Blowing off steam

Okay, I promise not to complain too much about Sarah Palin or the election here. I believe that most people have their political minds made up and I don't want to waste my energy or alienate friends/family/readers/passers-bys with my white-hot anger with the dirt-flinging and outright lying the McCain/Palin campaign has passed off in the last two weeks.

That said, I do have these things to share with you right now, and then I'll keep my seething to a minimum:

• A New York Times investigation of Palin's track record in Alaska--one of total lack of transparency and absolute vindictiveness, back-stabbiness and lies. It's 5 pages worth reading.

• Alaska's biggest-ever political rally happened this weekend when Sarah Palin returned home. It was the "Alaska Women Reject Palin" rally, and it garnered bigger crowds than Palin's welcome home rally.

• Not reporting here, but the Times board's editorial following Palin's only interview with ABC's Charlie Gibson: "It was bad enough that Ms. Palin’s performance in the first televised interviews she has done since she joined the Republican ticket was so visibly scripted and lacking in awareness. What made it so much worse is the strategy for which the Republicans have made Ms. Palin the frontwoman: win the White House not on ideas, but by denigrating experience, judgment and qualifications."

• Finally, the Tina Fey/Sarah Palin, Amy Poehler/Hillary Clinton video that you've undoubtedly seen by now and that I could watch over and over.
  
  

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AHHHHHH!!!!! I HATE LISA!!!!!

Lisa: This isn't a popularity contest.

America: Lucky for you, it isn't.

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Don't be an ass, Northwestern

It’s embarrassing to watch as various news outlets chide Northwestern seniors for their pissing-and-moaning about their commencement keynote speaker, Mayor Richard M. Daley. Some editorialists have called these responses “whiny,” “arrogant,” and “entitled;” and it’s true—they are.

I understand that Mayor Daley may not be the most thrilling speaker, and it’s possible that Daley’s political and social ties to Bienen contributed to his post, but it’s humiliating to the rest of the Northwestern community when some overindulged seniors gripe all over the comments section of the Daily online, reaffirming the rest of the world’s suspicions that Northwestern students and graduates are cosseted, pretentious beings that would refuse to condescend to a speech given by the mayor of one of the most thriving metropolises.

In response to these complaints, Bienen told one student to "grow up” and the Tribune reminded seniors that while Daley isn’t perfect, his “chosen career confronts him with the challenges of urban poverty, and gang killings of youngsters, and infant mortality, and racial rivalries, and broken families galore—and the many of his disadvantaged constituents who yearn desperately for, yes, world-class educations.” These responses are completely just.

But no response could be more apt (or prescient) than Julia Louis-Dreyfus’s final word of advice to my fellow graduates at last year’s commencement: “Finally, don’t be an ass.”

“I mean that, I do,” she said. “I’m not trying to be glib. Be nice to people and be considerate. Check in with yourself every once in a while, and ask yourself: Am I being an ass? You’ll be surprised how often the answer is yes.”

If only she had gotten to some of those grousers in the Class of 2008 first. [See her speech here.]

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Will the circle be unbroken?

How is it possible that I end up living above an NU grad student and self-important homeowners' association boardman/jerk who thinks that appliances running after 9 pm is an unreasonable amount of noise? Can I not escape NU douches? Will I forever be hounded?

Anyway, the good news is that I found his Facebook page* (really, everyone should make their pages friends-only), and he's actually all of four years my senior, loves fishing and Tom Petty, and likes to point out on his resume that he is a natural-born American citizen. He must also like Lou Dobbs.



At any rate, I've got a serious nasty neighbor problem on my hands. This guy and his fiancee have complained to the condo board, our neighbors, and our landlords about the noise coming from our apartment. ((You know, all that barefooted walking we do at crazy hours, like 10 PM.))

Since they've taken issue with us by contacting everyone BUT us, we're in the strange situation where the following are options, and I'd love some input. How do you handle the nasty neighbor?

1) We ignore their passive-aggressive nastiness. Ridiculous accusations of loudness, launched through unsuspecting third parties, do not warrant a response. If something is really up, knock on our door. You know where we live.


2.) We go downstairs and knock on their door, formally introduce ourselves (we've never seen them before--unless you count the one time I was struggling to open our front door when I was moving in, and I saw someone in that apartment watch me and then shut their door without helping), and then ask politely, and more specifically, what noises have bothered them and when. We have a feeling that they're hearing noise that isn't us, and assuming it is coming from our apartment. So, we'll just talk it out.


