the illness so quickly. My class report on the flu virus was very clear that it took a day before you started showing symptoms. Garrett must have been carrying a mutant super-virus.

- I’m going to the gift shop? Garrett said this like it was a question that required my approval.

- Um, fine okay, but be back here in ten minutes, I said, foolishly trusting that he knew how to tell time.

I crept farther into the shadows, illegally behind the red movie rope that was used to herd excited children into the theatre in an orderly as possible fashion.

I don’t remember what the IMAX was about, I didn’t really see it. I did see Sage, though, sitting four rows ahead of me next to a boy I’d never seen before. Maybe she’d made friends with him in Egypt. Maybe he attended a different school. Maybe he had won the Presidential Physical Fitness Award at his school without cheating on his situps. But what did I expect. Of course a girl like her was bound to attract the attention of any dumb public school boy. This was not a welcome complication to my plan.

The kicker is I missed the whole IMAX. I would have normally been highly interested in seeing all about the creatures and landscapes and rifts of the ocean’s floor, but today it was too much. The zooms and expansive pans of the camera made me feel even more sick to my stomach. Instead I experienced it vicariously. Garrett nudged me every time he got excited, and made extremely sophomoric moaning and “hubba-hubba” sounds when they showed the cuddlefish mating.

Intolerant of this ignorance, I sneezed into the cuff of my sweatshirt and ducked my head inward toward my chest. I used my jacket as a cape and draped it around my neck from the front. I can’t say why, but it seemed prudent to unbutton my pants as well.

The movie ended with a saccharine “Octopus’s Garden” cover, and as the credits rolled all my class oohed and awed and spanked their little hands together in adoration. I looked next to me. Garrett had left at some point. But not without leaving a pile of trinkets on the seat – 6 museum maps and a Payday wrapper filled to the brim with chewed chewing gum.

As everyone started to file out I caught the attention of Miss Rackett. I waved her open with my cough-hand. She maneuvered around the exiting mass of kids and sat next to me, where Garrett had been sitting a minute earlier. She took the seat litter in her hand, the way teachers do with trash or gum, totally oblivious of germs. The lights undimmed.

- What is it, Paul? Are you sick? she guessed.

Mouth half open, I instantly realized if I agreed, that yes, I was sick, I would be whisked out of the museum quickly, maybe deposited onto the bus to wait for the others, maybe to wait alone with the riff-raff of the coat room. I changed my mind at the last second.

- I – I lost Garrett, I lied.

She ended her sigh with a smile.

- It’s okay. He’s just right up there, with Sage.

She gestured to the crown of steps. Sure enough, ratty nosed, mussed hair, social opportunist Garrett was talking to Sage. How he had the gall to approach her one-on-one was beyond me. My stomach knotted again, inside its other knot. A league of knots, twisting and careening toward the surface.

- Are you sure you’re okay? she asked, noticing my expression.

I looked at her, keeping Garrett and Sage in my eye line. At least New Boy, the greater threat, was gone.

- No, no. I just hope there’s not a huge line to see the fairy dollhouse. I’ve been waiting all day to go see that, but Garrett hasn’t wanted to.

- Well, I know you’re his buddy,

she leaned into me in a way teacher’s weren’t supposed to and lowered her voice,

- but I think it would be okay if he were by himself for the next hour.

Oh blessed Miss Rackett! Surely her canonization was approaching!

- Thanks, I smiled.

- It’s okay. C’mon.

I followed her up the stairs, but by the time we’d exited the theatre I could only see the back of Sage. She was all the way across the marbled floor, probably outside of shouting distance, and was in rushes toward the dollhouse exhibit. There wasn’t much time to dither around, so, though sweating and dizzy, I picked up my coat and pursued her.

From just outside the doorway of the purple-litted dollhouse room I audibly gasped from glimpse I got of the exhibit, but managed to cover it up with a play cough.

Sage was about 6 people back from the entrance. I started toward her in line, but fell faint and had to catch myself on a older girl I didn’t know. I apologized and tried to fit my way in under the arm of the girl-crutch.

- No you don’t!

It was the guard, the one who’d burdened me the task of babysitting Garrett.

- You’ll wait in line like the rest. he said. And you'll wait with him.

He pointed to Garrett, near the back of the line.

As patiently as possible. That’s how I waited. Normally this is actually rather patient and adults are often surprised at how I don’t mind waiting. Waiting while the dentist examines my teeth for cavities and gets distracted talking to his blonder than blond assistant. Waiting till after noon to open my Christmas presents. Waiting for Scott to pick me up from school, and when he shows up 2 hours later smelling like refried beans, I don’t yell.

The line inched along, and I almost felt wrong when I finally entered it, knowing I might perchance cough my germs upon and infect the perfect little fairy world. That’s how extraordinary it was. It blew the U-boat right out of the water.

It was one of those miniatures exhibits. Like a train set, with real tiny people and tiny roads and tiny landscaping – shrubberies and trees and spurring ivy all along the brick of the dollhouse. I was actually surprised by how beautiful it was. And how large, close to 20 feet long and 6 feet high.

The exterior of the mansion house was shingled with silvery wood and aluminum, from what I could guess. With gilded windows, some stained glass featuring tiny biblical scenes. The atrium caught my attention. A ganglion of branches dripping in silvery snow, glass icicles like tinsel in the boughs. Sage saw it too, transfixed by its sparkle.

The small, dim room was jammed with girls, all of them pushing and shoving against each other. Sage among them, vying for a position as close to the foundation as possible. I pushed my way through them all, noting the time on my wristwatch and realizing If I didn’t present her the gift now, I’d have to do it on the bus to the certain sneers of eavesdroppers.

Whispering in alongside her, I just stood silent. She opened her mouth to speak to me, but kept her eyes on the house, especially on the upper tiered ballroom, full of tiny Edwardian chairs and tables, soft red velvets and purple satin walls, checkered with fleur de lis.

- You like this, don’t you Paul? she asked mischievously.

Simply, I was rapturous.

- It’s perfect, I admitted.

She smiled at me. That smile full of both devilry and coquetry. My paradoxical princess.

- I knew you’d like it. I just knew it.

She was teasing me! Flirting, maybe! She was clearly in an affable mood, entranced by the flickering lights of each petite room, from the elegant chandeliered ballroom to the small wicker-lit windows beneath each turret. By the world’s tiniest Magna Carta. And I couldn’t blame her, the intricacies and weird colors of the house were enchanting. It was more incredible than the scaled model of the Millennium Falcon I’d seen at the State Fair two summers ago.

I slipped my hand in my jacket, slowly, like an animal trying to not scare off its hunt. She hadn’t noticed, and was still pouring over the fairy dollhouse. I noticed I had a crest of perspiration growing on my neck. My stomach felt especially unsettled. I momentarily backed out. Backed back in. Our minds and tastes were in sync. Do it now. Now, in the royal haze of the exhibit.

I softly tapped her on the shoulder. She turned. As she did, the orange, the egg sandwich which I’d had for breakfast, and my snack of ants on a log came marching up from my stomach, within the blink of an eye, and landed in a vomitous heave on the pink puff of her coat. And a bit on her hair. It started and ended within 5 seconds. Came without notice, without mercy.

She screamed.

So did a few other girls.

The two other boys in the exhibit in the back laughed, and one tried to high-five me on my way out. I didn’t look back.

I ran as quickly as I could, dizzy and slightly splattered in my own vomit, toward the ground floor restrooms. I locked myself inside a stall and curled up beside the toilet. I wasn’t sure if I had more. I kept coughing rapidly, like gunfire. Realizing I had emptied the contents of my stomach on my one true love, I also started to cry. Started to cry and wail, like Garrett. But I didn’t care.

After about 10 minutes, I swept myself up off of the floor. There was a small lake of sweat, or something I hoped was sweat, puddling the floor. I looked under the stall to see if there were any other feet in the boys’ bathroom. All clear.

I unlocked the stall door and walked to the sink. I looked in the mirror, grey faced. My eyes looked a little cloudy, but other than that I looked pretty normal. Upon close inspection of my clothes it looked like there actually wasn’t that much vomit on me at all. I winced. Most of it just got on Sage then.

How I’d face her again, let alone ride on the same bus with her back to school, let alone give her the gift I’d been carrying in my sweatshirt pocket this entire time remained an uncomfortable mystery.

I pulled out the note – the blue ink in which I’d written out “TO: Sage” was a bit smeared from wear. The edges of the card had become soft, one of the corners completely dog-eared. I turned to the mug. Mr. Coyote’s mocking, judgmental smirk, unchanging in the ceramic in which it would smirk forever.

I ripped the note in four and sprinkled it into the mug. Then I dumped the thing in the trash and walked out the door.

I didn’t dare return to the dollhouse exhibit, so I walked aimlessly towards the front, barely picking up my feet as I did so, sliding them across the concrete as if on ice skates.

I noticed a clamor at the front of the museum doors. My class was all chittery as Miss Rackett tried to group them together in two lines. Captain Ugly herself had returned, and I saw her actually pick up Mimi Reynolds by her overalls and plant her down at the back of one of the lines. And there was Sage, or the top of her head.

She’d taken her braid out it appeared, and now her hair was in a wet pile on the top of her head. Tabby stood next to her, holding what appeared to be Sage’s purple turtleneck. Confused, I got a little bit closer to the class, but not close enough to be seen. Oh no.

They had outfitted poor Sage in a vomitless substitute for a shirt—a brown paper grocery bag, with two holes cut out for the arms and one for the head. I know I was the reason she had to wear the thing, but honestly, it really didn’t do much for her.

Suddenly, as if she knew she were being watched, Sage spun around in my direction. She said something to the small huddle of girls who were hiding her and her paper bag shirt from the rest of the museum. She looked embarrassed, teary, and a little sick herself. The wall of girls looked scornfully in my direction.

I spotted an undershirt crunched in a ball near her feet. It had a red and blue stamp pattern of a certain coyote’s face. As the class started excitedly showing off their gift shop toys, she picked up the shirt and cradled it in her arms like a new baby doll. She started crying again, and Tabby comforted her and whispered something in her ear.

- You! Ugly appeared out of nowhere. Get in line!

She gave me a less than gentle shove toward my classmates. I dejectedly trotted towards them, head down, eyes fixed on Sage’s damp undershirt and her new paper bag outfit. Wyle E. was smirking at me, in two different colors.

I had to go back. Sage was so sad. Maybe I could make things right. Show her that true love is worth a little vomit. Maybe when she saw the gift, she’d forgive me.

I threw my coat to the ground and sped in a frenzied sprint back to the bathroom. Ugly easily caught this disturbance and hiked up her pants and I swore licked her gums and lips, exited at the chase.

- Davis! she shouted, already in full pump, chubby legs winding around with surprising speed.

A squirly young man of indeterminate race and sculpturesque hair put down the phone he was cooing into and joined the race, within seconds passing his superior.

I could feel his draft close behind and slid around the corner like a kid who actually plays baseball, sliding triumphantly into home base and expecting a resin and polyethylene trophy for it. For this spectacular play. Safe.

I slammed the bathroom door and jammed the door stop under the heavy metal and ran zealot-eyed toward the trash. How it had filled up this considerably in the last 10 minutes amazed me. Seriously, it was incredible.

A can of Tuna, tissues, something mudcolored that looked and smelled like it’d been swiped from a canopic jar in Ancient Egypt. And this was just the skim of the rubbish. But mug, no. Mug: Unaccounted For. And yep, there was Davis banging fists in from the outside.

Hell, I’m already sick, I told myself, I must go through with it. With the whole disgusting business.

More banging. Ugly yelling her threats. Davis sweet talking me. The kkkkkkfvttt of a walkie talkie.

Averting my eyes towards the marble-steamed walls, I dug. I dug for feel, through all the waste of Chicago.

It was only seconds until the door burst open like a steam valve and two bodybuilder types stood at command. I turned, hand halfway down the throat of the bin, which had loosed most its contents on me and the floor. Some camaraderie, trash can.

Ugly parted her two dobermen aside, waving them off with a downward swing of her hand. I could see she meant to be the disciplinarian at this juncture. She would not be denied the pleasure.

- Young man,

she said, plucking me up from my back belt-loops, suspending me mid air in her Amazonian grip,

- You really. . . . breath. . . . shouldn’t. . . . breath. . . . have done this.”

- What are you doing that for anyway? Don’t you got no trash to play with at home? Davis asked.

- You, are coming with me, Ugly boomed.

And I guess I was, as I couldn’t reach my feet to the ground. She headed toward the door, and my body followed her, at a 70-degree angle.

I squiggled and wriggled and hoped my belt loops would give and send me toward the floor, free. No luck.

In such proximity I noticed for the first time the steel museum-issued nametag she was wearing. EDIE. I thought .of all those cop shows where they explain that the more of a human connection you can make with your captor, the more likely you are to survive.

-Edie, please. Listen, let’s come to an understanding, I pleaded.

She just laughed. Tightened her grip.

All at once, in an inglorious wave, my adrenaline plummeted, zeroed, and my germophobia took its place.

Silence was probably the best policy, but I decided to ask anyway.

- Can I at least wash my hands?

Nothing. Squirm at full force.

- Come on! This is just indecent!

Ugly wouldn’t hear it. Or pretended like she couldn’t hear it, as she didn’t make a move back towards the washbins. Instead she held me screaming through the door and towards my classmates.

This was dire.

- Okay look, just let me down and I give you my word I will return to be with my class, okay. Just put me down, this is humiliating.

- Humiliating!

One word. A question? A statement? Not clear. Comical? Must have been.

She kept on. I took up a new tactic and stopped the squirming in an instant. Maybe she’d think she’d suffocated me. If nothing else I’d be a dead weight. Harder to carry.

The whole second grade stopped their whining and purring and all turned to look at me, tiny in the arms of a giant.

Sean Higham, teacher’s pet, started with a slight laugh. Then a louder one. I literally saw it domino across to Daniel Loudin, to Graham Obel and Mike Pentack, and then to the girl’s side, like the most contagious, potent supervirus. I watched with dread.

Morgan Boyce, Blair Furst, Gretta Olsen, Ayumi Kamanishi, Sara Potter. I started to feel like I might be sick again. It hit Tabby Apple and Sage at the same time and then the whole class was having a grand old laugh at my expense.

- Alright, here you go Teach.

Ugly released me and I managed to stay upright. Miracle.

I stood silently facing a now equally silent majority.

Miss Rackett, double saintly, stepped in.

- Let’s go everyone. Stay in your A and B lines!

During the bus ride home I tried to sleep. A lot of other kids did too, exhausted from a full day of non-stop laughing and exploring. Some kids slept with Pharaoh dolls tucked under their arms, others with Submarine playing cards. A few with rock candy sticks hanging out of the sides of their mouths, which jostled around independent of their owner and looked as if they might fall out each time the driver took a bump. He’d started humming to himself. It sounded like the Doors but I couldn’t be sure.

I was feeling a little better physically, but emotionally a hermit.

I snuck myself up in the loose folds of my coat and zipped it up all the way, even buttoning the nose guard. I pulled tight on the hood cables so all that existed of my face were two angry eyes. At least no one wanted to sit by me for this ride.

About 30 minutes into the drive the bus became completely silent. Except for a small occasional fit of laughter from the very back. I laid down my head toward the center of the seat and looked back. In the very last seat of the bus, the smaller, two person seat, sat the impetus—Garrett, still sniffling, and Sage, in her paperbaggery.

He was showing her something small and green and malleable he had bought from the gift shop. She was giggling, holding out her lunch sack. She was sharing her peanut butter and cheese crackers with him. She held one side and he the other and they yanked off each side off to see who’d win the cheese filling. She kept winning and giggling in response to her luck. Maybe she’d rigged it, who knew, the trollop. I was so angry for a minute I wondered if I’d be sick again.

The two of them bent down in unison and seemed to be focusing on something Sage held in her lap. She yelped in delight and threw an arm around Garrett, still in that stupid red hat with a red nose to match. I rose up and tried to see what they were looking at, what had caused this unprecedented physical contact. She stretched her arm over the seat to where Tabby and Blair were sleeping and tapped Tabby on the shoulder. They sat up and turned back to Sage. She proudly held up a Wyle E. Coyote mug. The girls took a look at this, then rested their eyes on Garrett, beaming.

My mug! My Sage! He must have dug it out of the trash, the hobo.

I turned around in my seat, fuming. Trying to decide a plan of action to redress the injury. To tell her that I had, in fact, bought the mug for her, intended to pass it over to her babysmooth hands with the note explaining all.

I unzipped my coat and threw it down on the seat and started the balance beam walk to the back of the moving bus.

I was less than four rows away, when I stopped in my tracks, clutching to the seats on both sides so I wouldn’t fall over.

There they were, the two little lovebirds, sticking their noses and tongues onto the glass, smashing them in in hysterics.

Germs.

What I have learned:
1) How does one (me) format something of this length online so as not to scare away readers? Don’t know. I found this new blogger template that’s a bit better, but still. It just looks laborious.

2) It takes longer to search for appropriate additional content (links) than it does to just write a story. On the other hand, it was a pretty fun process. And I feel like I’m becoming a tip-top google searcher.

3) Autobiography just creeps in as it likes.
The Wyle E Coyote mug? Yep, definitely bought the mug for my six-grade boyfriend Dustin Sharp to commemorate our 2 month “anniversary.” I chickened out, and didn’t ever give it to him. He gave me a lovely gold necklace that looked about like this. Real life is so good.

experiment: shilling

2009-02-20T02:10:00.009-05:00

Adrienne here, slicing the ham n cheese extra thick. Now listen up, you.

I joke that Jared is cheating on me with one of his latest projects, Jer3miah, but the truth is it's making me seriously reconsider an open relationship. It's that cool. Here's the trailer.

The Book of Jer3miah - Trailer from The Book of Jer3miah on Vimeo.

It's a webseries he and his students are creating that also has interactive elements. Sort of a mystery/conspiracy/thriller show in the vein of Lost or Da Vinci Code.

You can watch short webisodes online. And then there’s also an alternate reality aspect to it, like an online, interactive scavenger hunt. And real-life clue hunting in Utah. The characters all have their own facebook pages and part of the story takes place online and other mobile platforms. And people who search for clues can impact the story. Aka "user generated collaborative fiction," not to the layman. Casey Thornburgh of the Hyde Park Uglies called it "well done . . .entertaining . . . like Lost meets Eli Stone meets LDS meets Choose Your Own Adventure!" And what has she been ever wrong about? Besides John McGuire.

Go. Watch. Enjoy. Feel lucky that your significant other has time to see you.

And in the world of things with much lower production value . . .
I saw an ad for an "Ultimate PB&J" contest. Who better to enter a contest about peanut butter? Also, I already had a great, true family story, so I took a few hours and filmed it. If I get enough votes, I'll win a trip to the old country.

Watch. Then please go here and rate. Rate high, young man, rate high. Momma needs a new pair of matchstick jeans.

what I have learned:

I will never be famous. I despise self-promotion. It feels as worse and as desperate as asking people for money or kisses. How is it that I work in advertising?

And who wants fame anyway? Haven't you seen The Wrestler?

experiment: emotionality

2009-02-16T13:51:00.013-05:00

It was on Valentine's Day that Jared told me my blog has no "heart."

Was I offended? No, not particularly. I write about experiments, so naturally I adopt the cold, strictly observant front of a scientist and intentionally keep a lot of personal details and feelings out of it and off the internet. We all very deliberately craft our online personas, and what do you want, this is mine; striving for objective truth (and hilarity!), and not wanting to cloud things with actual feelings or divulge any private information. After all, I'm an INTP. I know many consider these Jungian assignments as quackish as zodiac signs in terms of correctly identifying personality types, but to that I say, "Have you ever met me? of COURSE I'm a Scorpio."

So in rebuttal, I used these defenses and said this was the style of blog I wanted. That nature had made me this way. He said it was like reading "a journal for very limited peer review." I think he meant this as an insult, but what can I say, I was flattered. Anyway, maybe these preferences of mine do account for my blog being,"heartless and emotionally unengaging" -JC. I would have just said "private," but okay.

To prove that I am capable of emotional depth, I will now compose a heartwarming story about the day of hearts that will warm your heart till it gets so hot that it splits in two, and a confetti of little, smaller hearts pour out all over the place. Like a Pound Puppy. <3

We spent the entire day together. That in itself is enough of a V-day treat for me. Jared's been busy this semester teaching two, production-heavy classes (post to follow later), so getting to see him for consecutive hours (plural!) in daylight, is exciting.

This is our third Valentine's day together, and neither of us really care that much about the day's "significance" so we just treat it like a normal Saturday. We got pancakes for breakfast. We went to the post office. We went to Home Depot to get soil for my dying plant. I don't know the name of it but all you need to know is that it looks like it belongs in a Dr. Seuss book. We went back to his house and jammed in the basement with Josh Fronk (a man who I'm pretty sure does have a heart and a very generous one at that). He taught me the pentatonic blues scale on the bass and guitar. I played with the drum machine for twenty minutes. We took a nap.

We laid around and did voices (I'm getting good at Bill Cosby, Jared's nailed Chilly Willy and Wall-e). We danced around to Van Morrison. Jared made fun of Van Morrison. I punched him in the stomach. We danced around to my ever-popular itunes playlist, "Seduce Jared With Black People Music." We sang in two-part harmony to Al Green. I got an "I just got engaged" text from Christina Kim.We watched the Valentine's Day episode of 30 Rock on his laptop and came to the mutual agreement that Salma Hayek is hot. I laughed more than I thought I would. I wanted a McFlurry. Instead I ate some Nutella straight off a spoon.

We split an omelette. He gave me the good half with all the crispy cheese bits. He took another nap. I laid next to him and read Tobias Wolff's "The Night in Question" and woke him up a few times because it was making me laugh out loud. He started speaking to me in tongues.

We exchanged gifts. I got him "Atonement" from the 10 dollar bin at Target, even though I didn't really like it all that much, because he loved it and cried his pretty blue eyes out.

He drew me a picture:

I laughed. I used to have literal dreams about marrying John Lennon in grade school. Kind of obsessed with the dead Beatle. In middle school, I used to fantasize about Conan O'Brien proposing to me while Andy and Pimpbot 5000 showered us with rose petals and Max Weinberg broke a romantic beat on his drums. It was a cool gift, and probably at the uncool end of things he's made for me, so let that speak for itself. Maybe when I learn how to use my heart to its full extent I can share more of the amazing but private things he's said or done or made.

We were hungry for dinner. We brainstormed somewhere funny to go on Valentine's day. He suggested Chuck-a-rama. I suggested the Harley Davidson restaurant. We decided my suggestion was funnier but found out they closed at 5pm on Saturday. I guess the hardcore bikers like to have their dinner at 4. ? I vetoed Chuck-a-rama but it didn't matter because they were closed anyway. Sizzler? Olive Garden? Where else would be funny but wouldn't have a 2 hour wait? Sometimes I think we are too obsessed with irony for our own good.

I finally decided I wanted pizza. Jared doesn't like pizza much, but reluctantly agreed. This is because he loves me. It was at dinner where we had our lengthy discussion about new media and our role and responsibilities as contributors and what kind of content we want to create for an online audience. A very interesting conversation. An enlightening one, too, as I learned my blog, like my heart, is cold and impersonal. And that I have "Facebook elitism". Hmmm.

We ate all our pizza and left. We'd talked about watching our Netflix movie, but neither of us really felt in the mood for The Last Temptation of Christ. Odd. Instead we went to Blockbuster and stared aghast at the offerings in the new release section. We decided we'd just leave and go watch Cold Mountain. Nothing wrong with a little Jude Law, eh? (If there were another visage immediately after the Conan one it would no question be Jude.) We made it about halfway through and fell asleep at 2am. There you have it. The day of love.

What I have learned:

This is still just a laundry list of what we did, isn't it? Damn, it. How does one write about emotion! How does it work? How do you, collective internet users, muster enough (courage?/honesty?/ vulnerability?) to talk about your feelings openly and broadly on the internet? Am I just heartless? Help me!