3.) We go downstairs and knock on their door, but this time, I wear a fake prosthetic leg and we apologize profusely for whatever harm I've caused them.

Suggestions?


*I would link to it, but it turns out we have some mutual friends. If you're curious in looking over his profile, please let me know and I'll send it your way.

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NBC iSucks

I'd like to add my name to the list of Office fans disappointed by NBC's decision to move the episodes online rather than on iTunes.

This old blog entry from TAUW details how iTunes essentially saved The Office's ass when NBC first agreed to put the show's episodes online. (I can only dream of what might have happened for Arrested Development had iTunes had video back in 2004...) But NBC seems drunk and greedy with success. The NYTimes reported that Apple claimed NBC had demanded that the episode charge increase by three dollars, from $1.99 to $4.99 per episode. (NBC denies this claim and says they wanted a higher wholesale price, not retail.)

But who cares about all those numbers and figures when you just want to rewatch that really cute scene from last night's episode where Jim takes Pam's hand while they walk blissfully together down the sunny sidewalk? Answer: Nobody.

And so, today when I wanted to watch aforementioned scene, I was totally willing to accept that NBC had moved its shows online--even happy since two of my three favorite shows air on NBC (The Office and Heroes). But when streaming video is constantly interrupted because of your average shitty Comcast signal and the throngs of other fans trying to access the same tools, it's enough to make you want to turn back on The Office and run to the sheltering, all-American arms of of ABC.com to curl up with a rerun of The Bachelor.

Speaking of which, how is it that ABC's video quality is soooo gooooood? My third favorite show is Ugly Betty. I used to relish in purposely missing its Thursday night airtime and then curling up Friday afternoon with a cup of hot chocolate (or a glass of Riesling, but who's counting?) and watching the beauty that is ABC's streaming full screen video. Meanwhile, somewhere in a distant universe, some Office fan screams in agony as NBC's grainy stuff (that people outside of the U.S. can't watch, by the way) stutters and stumbles its way across the Internet.

NBC says that by November, us Office fans will be able to subscribe to a weekly download service where we can watch the last episode of The Office for free on our computers for one week. Afterward, it will somehow self-destruct, a la Mission Impossible and/or Tom Cruise's dignity.

The next advancement for NBC's viewers will be when they can do exactly what they were doing on iTunes--legally pay for the episodes, download them to their computers and watch them on repeat to their hearts' content. But don't hold your breath because NBC says to expect that to happen by...drumroll...mid-2008.

Until then, I'll accept that NBC has pushed me toward lawlessness on Youtube or wherever else I can watch Angela crush Dwight with another rolly chair.

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iPhone, schmiPhone

Okay, okay!

I know that everyone is freaking out, just like this dude, because Steve Jobs lowered the price of the iPhone by $200. That news is two-days old.

But I, one iPhoneless girl, can't help but put a plug in all this pissing and moaning. What's more, I think all those "I was first to the new technology!" twats deserve that $200 slap on the wrist.

I endured more obvious flaunting of their new hot thing by iPhowners on the El, at Panera, and even at the Evanston Fourth of July fireworks. (What our founding fathers would think!) Usually, the iPhowners would go about their technoboasting in the same quiet way:

Hm...It sounds like some people near me are talking about the iPhone. I think I'll take mine out at hold it at eye-level for everyone to see while I send an email.

Oh, you have a Blackberry? Let me sit next to you and angle my iPhone at you so you can see all the pretty graphics.

Oh, what time is it, you ask? Let me just pull out my iPhone to check, rather than glancing at my wristwatch.

Do you possibly need to make a phone call, friend? Oh, feel free to use my iPhone. (pause) Oh, didn't I tell you I got one? Here, let me show you.

I mean, look at that guy in his Panama hat and thick-rimmed glasses with his newly-bought iPhone. I think he's okay without that $100 refund for his ego-boost.

Oh, and if it drops in price again, I'm buying one.

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New York = New Angry

Hey Dude With the Cellphone Camera!

Do you think I didn't see you take that picture of me, you creepy motherfucker? Aside from the fact that you weren't even slick about your dirty-perv ways, you also bumped into someone after taking it. At least watch where you're going, smut-face. We don't want your fucking perv germs rubbing off on us. The subway is bad enough.