<3,

an emotional infant

experiment: going on a blind date

2009-02-13T02:38:00.013-05:00

he bucked into the house half an hour early, forgetting the knock. a sweaty triangle of forehead limned by two licks of matte brown. frightful eyes, opening and closing with the regularity of a pulse. solid arms, encased in grey sleeves, starched, solid. the usual wireframed westernwear. for all i knew he was skeletal underneath.

he spotted me exiting the kitchen and let the door free behind him. he jumped a bit to hear the heavy crack as it clasped the frame. He said hello and his name.

"We," (oh hell, are we a We?) "are going to do something fun. Ya'll never think to guess it."

"Stomping divots?"

He swept to the side suddenly, like he'd stepped on a snake whose acquaintance he'd once made. He lifted the cotton arms attached to his grub hands and clapped them once over his head, firm. Grunted.

No idea. Maybe he's dancing. It occurs to me yes, in all awful reality, he is attempting a dance. A stomp. A misfired missile of a joke that came back and knocked me square.

"Well, what is it?" I submitted.

At this mark, he took determined dancesteps over to the couch wherewhich I had docked to play observant and bemused. As he did, the clunk of his chip boots clawed at the floor that I had spent half a day and half a can of wood oil polishing. His cheek creased in its pleasure.

"You're good."

The moment I flattered this out and saw his eyes dilate in responsive lust (or possibility) I regretted it. So rotten at sarcasm.

"We," he said in an unbefitting lilt, "are going to Flagstaff."

Flagstaff. Fairly close. Fair enough.

He smiled. I mirrored.

This dance of a conversation was one I knew, and it was my turn to dip or be dipped, but I quickly filled out my mental dancecard and kept mum.

He shifted antsy back and forth on his heels. Looking down, one boot was black and one was navy. He was so excited it broke my unbreakable heart.

"Flagstaff?" He repeated this, as if I hadn't heard him the first time.

I waited. I saw the bait, that old soggy worm being dangled and gutted clean through the throat, but I wouldn't take it. Not for all the tea in China. Not for all the peyote in Flagstaff.

"You want to know what it is we're gonna do?"

I answered with a slow lift of shoulders and smiled with a toothless elegance I'd perfected in Sunday School when asked a question about chastity.

He slid closer, rubbing his dirty blue legs against the silk fall of my one and only real dress. The kind that had been bought on credit at the insistence of a pesky aunt and a peskier commission shrill. A wasted polish.

With delicate cupped hands, he bent over my top six inches, his bolo tie dangling its thready sway across my face as if to hypnotize. He whispered.

"Wine tasting."

Then he stuck his tongue down my throat.

what i have learned:

i love lying. i lie all the time. this is one of those lies. sometimes i write lies. a lot of times i write lies. i actually write lies on another blog. i've been doing it for some time now. a whole, succulent blog of lies. short lies, most. sad lies, most. if you'd like an invitation to it, let me know.

experiment: yoga follow-up

2009-02-03T14:12:00.001-05:00

Yoga poses or Van Damme movies?

Sinav
Shiva
The Quest
Universal Soldier
King Dancer
Black Eagle
Scorpion II
One Legged King Pigeon
The Shepard
Wake of Death
Sleeping Thunderbolt
Sudden Death
Prone Corpse
Van Dammage
Retrosexual: The 8os

experiment: yoga

2009-02-03T13:26:00.002-05:00

I'm good at sports. Doesn't matter if I've never played the game before, I pick it up instantly, adroitly. Football, bocce, swimming, competitive eating, whatever. Soccer's my true love, but I can do it all. I'm like a modern day Bo Jackson.

So yoga? Not even worried. Bo Knows Yoga.

Being the cocky athlete that I profess to be, and when faced with 900+ netflix titles that included the keyword "yoga," I took a brief skim before settling on Rodney Yee's Intermediate Yoga. I can't be bothered with any "beginner" business. Don't insult me. I can come in and compete on a more intense level. Maybe you don't think of yoga as a competitive sport, but maybe yoga just hasn't had the right grade of competitor. EH? EH?

So even though I'm 10 years late to the yoga game (and ignoring the advice of more wizened exercisers) I put on my running tights and sports bra and showed those hamstrings who's boss.

Trying to ignore the soft, meditative gobbledygook (which I suppose is useful to some, lesser yogathletes), I followed his poses without breaking a sweat. Mountain pose, warrior 1, triangle pose, upward dog, downward dog, camel, warrior 3, inverted triangle. They all sounded more fierce than they were. They also kind of sounded like VanDamme movies. Section one, I own you.

Section Two.

Oh you terrible, terrible section two. You evil inverted poses, you headstands, you twisty backbends. You've worked your Eastern mysticism on me and have hypnotized my forearms and hamstrings to work against me.

what i have learned:

my hamstrings are boss.

experiment: my-so-called-life-at-25

2009-01-27T18:25:00.001-05:00

what i have learned:

1) i had terrible taste in (fictitious) men in 1994!

why i alone, let alone a storm of pubescent girls chose to drool over JORDAN "I'm illiterate" CATALANO instead of sweet, brainy, fro-boy next door BRIAN KRAKOW is unfathomable. unacceptable.

when watching it at 12, as a deluded little sprite, why would I pay any attention to Brian when I could swoon over the much more "attractive" Jared Leto? No brainer. Of course. The object of my affection was "mysterious" and "moody" and "played mediocre collective soul rip offs on his acoustic guitar." Meanwhile, the CLEARLY inferior Brian K was "annoying" and "dorky" and worst of all, "blond." If anything, his character soley existed to contrast just how much of a creamboat Jordan was.

But I watch these episodes now and am angered and disappointed with my 12 year old self. C'mon AA! You should have known better! And the real tragedy in all this is that for the most part, I'm sad to admit, I chose real life Jared Leto douches over Brian Krakows until the end of high school. Yes, football players and guys who drove Camaros and bleached their "tips." How was I so brainwashed by that blue eyed daemon? Most puzzlingly, how could I have justified a parasocial relationship with someone who COULDN'T READ?

Oh the folly of youth. Please forgive me, Brian Krakows of Shawnee Mission West.

2) remember Bush? Sixteen Stone? love it. love it like a little baby.

experiment: consumer reporting

2009-01-22T19:14:00.000-05:00

***UPDATE***
whoa. I have just been informed of something kind of shocking and hilarious, thanks to my epidemiologist friend Dan, who says

"I question the wisdom of naming a cafe after an abortion-inducing poison."

It's true. Yikes. Poor choice, friends.

**************

pennyroyal café.

I have no intent to slander, but you will not survive unless your service gets 100% better. meaning, don’t make out with and fondle fellow employees during serving hours, and don’t let patrons stand awkwardly in the front of the restaurant, unsure of what do to or whom to speak to.

also, figure out how to use the generous space you’ve rented. it looks hollow.

on a positive note, your apple and brie 'wich was good.

with faith and good will,

-adrienne

what I have learned:

I could manage a restaurant rather well, but it’s something that would give me little long term satisfaction.

I am very grateful to be long gone from the food service industry.

Style without substance is ultimately useless.

experimental (arts): 2008

2009-01-06T00:38:00.001-05:00

According to the Chinese, 2008 was the Year of the Rat. To me, it felt like the Year of the Owl because it was the year I mastered flight. Also, I learned a ton.

If you think owls carry an unfair stereotype as being the smartypants of the animal kingdom, just listen to this: the day we dissected owl pellets in high school bio, what did I find to my astonishment and delight but traces of Mensa puzzles, Economist articles, muddied möbius bands, and a bit of Stuart Little's mangled right paw? I say they have earned their bragging rights as scholars and gentlemen.

And this was my year to follow in the flightpath of that old, grizzled Chinese Owl, learning all sorts of things like how to like, love, talk to/like adults, SEO, deal with credit cards companies, 401Ks, sew (sort of), cook (sort of), start a business, use the phrase "gild the lily" appropriately, get fat and happy and self-actualized and all that. On the other hand, my media consumption suffered considerably. Is this just what happens as you get older?

MUSIC

BEST
Finding the Beatles Christmas Records from '64-'69 in mp3 format! I had never heard these before. Best unexpected Christmas gift, hands down. Cribble Mismas to me.

RUNNER UPPERS
I didn't listen to music very much this year but I did give these due consideration:

Jelly Roll Morton - Mister Jelly Lord
Fennesz - Black Sea
Department of Eagles - In Ear Park
Beck - Modern Guilt
Fleet Foxes
Mason Proper
Ivana XL

Instead, I mostly just listened to lots of old standards -(Pulp, Bob Dylan, Eno, Uncle Tupelo, Karl Blau, Songs Ohia, blah) and newbie Taylor Swift (who saw this one coming?).
This was my favorite song in '08.
I was also turned on to Awesome Tapes From Africa and that was a particularly pleasant find.

LET DOWNS
Scott Walker - The Drift. Um, terrifying. I also give a big fat "meh" to Vampire Weekend.

CONCERT

How is it possible that I didn't even go to one show this year?
(Or did I? Apparently if I did it wasn't so memorable.)

BOOK

BEST
The Road. Simple but packs a punch.

RUNNERS UP
The Sacred and Profane Love Machine
Welcome to the Monkey House
No Country For Old Men
Calvin and Hobbes (various)
Jesus the Christ (still working my way through it but I feel confident enough)

LET DOWNS
Guy Davenport. I really, really like most of the challenging, layered stories in The Death of Picasso, but its glorified and graphic pedophilic themes make me (ME!) uncomfortable. Also, it's a little too smug in its "experimental fiction"-ness for me.

TELEVISION

BEST
Flight of the Conchords. (Dedicated to you, '08 Owl).

RUNNERS UP
Are You Being Served?
My So Called Life
any 30 Rock scenes that include Tracy Morgan

LET DOWNS
ummmm. . . nearly getting addicted to The Hills, online, somehow.

FILM

BEST
Wall-E and Paris, Texas (tie)

RUNNERS UP
Getting to see a film print of 2001: A Space Odyssey. Dave lightspeeding through the supernova is insanely awesome on a big screen.

Rachel Getting Married
Mister Lonely
Green Porno
Scenes From a Marriage
Milky Way Liberation Front
Let the Right One In
My Winnapeg
Reprise
Husbands and Wives
Kramer vs Kramer
Synecdoche, New York and Kung Fu Panda (read my thoughts on these last two).

LET DOWNS
Vicky, Christy, Barcelona
The Idiots
The Dark Knight
Nick and Norah's Ultimate Snoozefest
Theater of War
Gates of Heaven
Slumdog Millionaire

WEIRD AWARD
3 Women. Whaaaaaa?

FOOD

BEST
Pantrucas, hiding out in a stripmall a little north of the Provo Temple, makes the best sandwich ever - the Churasco Palta. The owner is also fascinating.

RUNNERS UP

Kitchenette Omelette, but made in my own kitchen for ten dollars less.
Whole Foods' goat cheese spinach salad with blueberries and soy nuts, made in my kitchen for 4 dollars more.
Hatch Family Chocolate's Dark Chocolate Caramel Krispy.
La Esquina.
India Palace.
Avocados.
English muffins.
Cheese (assorted).

LET DOWNS
Gandolfos - what has happened to you, downtown location? You used to make the best West Side Story and now it's just a soggy, sad mess.

Gurus- when did all your entrees get so bland? If it weren't for your sweet potato fries I don't think I'd even visit you at all anymore.

Dinosaur BBQ. Please, I'm from KC, you're gonna have to do better than that.

Colby Jack. And you call yourself cheese.

THINGS

BEST

RUNNERS UP
sitting around and making up absurd music with jared
sitting around and making up absurd dances with jared
sitting around with jared
concepting and writing my first real website
morningside heights dance parties
hunter's drum stool
dusting off my copa mundials after 5 years of shelf sitting
starting phylum kingdom
getting netflix. duh.
hieing to kolob - >

corinne and ted getting engaged!
testimony. line upon line, precept upon precept.
my entire family getting together at thanksgiving.
leaving new york to start a creative writing program and then dropping out of the mfa

LET DOWNS
leaving new york to start a creative writing program and then dropping out of the mfa
my entire family getting together for thanksgiving and all getting the same awful illness.
the election. what an annoying time that was.

What I have learned:
I am very interested in science and nature, though still rotten at that Trivial Pursuit category
I am very blessed.
Provo is a cool town.
Things that smell like cinnamon are irresistible to me.
I would make an excellent contender on American Gladiators because
I AM INVINCIBLE!

Watch out 2009, you old Ox. You are mine.

experiment: jewelry design

2008-12-10T08:02:00.004-05:00

"The Indo-European root of the word 'art' is 'to arrange' or 'fit together, join.' In this light, art can be pared down to its most simplistic form. We begin by collecting, then playing with the materials or objects, organizing them in a variety of ways, making new combinations, trying things, then observing the arrangements we have made." -Ker Smith

Most jewelry doesn't really enthuse me. So I thought I'd try my hand at making some that does. After all, if all art is is collecting and arranging and rearranging the arrangements, who says I can't clew my talents, throw the output at the wall and see what sticks. This wall turns out, is the interweb.

Here it is in stage one of production, the conceptually driven

PHYLUM KINGDOM

See the entire collection here. Just in time for Christmas, might make some cool gifts for the females in your life, or for yourself? Just sayin.

what i have learned:

1- Collaboration is key. And it's really convenient to have talented and beautiful friends. Thanks to Christina, Becca, Hunter, Jared for their conceptual feedback, Emily for some stellar modeling, and Lucy and Megan for their time and talents and lovely images.

All studio shots by Lucy Call (801.647.0758) , all museum shots by Megan Stay. Both are highly recommended.

2- Getting started is pricey.

3 - I am really quite fascinated by bugs and entomology displays. And the Linnaean system, which is why each piece (or "specimen") comes with its own unique Linnaean classification identification, so you can know the genus and species of the item you wear.

4 - I have creative ADD. I wanted to abandon this project like 387 times and start up a variety of other projects and hobbies including being a glass blower's apprentice (for real). Where is my creative ritalin already?

experiment: ebay

2008-11-18T14:26:00.000-05:00

after i bought $2000 bucks worth of jcrew wares for $200 at that discount sale / college reunion, i decided to unleash my entreprenurial spirit on the internet world. lord knows my boyfriend and i only need so much cashmere in our wardrobe before we turn into this.

so i did what like-minded americans have been doing for over a decade: decided to try this thing called ebay. i've never bought or sold anything off ebay before, but the interface was pretty intuitive and within an hour i had created a profile and listed the following four items - brand new italian cashmeres and lambswools - in total retailing about $400.

and to my delight, it worked! people wanted all but this yellow, Mondrian-esque one. C'mon! that's hands down the coolest! I was sad to see it go up online to begin with, but Jared is built more european than american and wasn't pleased with the fit. Does anyone want to buy this off me for a very reasonable rate? It's a men's medium and could make a great holiday gift, or half of a Bert and Ernie costume.

what i have learned:

- start the bidding low.
no one will initially bid on a 82 dollar cashmere sweater. start it at $48 and let it work its way up to $82.

- get a hot model.
most everything (at least in the men's section) was just laid out on carpeting in poor lighting. it's better to see how it looks on.

- offer free shipping. (up the price to compensate).
that holy orange dot just might seal the deal.

- who doesn't love a good sweater vest?

experiment: femalery

2008-11-03T11:42:00.000-05:00

1)
i'm generally not obsessed with my appearance.

unbelievable, i know. i still remember about 5 years ago the moment i made the decision to ditch the concert tshirts and jeans and tie dye and neon adidas sneakers (okay, so i still have these last ones) and start dressing more like a Girl. i wasn't like Paula Poundstoning it or anything, but I wasn't very femme. and you can only be told you resemble a "street urchin," "bag lady," and "war refugee" by your relatives so many times before it shames you into making a drastic change. plus no one wanted to date me.

2)
i am kind of obsessed with eternal sunshine of the spotless mind. i have been since my first viewing, back in 2004. not only is it somewhat of an intellectual throwdown, it's also emotionally resonant, and i probably cry each time i watch it. weep and weep and feel nostalgic (for no one in particular).

anyway, i was watching it recently and was thinking about kirstin dunst's hair. she pulled off this Swiss Miss coiffure in a really rocking way. i've wanted to try this girly (girl-ish?) updo, but my hair's never quite been long enough since i chopped it all off four years ago. but the other day, it was just long enough to hack it. so i made it up as i went along, with no instructions or help, just about two elastics and 60 pins. so what do you think? will this finally seal my acceptance into Girl Community?

who wears it best:

me?

kd?

or challah?

what i have learned:

nothing. absolutely nothing.

experiment: character analysis

2008-10-21T14:02:00.001-04:00

so there was this guy I was into my freshman year. a real hip guy. so hip, in fact, that at first, I mistook him for retarded.

pardon my political incorrectness, but let’s call a spade a spade for a minute. and let me be candid here, those were my exact thoughts the first time I saw him – “is he hot, or retarded?” So if you are uncomfortable with that term, just substitute “extra righteous” in its stead.

but really though, the line is fine between the two. there seems to be some recent character rule that whoever the hippest is, also looks the most handicapped. this is not always the case, but there is some undeniable correlation. it actually becomes a little silent game I play to divert myself: who likes Lambchop and who likes Lambchop? Who just spent their lunchbreak looking through the denim rack at DI, and who just took their DI lunchbreak? hard to tell.

INT: Smith’s grocery store, night.

He was classically good looking, big brown eyes, disheveled hair, like a roughed-up Milo Ventimiglia. wearing a one-piece brown long john, booties (untied, laces askew) , and –well, guess this is the most economical way to say this —retard glasses (these will be important later on). All the immediate signs pointed to handicapped, but my fascination remained. America and Kate were with me, caught me looking incredulously in his direction, and together uttered a preemptive, though tardy, “no.”

“what?” I said. “he’s hot!”

“no.” they said, and kept walking toward produce.

“yeah, or maybe he’s retarded." i said, looking back at him. "I can’t tell.”

“it’s the latter,” kate said.

and I wanted to believe her, but I was intrigued and needed to know if this was someone I could have a romantic future with, or if those hopes should be dashed.

“it’s all in the eyes,” I said, hoping to believe this once voiced. "I just need eye contact. I'll be right back."

I proceeded to follow the magnetic little creature around the store, daring him to look me in the eye, so I could determine, as I had hypothesized, whether he was hot or retarded. I needed a recognition, a smile, an acknowledgment, a sudden tongue-kiss, something.

but he wouldn’t look at me! or anywhere near me! he kind of just looked around to himself, muttering and scratching himself and standing in front of the sausage case for an uncomfortably long time. it was hard to be a spy when my subject was so, I don’t know, docile. boring. And I couldn’t just stand next to him all that time without giving up the ruse. I pretended to read labels on an end-cap display, but you can only do that for so long before someone questions your mental stability.

I saw him heading down the frozen foods isle. I quickly ran down to the end of the aisle next to his isle and cornered it so we’d pass each other going opposite directions. I stared him down, but he walked past me as if I wasn’t there.

Eventually he moved on toward dairy, still without any groceries and no apparent interest in me or anything else in the store.

Deflated, I trotted back to my shopping cohorts to give the verdict.

“Can’t tell. but I’m leaning towards retarded.” I said. “But I’m still attracted to him.”

The three of us continued our shopping for another ten minutes, and pulled up to the check out lines when what do you know, there he was next to us, Mr. Special (Needs?), carrying –let me be exact –a 2 liter bottle of store brand grape soda, and a package of hot dogs. no buns in sight. that was it.

Retarded.

Amy and Kate congratulated themselves on their judgment call, and I slung a sack of mini wheats over my shoulder and headed out to the parking lot.

And there he was, outside, chatting up a girl in my geology lab. and they were having a normal conversation as far as I could tell, smiling and laughing and sharing anecdotes that probably don’t involve accidentally mistaking finger nail polish for a condiment.

Hot.

I stood corrected. And slightly ashamed. So there it is. what a strange world. what a strange bird.

EXT: Smith’s parking lot, night. FADE OUT.

Later that year I’d see “Hot or Retarded Boy” (as he came to be known) around occasionally, at shows, or the old Diego’s, or walking down University scribbling away to himself about who knows what. I never intended to initiate anything. he was too interesting an observational specimen to actually get involved somehow. and then he eventually faded away entirely, a hyperbolic figure only to be brought up at dinner parties, during lulls in conversation.

i met him again, quite inadvertently, about 5 years later, when he, i, and our mutual friend carpooled to salt lake for a show. I honestly hadn’t thought about him for a few years. but there he was, in the car when she came to pick me up. I had to catch myself from loudly exclaiming “Hot or Retarded!,” myself like the latter, proudly recognizing and properly naming a Person, Place or Thing and expecting accolade or a vanilla wafer in return.

HoR looked slightly less handicapped this time, dressed like any ol' hip kid, but somehow he looked crazier. and it was something in his eyes that told me this. it was like he hadn't closed them at all in the last five years.

I introduced myself, and then said nothing else. And after spending a bit of time pretending I didn’t know him, hadn’t had jokes with friends at his (and my, per my attraction) expense, I came to conclude he was actually more than sufficiently intelligent. just marched to his very own, very small and musically difficult to decipher drum. good for him.

long post short, I bought some glasses recently.

Climactic, huh?

I didn’t realize it until I made jared try them on for fun, that they are eerily similar to the glasses HoR was wearing. what does this mean? what does this MEAN!

Hot and Not At All Retarded Boy

what I have learned:

don’t judge a book by its long johns.

experiment: friendly persuasion

2008-10-06T23:08:00.000-04:00

or: what advertising has taught me about politics.

i still don’t know who I’m voting for in november. really.

in hopes of maintaining as much objectivity as possible, I’m trying to sort through all the hype and SNL skits and meaningless statistics and mudslinging and get to the meat of the situation. the issues. and I’m having a hard time contextualizing just about anything. just about every “fact” is contradictory. though it might seem unpopular or unwise to even still be considering a republican candidate, I don’t see any reason I shouldn’t still try try try to garner facts late in the game. though mccain has a crazy lazy eye and palin sounds a bit folksy and uneducated, I want to give people the benefit of the doubt. I hate to judge a book by its cover, or even its prologue, or amazon rating. same goes with team obama.

now, a word on branding. and the point of this political epistle.

coming from a branding back ground, it’s always fascinated me how people are so influenced by a brand. and why shouldn’t they be? there are people whose full time jobs it is to segment every micro-niche of a population, demographic-designators (and sometimes market designers, shudder) who know what product to sell to whom, when, and how to sell it to them. they’re smart. they’re sneaky. they’re subtle manipulators. remember those truth, anti-tobacco ads that have been running for the past 5 years or so? remember how Big Tobacco was segmenting some of their customers? to a T? and how they would convince people to smoke and keep smoking? Well, I’m a far cry from a politico, but I can guarantee you this much, the tactics employed by political branding and campaign managers are just as deeply specific and shady as Big Tobacco's. I know motives are different here, and that's the big difference, but you know what I mean.

this might come as a patronizing, underwhelming shock, but you, me, and miranda july have ALL been targeted this way! outrage! very specifically. and marketed to in a way that is hard to understand, but whose techniques have undergone rounds of focus groups and ethnographies, and in the end, mister advertiser knows that you are 24, drive a pontiac hatchback, subscribe to Wired, and eat chicken vindaloo four times a month. they know to get you they'll need to say the following key words: "energy-efficient" "change" "maverick" "web 2.0" blah blah blah. and then they strike when it's hot (2am on facbook) with a carefully tailored message that makes you think "Gee you're right, I must be a Obama/McCain type of person!"

And you might not be completely wise to this scheme, because the whole point of effective branding is to convince your target market of the superiority of a brand UNCONSCIOUSLY. so when they’re shopping at target and have to choose between Method and Softsoap, they automatically go for Method, for reasons they can sometimes articulate, but often times cannot. it equates to a feeling, an impulse. Also, Method has just undergone a package redesign and comes in hipper bottle with less clutter and copy, so why wouldn't you? But does it clean better than Softsoap? Doubtful. and in the end, you’re paying for aesthetic. a prettier package.

I have to say, the brand of Barack Obama has been very good from the start. He’s had the fortune of good designers, good marketers, a flock of celebrity endorsers who petition his cause and his good name all over the internet. his campaign understood new media and how to milk support from online communities from the get-go. the “maverick” was, unsurprisingly, a little late on the draw. so even initially, from a branding standpoint, it was good to be Barack Obama. What can I say, he’s a Mac.*

And he sounds like he has some good ideas and simple (if vague) summations for how to put our country back on track. (or rather, to pick it up from the fiery rubble that used to be a track and brush it off). I’m not afraid of people voting for Barack Obama. instead, my fear is this: too many people may be voting for Obama the Brand™ instead of Obama.

don’t get me wrong, he's appealing to me as well. what's not to like? he’s attractive, clean cut, presentable, articulate, confident, general good orator and seems like a generally good man with good motives. and I hope he is, because I may be voting for him in 4 weeks. maybe I’m just hyper-aware and paranoid because of my ad background, but something in Barack, seems, well, too good to be true. too. . . crafted. it's like i can just see what that first meeting (for him and mccain) was like where all the campaign managers, image consultants, branders, designers, etc sat huddled around a conference table and said: "okay, how can we sell him to soccer moms? how can we mobilize college kids?" you know! I've just been in those meetings too many times. it's so much about image and perception.

i like the IDEA of Obama. will I like the reality? and am I frightened by the prospect of voters who opt for him without really investigating what a Obama White House would mean? the point of this whole thing isn't to say, don't vote Dems, but is to say, think about why it is you're voting for him. or if you're leaning GOP, the same goes for y'all. I know it hurts, but baby, be a little self-analytical. for those of you who already have/are, good on you.

My other fear here is that people have sided with Obama because of what he is not. He is not GWBush. he has kind of been branded as the anti-bush, an antidote to bush and all bushness. Understandably, Americans are anxious for "Change®" after a corrupt and disappointing administration. I am one of them. But I hesitate to vote for Obama soley on grounds that he is NOT bush. That being said, If you (and I) are going to elect him as our next president, do so because of what he IS. not just because he represents some epistemological enemy to your enemy (Bush).

Let me reiterate. I’m not anti-Obama. I’m not pro-Obama. Same goes for McCain. Although part of me loves an underdog, and also feels like the McCain ticket has been treated a bit unfairly. Fair and Equal Time? not to my knowledge. I’m an avid NPR-ite, but I’ve got to say, everytime I turn on the radio it’s Barack Story Hour with Michele Norris. Everyone has their biases, not least of all news organizations, but I’m just saying. If nothing else, this election year shows us the tremendous role media plays as a political influencer. did the first presidential get-together remind anyone else of the JFK/Nixon debate? the young, handsome candidate vs. the semi-saggy, less attractive, abuser of the auditory? (i really can’t stand his voice).

if you think I’ve let mccain and sidekick off the hook in all this, I haven’t. I just think they've endured the majority of the mocking for geninue (but lots of superficial) hmm, shall we say “missteps?” and do me a favor when you watch the next debate (as well as in the future): try to ignore colloquialisms, hairplugs, or freakishly skinny necks, and listen to what people are actually SAYING. and whether they're spouting off nice-sounding slogans written by some copywriter or are getting to the hard and fast specifics of the situation.

so wrapping up. if upon further investigation I vote for Obama, I’m assuming it’s friendliness as usual between you (internet audience) and me. But know that If I vote for McCain it was because I genuinely felt it was right, and my integrity wouldn’t let me get out of it. To mine own self vote against universal healthcare, government bailouts, and gay marriage.

If you have actual facts (in CONTEXT!!!) that might be helpful for an indecisive moderate like me, let me have em.

what I have learned:

- it’s hard to know where one can go to get unbiased information.
- the power of branding is pretty amazing.
- SNL has really lucked out by having a cast member who could double as a vp nominee. it's almost too easy for them this season, but it may prove to be their saving grace.

*i was not the first to use this analogy, but i should have been! i've been saying it since march! stupid ny times, stealing my thunder.

**it should be noted, that when it comes to politics, it is very likely i don't know what i'm talking about. take my opinions for what they are - opinions. but in terms of branding, listen to mama.

experiment: graduate school

2008-10-02T15:41:00.007-04:00

are you ever sitting somewhere, in some present or ongoing situation and thinking, "mis-take." or "esoteric bullshit." (pardon my language, but c'mon, if you don't use at least four four-letter words every hundred or so, what sort of creative writer upholding the face of academia ARE you!?) if you've felt these feelings, then you, friend, will know of my troubles. well, troubles no more.

using disgusting amounts of agency, i withdrew from the MFA.

yep, that's right. didn't even make it a semester. and it's too late to apologize. too late. rather, ladles and gentleminds, i offer you this promise.

"Shine on you crazy diamond!" you yelled.

I've heard your call. and i've heeded. Indeed, i've heeded. and I will shine on, i swear it. I shall sally forth into other recreations! creative entrepreneurialism, netflix binge, debilitating bouts of self-doubt and second guessing, pie challenge, - - - here i come!

i really hate to solicit praise, but i think some congratulations are in order here.

what i have learned:
I - capital C creative capital W writing is not necessary for creative writing. (i'm really counting on this hypothesis to pull through for me). though the structure is nice.

II - grad school is neither the answer nor the question.

III - but it's not that hard.

IV - a raven is really nothing like a writing desk.

V - having a university dress code was actually kind of nice.

experiment: new york, new york

2008-09-21T21:32:00.007-04:00

here it is. my one thousand word photo-essay of the city where i lived, i loved, i learned, i alliterated. it was difficult to narrow it down to an image that captured the city as I saw it and would like to remember it, but this one really slams it on its enormous, schizophrenic head. trying to reduce new york to just one image initially seemed impossible. but what is more improbable is trying to do the place justice. you know how awesome it is, you've been there, you've seen, you've experienced how it felt, and how, inexplicably you just feel different there (assuming you didn't spend all your time in midtown). i don't need to harp on about it or list all the reasons it's the second greatest city on earth (sorry, new york, old york still takes the cake, or trifle? london, see.) ah, city livin'.

what i have learned:

place is important. but people (like two fancy old friends or two sunning lovers) make the place, and though lots of my proper-noun-loves are still in new york, what can i say - i left my heart in provo. for however much i fought it, person eventually trumps place. check.

experiment: hip hop ononomous

2008-09-11T11:03:00.000-04:00

so there's this friend of mine--a state champion, collegiate gymnast. she can do things with her arms and legs that i consider impossible for most bipeds. she recently came to visit and wanted to check out a dance class while in town.

"dance class? that sounds fun! like ballet? argentine tango? highland jig?. . . . hip hop? . . . . um. . . . you know, on second thought, my doctor advised me against putting undue lateral pressure or movement on my ankle, so i may have to pass." (pansyfied truth, but truth nonetheless.)

justified, right? hip hop is one of the few genres i feel completely debilitates me. i'm at a dance party, i'm going strong to some inxs or css, and then - smack! - metaphorical brass knuckles to the face! how do i move my arms? how do i move my legs? what do i do with my butt! quick!! what do i do with my butt!! and what about my cardigan? can i swing it around my head like a helicopter--would that be cool? a mid-air cardigan-swing?

(refresher: i am the girl who in 9th grade uttered the infamous, "so, is there a girl in Ja Rule?" smart, huh? look, i know what OPP is (and am definitely not down with it) and can rattle off the lyrics to "shoop" like the fourth member of the group, who i like to think would've been a Latina called Paprika, but that is about it. want to have a debate about East coast vs west coast rap, or about Biggy Smalls vs Biggy Biggins? I will warm the forensic bench and watch you work it, flip it and reverse it.)

And the thought of going with Splits Pommelhorse to a breaking class? confidence-breaking.
as far as dance is concerned, she's darren's dance grooves, and i'm a stake road show waiting to happen.

"but adrienne," said the petit quadridexterate," this is an experiment. you always like trying things out."

word, ken-dawg. i'm down with science. let's do it.

not knowing what to wear, and not having any appropriate attire even if i had, i put on my running clothes. no not the fancy new york ones--skin-tight and anti-gravity, but the old cross country tee and soccer shorts. she looked a little more hip hop than me in baggy green pants and a tank top, but not by too much. i was feeling up to the occasion.

the class, a weekly session in a old studio near union square, was taught by, get this, Angel.

angel feliciano. choreographer to the stars. he's big time. been on mtv. worked with J.Lo, people. he came in, introduced himself to the newbies (most were recurring characters, ones who looked like they belonged) and wasted no time getting us "loose."

i jockeyed for position in the back, as close to the door as possible. facing the mirror, he looked into it and back at me, silently calling me on my back-row cowardice. eek, not a good way to get in cherub's graces. he turned on his music machine and out poured the sickening smooth of usher raymond. this song. and everyone started dancing. and it looked really good. all 12 or so of them looked like BET all stars. i stood there, rocking inward on my sauconys and fidgeting with my ponytail. i felt like lance bass at the playboy mansion. i felt like the girl who likes metaphors but doesn't ever have the patience to dig for the right one.

"ok, y'all. let's slow this waaaay down," angel said, answering my prayers. "from the top."

he proceeded to go through each step, slowed down sufficiently, so even i could get it. after teaching the new kids on the block about 16 bars or so, we'd stop, turn on the song from the beginning and run through the new routine. the regulars looked bored. in spite of everything, it was unexpectedly fun. though i did hamper my progress because of my intense focus on each individual move and not on the collective seamlessness of the routine. i looked jerky. i looked a little square-dancey. and catching a glimpse of my own reflection in the mirror, was making an extremely square-dancey face. maybe, i said to myself, it's because i'm just a beginner.

looking right to Balance Beam Betty, i deflated. she had it down to a science. stupid quick learner.

after finally learning the first 30 seconds or so and feeling comfy enough to move up near the middle of the floor, i suddenly saw a blip appear on my confidence meter! haha, you tricky dancers, i too have learned your steps! but before i could fully revel in my ability to mimic and memorize, angel stepped it up a notch. crap.

the second half of the class was spent in a desperate attempt to just keep up, not even trying to learn anything new. legs and arms flailed about, cascades of sweat falling over the "Sha" and "sion" of my Shawnee Mission shirt. and sauconys? the completely WRONG shoes to wear. most dancers in the class were wise to the fact that you need to wear something with a bare sole for smooth sliding across the wood floor. hey, i'm learning. then finally, after 35 minutes of making me feel simultaneously pumped and depressed, angel called it quits.

"for those of y'all who are new, come say hi before you take off." (he was super nice, i gotta say that much).

Gymnastia and i obediently trotted over to the front of the studio.

"I'm Naturally Talented," she said, outstretched hand.

"I'm from Kansas" I offered, only later realizing this wasn't a name but an apology.

what i have learned:

Hip hop = hard. If you can't pop or lock, you're going to look a fool trying to dance in a hip hop class. Learn fundamentals of those first.

Hip hop = fun. I even liked the Usher song at the end, and the two of us kept breaking out in our dance routine on the N train.

And be sure to catch me on my new reality TV show this fall, "So You Don't Think You Can Dance, Fatty Fatpants?" starring Me, Bruce Vilanch, and Elaine Benes!

experiment: botany, or Why I Can't Have Nice Things

2008-08-04T13:22:00.000-04:00

plants are fascinating, aren't they? little green disturbances that annoy as often as astonish. annoy because you spent 3/4 of your life picking weeds, and the other 1/4 mowing what seemed like acres of parched kansas lawn. using a hatch-job lawnmower. and with a discman duct taped to your sweaty teenage torso.

don't get me wrong, i like plants as much as the next person who doesn't like plants. that is, to say, i enjoy the scenery. i've even recently voyaged to the bowels of brooklyn to enjoy the botanical gardens in all their rose colored glory. and i'm partial to showers of romanticism and dream about a future in the oregonian rain forest, establishing homestead in the magical blueberry fields that surround my estate. but TEND to plants? to quote a london prof, "not i, said the duck."

so to acquaint myself with the wonders of creation, i bring you a preparatory step toward fauna fantasia--my little eggling!

finally! something for the homeowner who loves eggs and strawberry plants and novelty trinkets! don't you just adore the Japanese!

actually the first thing that crossed my mind when I opened the gift bag was a flash of a certain jr high home ec teacher's face. she had assigned "egg babies" to "couples" to "rear." or at least keep from cracking. to see how responsible these 13 year olds could be and to teach them, just how darn HARD it is to take care of an egg. this was perhaps her misguided attempt to a) teach adolescents responsibility and regard for anything other than self, and b) to keep them FAR FAR away from each other's genitals. yay for conservative midwestern sex ed, in which we have to use symbolic eggs in place of real ones.

this is your brain on _______.

i was excited at my new undertaking. if friends of mine could care for babies, i shouldn't balk at tending to an egg plant. egg plant. and strawberries! that's an exciting combination. it's got murakami written all over it, right? kaikai! kiki! riding a giant strawberry egg through the sky!

here is my eggling in its early infancy. i name it Dottie, an homage to the new york wit, ms. parker.

for 4 days i love dottie like the satirist daughter i never had. and then, tragically, in a freak watering accident

cracked!
scrambled!
fried!
poached!
sunny side dooowwwwn!

oh the cruelty of hardwood floors! poor little dot, taken at the tender age of 96 hours.

the proof is in the photos, people. i am not fit to be a plant caretaker.
i am ashamed.
i have hazardous hands, consistent poor luck, and my possessions take the heat for it.

don't believe me?

(it's is a more a maniacal weeping than it is a gentle. 1997-2008 RIP.)

what i have learned:

you probably shouldn't let me babysit, or watch your yacht in the off season.

experiment: contesting

2008-07-10T14:35:00.001-04:00

how couples in closely related fields manage to avoid the pitfalls of competition is always astounding. the notion of “group work” is anathema to me. (too many cooks! get out of my creative kitchen! Don’t even think about touching my grilled cheese!) however. however. i’ve realized, because of those twin towers of intransigence and arrogance, i’ve actually missed out.

see, jared won a very cool contest, accompanied by laud and a bag o goodies. we were able to work on much of this together and i honestly think we (and the project) were the better for it. but still, it was him that won. he reaped the fruits. and yes, i was genuinely excited for him, and yes, i do want a talented friend to get the recognition he very much deserves. but hey, wait a minute! what about me? don't cut-ME-out, uncle joey. i need to win something, too!

these incessant, internal “me-toos!” coupled by a simply awful work month, tripled by my feelings of creative flabbiness—led me to start looking for creative contests of my own.

the first i found was accidental, on jaman.com—a very cool, alternative distribution site for foreign and low budget domestic films (intentional plug, i actually think it’s cool). we’d met the founder just weeks ago at a tribeca thing and after jared interviewed him, i wanted to check out the site for myself. and i ran across a promo--$1000 to whole foods for the best review of the documentary “super size me.” it seemed, i don’t know, five years too late to be running such a show, but i figured, hey, i’ve seen it, i can write, i can win this thing. i can join my boyfriend in the winner’s circle. so, with HIS input and feedback, i wrote a slightly ridiculous "review" of the movie. and thanks very much to kith and kin, i won! that's right. i can call myself a winner.

(hopefully, i will prove to be proficient in more than just food-centric writing. the first time i traded words for dollars was when i won a creative arts contest as an undergrad --500 bucks for a poem that was more or less about, yeah, wal-mart.).

you know that feeling, when you’re type type typing away, or designing away, or sautéing away, or strumming away, or accounting away, or biologizing away, or experimenting-away, and you suddenly realize --- hey, i could do this. not just now, but for a living? do you? it’s (peacefully) intoxicating, and somehow, a firm ground.

but could i be better? working with another? or was this just a fluke?

this is a question i am trying really hard to answer. and maybe it will find itself, and maybe it will take its sweet time, and maybe, like Rilke suggests, i should learn to live the questions. and though i am starting to see the fruits of collaboration, that doesn’t mean healthy competition is wrong, right? in romantic relationships and in all others? what if it makes me want to be better?

i am competitive, certainly. i used to have intense soccer matches to channel this, but now i can make anything a contest. what do you want—i’m a scorpio. hear me scuttle silently, strike, and watch my victims seethe in pain. hahahah. just kidding, i am Nice scorpion. who is trying hard to become less of a contestant even if it kills me or means i have to share or expose my vulnerabilities and creative ideologies to criticism and revision.

what I have learned:

loads.

since beginning the reluctant, solipsistic shed, i’m feeling much better about TEAMWORK. and more than the proof (mostly for myself) of being able to win, and more than the impending whole foods shopping spree (hello, 21 dollar a pound cheeses!) maybe collaboration can be better than going it solo. (turns out, not everyone will in fact, burn my grilled cheese. some will take it to a level of cheesy, gooey perfection.)

goodness, look how long this is. you know who i want to collaborate with next? an editor.

hypothesis: the internet sucks (creativity)

2008-07-01T13:50:00.001-04:00

i venture there is a direct inverse relationship.

(i just lost 5 points posting this. but it was done in the name of science.)

experiment: missionary

2008-06-19T10:43:00.000-04:00

aka the longest blog EVER

i went street contacting with the missionaries on saturday in times square. it was scary and exciting and cool. as someone who hates being approached by pretty much everyone, i also hate approaching people who are strangers and asking them for a minute of their time. (i have the utmost respect for those who do this long term—shout out to alex, my brother in argentina!)

no doubt you’ve seen the Mormon missionaries around at least a few times in your life – white shirt and tie (men) and modest skirt/dress (women) and tried to avoid them or walk a bit faster so you don’t have to look them in the eye. c’mon, i know how it is. well on saturday, i volunteered to team up with them for a few hours. watch out!

i wondered if there would be much competition in such a TOTALLY INSANE part of town as Times Freaking Square—there are always (manic) street preachers declaring fire and brimstone at the top of their lungs. i wondered how we could compete, with what i’m sure some think is a comparably crazy message (it’s not. really). i happened to be working with the sister missionaries (one who used to be one of Jared’s film students--weird). our directive was to tell people a bit about our faith and invite them to attend a church service in one of our many manhattan chapels. simple.

some were “too busy.”

some thought we were handing out free tickets to something, and were disappointed when no, it wasn’t a free sandwich coupon after all (sorry) or a ticket to a pre-screening of the Love Guru (not sorry, you should be ashamed of yourselves).

some were Muslim and didn’t want to hear anything about Christ. but they were nice about it.

i’m sure some talked with us just because we were two attractive twenty-somethings. whatever, catch’em with honey i guess.

some tried to sell us knockoff handbags. very aggressively.

some people were on the phone.

some had earbuds in, undoubtedly grooving to that tres annoying “bleeding love” ditty that entertainment weekly, in a clearly unprophetic and unfortunate manner, has just named the song of the summer.

but most people were really receptive. they expressed that they often felt confused about the idea of God or salvation, they didn’t know who they really were, where they came from, why they struggled with particular challenges, the purpose of life, etc. most people were happy to hear us reassure them of our belief in God’s love for us all, that His church is on the earth, and He has a plan for them. some expressed their existential crises and prodded us for some sort of therapy, which i didn’t feel qualified to give – hello! i’ve got my own stuff to figure out, called “being an adult,” before i can dole out that kind of advice to others. and then many echoed our testimonies of Christ and the importance of family, etc.

it was cool to see how people i didn’t know minutes before, grew to understand that Mormons weren’t just some kooky polygamist sect but A) that we were nice, educated and articulate and B) that what they believed about God and Christ and what we believed weren’t really so different. to come to commonality. that was the most rewarding.

in fact, almost all those we spoke with, even if they weren’t interested, were really nice.

there were a few who weren’t though, and even though I ALWAYS WANT TO ARGUE ALWAYS AT ALL TIMES ABOUT EVERYTHING, at that point i (miraculously?) didn’t feel argumentative, but rather just smiled and wished them a nice day.

but really, so many people we ran into have no idea what we believe or have totally wrong interpretations of Mormonism! if anything, i really get upset when people who don’t even know me tell me what i believe! thank you, but as someone who lives with ME i know what i believe. i don’t want to be a Christian apologist. i’ll leave that to CS Lewis, who does a much better job than i ever could, but please Internet, let me set it straight (because there are so many misrepresentations and so much hilariously false info out there):

What I Believe, in My Own Words (i was going to call it The Gospel According to Adrienne, but that feels like it might somehow tow the line of sacrilege):

1. God: i believe in God. i believe He created me and loves me unconditionally.

2. Jesus Christ: i believe in Jesus Christ. i believe He is the Son of God, the Savior of the World.

a few people refused to talk with us on the grounds that, “you’re mormon, you don’t believe in the same Jesus that we do.”

um, no. i can assure you the Jesus you believe in (if you are Christian) is the exact same one i believe in. call me crazy, but i think Mary only had one immaculately conceived son, certainly not two twins both called Jesus. so please, don’t tell me it’s not the “same Jesus”—that’s like saying there are two Thom Yorke’s and you believe in one and i believe in another. guess what—there’s only one of him, (and one working eye), and just because you prefer Kid A while i will forever extol the virtues of The Bends, doesn’t mean they came from different people. (i’m listening to radiohead today, that’s why i picked his name out of the air. i do not mean to compare Yorke to Christ, although i guess he could be called rock deity). Ill analogy? Perhaps.

i believe Christ atoned for our sins and died on the cross and was resurrected. “Mormon” is a nickname. Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the real name. hence, i believe it is HIS church, He is at the head of it, just like He was in the days of the original 12 apostles. CRUX!!: HE is in the center of my faith, everything else is just an appendage (important yes, but supporting).

3: Joseph Smith: He is not a God. I do not worship him. in fact he is very mortal, and made plenty of mistakes. no prophet is perfect because –eh, they are mortal. that’s true for those in the Bible or in the Book of Mormon. God works through all sorts of people, qualified or not.

4: Polygamy: nope. not us. don’t trust Big Love, no matter how much you loved Bill Paxton in Apollo 13. (man, i am abounding in good works AND pop culture references today!)

here’s where what i believe becomes a bit different from quote unquote mainstream Christianity

4: Continuing revelation
okay. so prophets of old taught scripture from revelation received in their day. and as the books of the Bible were written, those new doctrines began to be preached. it didn’t all come at once, but as events transpired, those oral doctrines (and sometimes written, like all of the epistles of paul, james, etc) started being taught. so i believe that since God is the same yesterday, today and forever ad infinitum, he continues to work through His prophets like this and continues to reveal new things. He cares about us today as much as He cared about his children then. i know He still talks to us, with messages perhaps more relevant to 2008 than 8AD. just like Moses and Noah of old, there are prophets on earth today who can give us instruction and guidance for our time. God wouldn’t abandon us. He cares about us too much to stop talking to us altogether. God is definitely not dead.

5: Personal revelation aka prayer
i’ve been accused of being in a faith that breeds blind followers. that i just dutifully obey leaders and never question anything. that’s almost laughable in light of one of my church’s foremost beliefs that every person on the earth (LDS or otherwise) is entitled to a personal relationship with their creator. they can get their own confirmation of what the truth is, independent of any organized structure. ie- you don't always need a rabbi or priest to relate God's words to you, you are entitled to have Him to answer you directly. i believe in this personal sort of revelation—it’s called prayer. by praying, you’re talking to God, and He can answer you. sometimes He doesn’t though and then you must use your INTELLECT, REASON and agency to figure out what to do. my faith is an extremely participatory one. you cannot follow blindly, because you must be engaged, acting for yourself. the way my church is structured is so everyone has a role to play (teachers, bishops, librarians, publicity folks (hi mom!), leaders of auxiliary organizations etc). everyone, including clergy, is unpaid, and everyone works together as volunteers.

6: Families: Families are forever. we will be with our loved ones after we die. so naturally, eternal marriage is a reality. we believe that through the proper ordinances, it doesn’t have to be “till death do us part.” nope, we’re sticking together—in this life and in heaven. temples play into a big part of this, too. most of the sacred ordinances performed in temples are done so to perpetuate the concept of the eternal family. this is why geneology work is so important to mormons.

okay, that’s enough on my Mormon beliefs for one day, but still i always want to discuss and philosophize on the following topic — general to any breed of spirituality, organized or not, Christian or not.

I believe that faith is not the opposite of reason

the two can and do coexist. you can tell me they don’t but that’s like telling me i didn’t have honey nut shredded wheat for breakfast. i know from personal experience that i did, along with a few spoons of peanut butter. likewise, i know from personal experience and leagues of soul-searching that this is the case. so don’t tell me reason and faith don’t belong together because i have employed the use of both to get to where i am - spiritually, intellectually, emotionally.

i believe in science. i believe in evolution. i believe in God. that triad is not an incongruous one. sometimes i have to have faith in science, sometimes i have to have faith in spirituality. blind faith in science will get you just as far as blind faith in god. the unexamined life/religion is not worth living etc. etc

i just read this very interesting (secular) book —it had its problems and half-baked arguments for sure, but the core idea is something i find to be very prescient: that there are truths that cannot be discovered or quantified by science. i mean, the concept of Love is the one that always get used as the example, but beyond that. there are things even the rigors of science cannot explain. not to discredit science, there are also things faith, or Art in Lehrer’s case, can’t explain. i think the best way to find truth is some combination of the two.

i think people are often surprised to find that as someone to whom religion is so foundational, i also love and acknowledge science. that i can have a testimony of creationism and evolution (in parts). Darwin was right about a lot of things, but so was Christ. at the helm of the LDS church (the general authorities- our modern day 12 apostles) are prominent and respected neuroscientists, heart surgeons, chemists. none of whom have formal religious training, but are all very secularly sharp men, all critical thinkers—no strangers to reason.

as a super curious girl (from a young age) i’ve always questioned everything. i've continued to do so. my faith encourages critical analysis. if you disagree with something, you speak up. i have done this. Elena is a very good example of this and was constantly asking the hard questions when we were growing up (and now), sometimes to the frustration of our teachers who didn’t always know the answers off hand (they were volunteers after all), but i like that she dug hard until she could understand something.

okay, i’m stopping – i could honestly speak forever on this point, and it will have to be saved for another day because i am straying, straying. . . . straying . . .

in summation. our late prophet, Gordon Hinckley, often said this (speaking of our faith), and i love it:

“Well, it's either true or false. If it's false, we're engaged in a great fraud. If it's true, it's the most important thing in the world. Now, that's the whole picture. It is either right or wrong, true or false, fraudulent or true.”

what i have learned:

i found out for myself that it is true. that the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter-day Saints is the restored gospel of Jesus Christ . i found this out at age 24, using a killer combo of intellect, reason, and faith and a very cool personal spiritual manifestation that shall not be discussed herein. some of you who have known me as mormon from day one might think i've always known it's true. but i haven't. i've had glimpses here and there during the way, but i still questioned and questioned. it required lots of work and intense pleading with God, asking him to tell me if i was involved in a "great fraud," or if what i was doing was, in fact, real and true and pleasing to my Father in Heaven. that's not to say that now i'm set for life. noooo. far from it. i'm still at the early stages of my spiritual development. i've been severely humbled and am still learning and growing.

so. whether you buy it or you don’t, at least now you understand me a bit better. let me know if you want to know more or discuss anything, i looove talking about religion/spirituality and not just my faith, but all religions, creeds, what have you. and i’m not asking you to call the missionaries or covert to Mormonism tomorrow – i’m not one to push my beliefs onto others. most of my best friends do not share my faith. and that’s cool. i will let you believe what you believe as long as you (general public) let me do the same. this hasn’t been me proselytizing, hopefully it was more informative than anything. also, here is a good place to start for more information.
or, if you're within a stone's throw of a borough, you can go to the chapel on east 87th between 2nd and 3rd tonight! to hear Glenn Beck speak on What Mormons Believe. NExt week, the CFO of Citigroup (Gary something--aren't they all) will be speaking. Both should be good.

experiment: pudding on the gross

2008-06-09T15:46:00.002-04:00

what i have learned:

if, lazing on a sunday afternoon, you feel the urge to try to cheat the recipe and just cook rice and cook pudding and throw the two together, all you get is chocolate rice. i actually hypothesized as much, but just couldn't bring myself to break the sabbath and get the needed ingredients. obedience sometimes tastes a bit chalky.

experiment: identity change

2008-06-03T12:24:00.003-04:00

aggen.

why do people call me this? how and when and where did it start?

i suppose at first it was for utility’s sake. it’s hard having more than one adrienne around. and since adrienne and i have been bosom friends since we were 10, and now are roommates, at some point along the way it happened to be easier for those around us to refer to us by our last names. that’s my theory, anyway.

well, to be precise, it started with soccer nicknames. two adrienne’s on the shamrocks was a lot. i think i’ll credit jeff thornburgh (or one of his daughters) with coining “Ace” and “AA,” for her and i, respectively—nicknames that passed in a sporting environment, but didn’t really fly elsewhere. that being said, certain individuals have gained the right to refer to us by those much quicker acronyms (you know who you are), and really, i don’t i know what i’d do if i ever visited the thornburgh’s and was called anything else besides “AA.”

but this “aggen” business is different. every time i’m summoned in such a way i flinch inside and feel like a swift pat on the rear is going to follow. “gee coach, i’d love to go back on the field and thrash those Huskies in the final playoff game, but you see, i’ve got this bum ankle, see. let Little Legs LaRue go in my place, coach."

you know!? really, gosh, sorry i’m such an absurdly fantastic natural athlete, but it’s not like i’m walking around in a pinnie all the time, right?

sports aside, it’s such a harsh word. it’s just so. . . . so. . .German. i certainly love it for how unique it is, but i dislike it because i think hearing it is a bit like the fresh sting of shrapnel in your face.

“AAYYYYGEN!”

doesn’t it just sound like a detonation? don’t you just feel like the HJ is going to show up at your door, and start knocking over cabinets and end tables in a mad jew-hunt?* you almost have to shout it when you say it.

along the way, others have had their merry ways with it and taken the liberty of devising other pronunciations.

chateau salutes the motherland with a chesty “AHHHGUN!” in the manner of someone who subsists on a steady diet of barley and commercial concrete.

christina “aggens” all day and night when she’s off duty from admiring her boyfriend’s backside.

casey still “AA’s” on occasion. this is okay. this is nostalgic.

spencer tosses “dudes,” around like he does whippersnappers, and does so totally irrespective of gender.

kendra “A”s.

lindsey alarmingly “AGGEN!”s to lure me into the living room, only to find she is trying to seduce me into watching top model marathons. tricky, linds.

jared? he calls me “baby.” but not unless it’s followed with “Sinclair.” (really now, do you see a resemblance?)

i think the only person who actually calls me by my Christian name is The Other Adrienne.

but this “aggen” thing has caught on, dare i say it, and is by far the leader. so getting to the point, and i do have one,

i don’t really like being called by my surname.

so i decided it might be a fun experiment to start telling people, that yes, after all these years, they were in fact mispronouncing my last name. i thought maybe they’d feel guilty for having done wrong all these years and start calling me by the safer, “adrienne.”

commence name change.

i re-recorded my voicemail message telling the listener they’d reached the phone of “Adrienne Awhgun.”

i started correcting people left and right. i started referring to myself in the third person. i started looking for any excuse to use my full name.

cashier at pinkberry, i know you didn’t ask for my full name on that order, but i’m giving it to you.

i had, what i’d call, mixed success.

dan on voicemail: “Aaahgun? what?”
emily: “is that what you’re going by now? why?”
christina: “that’s not how you say it, is it? i think you’re lying."
courtney on voicemail: “Awegun? i love it, it sounds trendy.”

et al.

those who believed my lie quickly apologized, and clearly felt bad. and then i felt bad, too. even worse when they reverted to AWHGUN instead of ADRIENNE anyway! how dare they! foiled by my own foil! counter-foiled!

no one felt bad for their alleged gaffe, no one even remembered the next month, and soon they were back to their “aggen-ing” all over again!

ah me. the life of a liar. but now that you know of the stupid lengths i went to get a name change, maybe you’ll oblige me. please call me Adrienne. let it be said. i like my name. i like that it’s feminine, i like that it's french, i like that it has a meaning befitting me (dark, ha). i know your other names for me may be deeply deeply ingrained in your subconscious, but try at least.

what i have learned:

there’s no point in being a good liar if no one even cares about the lie. it's much easier to just ask for something if you want it, than it is to devise a scheme.

*this is not a racist statement, i love jews. they are kind enough to let me live in their city.

experimental art(s) 2007

2008-01-10T14:59:00.000-05:00

Consumer Reports: Faves and Raves and Fuzzy pants guh-lore

The danger in these lists is A) that my long term (meaning a year) memory eludes me, so that instead being of a fully true annual representation of what moved me and what I moved, I fear it becomes relegated to whatever I saw and did in Q4. And B) you sound like an accidental braggart. Or in some cases a very obviously intentional braggart. Guess which kind I am! You got it, totally intentional! Maybe as you read this entry I typed using my goldplated iPhone with a Zac Posen designed skin while listening to that Panda Bear covering Husker Du covering the Wiggles Japanese import on my portable walkman/turntable/vhs/cash register COMBO (charcoal grey) I bought off a rockabilly bum outside St. Marks Books while eating falafel with vegan mayonnaise hanging out with the Oldsen twins and Jemaine and Bret and Barack, you can call me on my totally unironically ironic pretense. Or else I’ll just quit whistling dixie and tell you what I liked in 2007.

BOOK

FIRST: Under the Net
RUNNER UP: The Power and the Glory, Flying Leap, Lunch Poems, Walking on Water, The Rise of the Creative Class, Eve and the Choice Made in Eden
LET DOWNS: The Writing Life, The Alchemist, Actual Air

LIVE SHOW

“I’m getting too old for this.” – Christina, at the Klaxons

FIRST: The Books - Bowery Ballroom (LDS prophet montage anyone?)
RUNNERS UP: Will Scheff -Sound FX, Sam Prekop - Sound FX, NY Phil -Shostakovich and Sibelius
LET DOWNS: Bonde do Role and Klaxons -Studio B, Kings of Leon -Apple Soho

ALBUM

FIRST: Kate Bush- Hounds of Love
RUNNERS UP: Efterklang-One Sided LP, Phosphorescent- Pride, Julie Doiron/Okkervil same name, Final Fantasy- He Poos Clouds, Okkervil River—Stage Names, Empress-The Sounds They Made, Jealous Girlfriends, Andrew Bird- Armchair Apocrypha
LET DOWN: how is it that I still don’t have in rainbows yet. Tsk on me.

FILM

“It got 93 percent on rotten tomatoes, I swear!” – Jared, post “Starting Out in the Evening,” a mawkish and poorly acted affair – oh wait--you have something to say, Naked Frank Langella? Guys, Naked Frank Langella has something to say! You don’t know how you got roped into this? You don’t know how you agreed to play opposite that one girl from Can’t Hardly Wait, what was her name- Denise Fleming? Well, you and me both Frank.

FIRST: The Lives of Others
RUNNER UP: 2 Days in Paris, No Country for Old Men, Away From Her, Live in Maid, Into the Wild, Fitzcarraldo
LET DOWNS: Autism! The Musical, 12:08 East of Bucharest, I’m Not There, Darjeeling Limited (had more of a response to the 12 minutes of Hotel Chevalier than to all of Darjeeling), Lars and Real Girl, Year of the Dog, Starting Out in the Evening,
WORST FILM OF 2007 AND PROBABLY OF ALL TIME: Everybody Wants to be Italian
BEST TITLE: I Want Someone to Eat Cheese With

THEATRE

BEST: Lion is King
RUNNERS UP: my dad falling asleep in Lion King, Frost/Nixon, Moonlight for the Misbegotten
LET DOWNS: Company, Mayhem Poets at Bowery Poetry Club

YOUTUBE VIDEO
YES, IT GETS ITS OWN CATEGORY

FIRST:

RUNNERS UP:

LET DOWN:

THINGS TO PUT IN MY MOUTH

FIRST: Cheese! Glorious Cheese! Hot sausage and mustard!
RUNNERS UP: old fashioned w roasted peppers (Adrienne’s Pizzabar), gingerbread french toast (Kitchenette Uptown), alison’s pumpkin cheesecake (my place), pad kee mao (Chili Thai), west side story (Gandolfos Provo), biscuity biscuits (Rack n Soul), mushroom burger (Pop Burger)
LET DOWNS: the German food in New York City. Where is the good German food! And most Manhattan cupcakes! OVER-RATED.

THINGS TO PUT ON MY MOUTH

FIRST: natural ice
RUNNERS UP: burts bees. I guess.
LET DOWN: why does no one sell natural ice anymore!!! Why does my boyfriend throw my LAST REMAINING TUBE out the window!!

COLOR

FIRST: grey. with an e. not with an a.
RUNNERS UP: bone, purple, neon green, prism
LET DOWN: red

THINGS I WAS GOOD AT

FIRST: avoiding decision making
RUNNERS UP: navigating, puns, spooning, gym attendance, forgiving, opening up, eating entire pizzas in one sitting, arguing, creating the illusion of industry
LET DOWN: violin. really rusty.

CRÈME DE LA CRÈME

FIRST: falling in love with the most brilliant, witty and talented man I’ve ever met.
RUNNERS UP: moving to NYC to live with my best friends, IFC!, Film Forum!, reading on a more regular basis, strengthening my testimony, getting some good story ideas on paper
LET DOWNS: long distance, mice in the house, didn’t write enough, midtown

what i have learned:
new york is good. i'm good. it's getting better all the time (duh da da duh da)

experiment: sequins

2007-12-17T12:08:00.000-05:00

“seriously, sequins? haha who wears sequins anymore?”
“maybe i’ll just try it on for fun. as a joke, yeah. . . no harm in that surely, heh heh”
“wait, that one is better, check out that black to silver gradient!”
“maybe I can wear sequins."
"now that i think of it, even jcrew has sequiny tops."
“okay maybe just for the holidays. you’re allowed to sparkle on new years, yeah?”
“i’ll just um, sneak it in between these two shirts and try it on.”
“hmmm. emmmm. hmm. hahahaha.”

what i have learned:
no.

experiment: hospitality

2007-12-01T12:14:00.000-05:00

in the past, i've felt a disastrous hostess. i don't do well at planning things ahead of time and manage what time i do have poorly. usually i'm too busy dancing or walking in on people making out to make the rounds to make sure everyone is enjoying themselves. and i also don't know how good i am at anticipating needs. My old manager used to tell me, "it isn't enough to just bring what people ask you, you have to bring them what they don't even realize they need." so what- give people the "don't stop me now" before they realize they have a freddie mercury itch that needs to be scratched? well i didn't, lindsey did. ah me. but in spite of it all, including a slight baking gaffe, Burning Down the House(warming) Party was on most accounts a thunderous success! thank you all for being there, loving talking heads, and bringing us glasses with cartoon udders!

it would be nice if everyone could be in the same room at once.

spencer, probably pitching a noxema :30 to the writer/director of the Vietnomedy

holy halle berry, look at all this symmetry, will you! nick and rgs are starting to look like the same person to me in different color schemes. mirror images, who like to relate adventures to brunette couples at the SAME TIME.

preparing for his danceoff, dave tipples.

he can probably explain this better than i can.

danciest female: lindsey
danciest male: yancy/ manatee
most lyrically impressive: rachel. i don't know her last name but she knew evvery word to every jay z song ever invented.

what i have learned:
1) turns out i'm not much of a hostess because i don't really care about most things. as long as we've got good people, good snacks, and a little bit of alcohol in lindsey, everyone will have an entertaining time. [note: i am not posting the video of the futuresexx/lovesounds danceoff because i have been threatened.]

2) hickory pistachios will ruin pistachio apricot oatmeal cookies. screw you, fairway.

3) where are corinne and casey when you need them?

experiment: beating gondry to the punch

2007-10-31T16:49:00.001-04:00

what i have learned:
today for halloween, spencer and i reenacted a few movies and transferred them to VHS and mos def showed up and we became rich and ferociously famous. ok OKAY, ok, i'm a bit of a hyperbolist. but doesn't spencer look just like danny lloyd? halloween is boss.

experiment: alternative recordkeeping

2007-09-20T15:46:00.000-04:00

okay, amazon let’s talk. i really am impressed at how genuinely interested you are in “recommending” various media to me, really. and usually you’re pretty right on, i’ll give you that. and i guess i’m “appreciative” of your desire to keep me on top of my musical and literary games. but holy cow, i’m starting to feel like maybe i’ve let you in on too much.

i mean, you know things i’ve never told anyone. for instance, you’re one of the few who know about blue crush, and i think the only who knows about ladies in lavender (so good to have that monkey off my back). and your knowledge of me is starting to creep me out. you know more about me than i do.

take for instance, the buzzcloud feature i just discovered today while ordering for book club

it’s 60% creepy and 40% cool that this exists, documenting my purchases from amazon in the past, i don’t know, 5 years? "Creepy" because this non-person, gigantic fortune 500 company has (very valuable actually) personal information that rivals that of friends and family.“Cool” because i now have a sort of visual record of much of what i was interested in during college. it’s much easier than actually documenting all of my tastes by hand. instead i’ve just printed this out and will glue it in my journal. lazy. also, now when people ask me what i'm into musically (which by the way makes me really nervous for whatever reason), i can now just hand them this print out rather than rambling off album titles or mumbling, "i dont know , everything."

would you date someone based on their buzzcloud? i think, sadly, there would’ve been a point when i would have. and what do you think of me now that you know i enjoyed both a terribly penned surfing movie AND a movie for the bluehairs (what, the music was amazing). am i even more confusing to you? am i, jared cardon? am i? i live to bring complexity to your life. complexity and HOTNESS!!!!

what i’ve learned:
i think i need some better experiments. i know you’re all feeling anticipatory about that. i will probably not let you down.

experiment: nyc subletting

2007-08-25T19:15:00.000-04:00

passive aggressive notes aside, my roommates have been cool. recently, they've gone to pot. on sunday mornings, tuesday mornings and sometimes friday afternoons.

the best part is that while I've quarantined myself in my room to avoid the smell i told myself i was done smelling post-nathan, i suddenly hear a few familiar intonations coming from the living room while they toke. it occurs to me that they are playing marley. MARLEY! so so great. and these girls went to wellesley for crying out loud.

what i have learned:
1) cliches. love em.
2) i got skunk'd.

experiment: pop rocks at the Rock

2007-07-24T01:26:00.000-04:00

what i have learned:
kissing with pop rocks. hmmm. not the sensory overload you might think. and contrary to that old canard - "sugar makes everything better," - i assure you, no. not so. kind of sticky and gross. on top of that, i believe we chose the wrong flavor. watermelon pop rocks don't really taste like anything, no fruit flavor, no fruit flavor at all! gushers would probably be more exciting.

experiment: baking, part II

2007-07-15T01:25:00.000-04:00

presenting the newest creation: macaroni and cheese pie.

what i have learned: sometimes there's nothing more glorious than being american.

experiment: trend setting

2007-05-25T13:17:00.000-04:00

i'm bringing unsexy back.
i'm bringing comfy back.
i'm bringing 1993 back.

join me.

what i have learned: i know what you're thinking. but i have learned that comfort is worth it. plus for awhile there i was in real danger of being "one of those girls who gets pedicures." also, that is One Attractive Sandal.

look for next week's experiment "trend setting, the sequel" on how i plan to reinstitute the "middle part - no bangs" style to girlworld hairworld! go team ugly!

experiment: substance use

2007-05-16T09:12:00.000-04:00

i have a shake shack hangover.

experiment:

2007-05-01T16:48:00.000-04:00

this was supposed to have been spanish. i think spanish is probably the sexiest language ever. (spanish: smells like burberry london, tastes like that caramel looking cheese from better cheddar, sounds like tom zé , looks like what would happen if the cast of enemy at the gates mated with sweden). but well well, who's got the TIME to LEARN that. i opted for the less time-intensive: good ol american sign language. (go usa!!!**!)

every tuesday kimmy and i head down to 14th street for a free course taught by the missionaries. i'm picking it up rather quickly i'll have you know, but to its credit, most of ASL is pretty intuitive. in addition to spelling your name out using the ASL alphabet, signers also have a shorter way of signing their name—one that has to be given to you by a deaf person. cedric, who is deaf, bestowed my sign name upon me. it’s supposed to represent the color green and also the trait of athlete/soccer player, but when combined my sign sort of looks like i'm flipping someone off. f you, speaking public of new york!

i'm six weeks in.

these are some things i can sign:

question
refuse
family
run
music
teacher
embarrassed
boyfriend
wash
music
i'm tired and hungry

and some i cannot:

lacquered
incumbent
carrot cake

and some i need to learn how to sign:

please sir, do not grope me on the subway.

finally, on a spiritual note. . . .

last week cedric bore his testimony in sign. it's amazing how things like spirituality transcend language barriers. we also learned how to pray in sign language a few weeks ago. it’s fascinating to watch this outpouring of devotion all through hands and facial expression.

what I have learned:

in addition to learning enough sign language for basic speechless communcation, i've also been instructed in some ASL slang. everyone seems to know the typical hand guesture for saying "i love you." the sign to the left is a variation on that, only this means "i really really love you." cedric advised us to use this only when you really love something or someone. so use this sign you guys, but use it sparingly!

experiment: veggie tales

2007-03-17T21:56:00.000-04:00

(PROLOGUE: does anyone remember this show? the non-denom christian program with singing cucumbers and tomatoes? or what about slim goodbody?)

this particular experiment is about 7 months in the making. it all began last september when i went to the festival of lights at the hindu temple in spanish fork (i’m tempted to abbreviate it to SpaFo. SpaFo:Spanish Fork :: SpaHa :: Spanish Harlem). whatever. we were upstairs listening to a surprisingly young krishna? talk about his faith and answer general questions. after listening in earnest for close to an hour, i sort of lost interest and headed downstairs, when i stopped mid-stair to read a poster. it caught my attention because of the huge animal teeth, snarling at me unexpectedly in a building full of pacifists. the poster was all about vegetarianism, and how humans, physiologically, are not equipped to eat meat. something about our pores, and the placement of incisors, et cetera.

anyway, i read the entire thing with genuine interest and then proceeded down more stairs. the others had started eating, and i wasn’t hungry nor did i want to spend 6 bucks on a cup of rice, so i just meandered around and thought about trying on some indian vestments. against one of the walls they had all these long posters with pictures of LDS general authorities, which commanded attention just because it was so unexpected. turns out, many of the early apostles were vegetarians. a lot around the turn of the century. they had various reasons for abiding by this diet/lifestyle, but a lot of them based their decision on health and the word of wisdom. anyway, i know that americans eat too much meat as it is, and definitely not just “sparingly” or in times of famine, so i decided right then i’d go without meat for a week, just to see how i felt and to prove to myself that i could in fact do it. i ended up doing it for about three months. this was last semester.

anyway, i decided about two months ago i’d start it up again. for a medley of reasons (cauliflower, zucchini, broccoli):

a) i feel healthier. i need this because other parts of my body are on a transportation strike, namely Right Knee, making running an impossibility
b) i've yet to accept an offer, and i'm likely to fall into pauperism at any moment
c) there is plenty of more-than-adequate veggie fare in this city. i really like vegetables.
d) i wanted to be a hippie and/or people thought i was a hippie for a lot of years. it might get me in with the hippies. plus i hate wearing a bra so this new lifestyle seems to support (or maybe not support?) this image

now as someone who has never subscribed to the book of dieting even amidst roommates on atkins and anti-atkins, i had kind of always thought that giving yourself overly stringent dietetic limitations (such as cutting out what is considered by many an entire food group) was silly. i'm more about intuitive eating, except that's not always safe either as my intuition tells me it's "perfectly fine, nay normal" to eat funfetti cake for breakfast, lunch, and dinner. (here is where i thank this blessed creature for returning from provo this weekend with this cake mix in tow, since i can't locate it in manhattan).

but seriously, both last time and this time around this whole vegetarian thing is totally doable. i don't even crave meat. really, after a while your body just adapts. i can easily resist the temptation of all my old meaty vices. corndogs. chicken marsala. that pimento loaf stuff with the tiny bits of cheese tucked into a cozy bologna bed. not that i eat that much meat anyway. but i feel so much better without. now, to be fair to all those red-blooded americans out there, yeah, who knows how much of this falls under a displacement theory— since i'm not eating meat i am eating a lot more whole grains and vegetables. but i felt and still feel tons better have way more energy. and i really don’t have a protein deficiency due to my obsession with creamy peanut butter. and pistachio rice pudding.

what i have learned: there is something smart about being conscious of what you are consuming. and cutting down on meat probably isn't a bad idea for anyone. to the word of wisdom i say word. oh, and milk does a body good, too. that includes milkshakes. and the occasional burger supreme, which i will be visiting come april.