Here's a tip, you fucking novice. Next time, don't stare back and forth from the screen of the camera to me while you try to frame the shot right. This is perversion, not art. Don't waste your time on aesthetics. Also, turn the sound effect off your cameraphone. The chk-chkahh! of your fancy ass phone's "shutter" is something of a giveaway. Get a clue, cleverless cockface.

Oh, and if it looks like I'm reaching for my bag in your picture, it's only because you barely escaped a macing followed by a middle finger through your eye. Take that and get off on it. Twat.

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Crispy MTA Monkey Faces

LL Cool J was in my office this morning. Although I did not speak with him, I did get to listen in on his meeting with about 25 R employees as he confirmed that he not only still exists, but apparently is writing books for R.

Also: Does the fact that I heard LL Cool J say "crispy" as an adjective when the only other time I've heard that phrase was from some 16-year-old girls in La Guardia legitimize the girls' saying it, or demonstrate how lame LL really is? Thoughts?



Finally, meditations on New York subway twats:

How is it that if I harrass an MTA employee, I could spend up to seven years in jail, but it's okay for MTA employees to make monkey-jerk faces at me?

Granted, this mocking doesn't happen all the time, but it's happened enough for me to be pissed.

It started this summer on one occassion when I ran for the B train at 116th. I swiped my card as the doors began to close and hurled myself toward the first car. I met the eyes of the conductor who stared me down as I went face-first into the closed doors. I stepped back and he continued to stare at me, dead-eyed and unforgiving. Like that, he started the B back up and took off toward 110th, making me ten minutes late for work.

Then there was the time at 15th Street/Prospect Park while I waited for a Manhattan-bound F. While I leaned against a pole toward the middle of the platform, a Coney Island-bound F pulled into the station. Already feeling irked and personally affronted by the arrival of this beach-bound fun train, I glanced over at the conductor in the sixth car to direct my anger toward the individual driving this enemy train. To my horror, he gave me the overly-exaggerated Up-And-Down and then grinned toothlessly at me. I cursed myself for having spent time on my make-up that morning and skulked behind the pole to avoid his gaze. Unfortunately, I couldn't hide my whole self behind the pole and as the conductor from Oogling Hell set his train in motion once more, he leered at me the whole way out of the station, head hanging out of the window and tongue lolling out of his mouth like some rabid dog.

So that's why this morning I was wholly prepared to flick off the next MTA employee who crossed the line. This time, it was at Broadway/Lafayette--again on the F train, which is apparently a haven for sex offenders and lunatics. I had put down my book once the train had crossed into Manhattan, having had my morning's fill of contrived John Grisham drivel. Staring out the window and preparing myself for the upcoming eight hours of cubicle-bound boredom, I tried to think positively about my morning. I wasn't running late today; My mom's blazer from the 80s looks great with these red patent leather mary-janes; my benchmate was not holding a Smirnoff this morning nor was he passing out on me. Things were generally going well. Until I looked up into the face of an MTA employee who, quite literally, pressed his face up against the window, crossed his eyes and made a monkey-face at me. A veritable, ugly-ass monkey-face--one I had not seen the likes of since second grade when the facial expression fell out of fashion. I was torn out of my blissful, half-awake morning state. I should say something! Get up and give the MTA Monkey a piece of my mind. Dammit, I will not take it anymore!

As usual, I spent the duration of the "Doors Open" plotting so desperately that by the time I had resolved on placing a choicely-worded complaint (the civil-minded New Yorker thing to do), the doors were closing and we were on our way to West 4th. That's fine. When I see a Monkey Face next time, I will remember it, and justice will be mine.

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First times

I dropped a class, for the first time ever. I've never felt so morally and academically conflicted. I had fallen way behind in my reading for the class, had not memorized my sonnet for the week, and knew the class was not going to serve me any purpose in my newly (almost, after I turn in the paperwork this week) declared major. Setting aside my closet-workaholic ethics and moral dilemmas, I focused on the above reasonings and pressed "drop" right next to "English Literary Traditions 210-1."

And thus, no Caesar, I am not an English Lit major.Jess and I had a magical evening of romance together last night. We did our date right, on a whim and in search of a hamburger. Our hamburger quest led us to Southport Ave., Cullen's Grille (God love them for their orgasmic onion rings), the Music Box Theatre (for a visually-stimulating French movie event through the film Notre Musique), and Julius Meinl's, a Viennese Kaffeehaus with the most decadent of decadent raspberry-mango-white chocolate tortes my tongue has ever caressed.

We had moving conversations on the El ride home, interesting pick-up lines from 30 year old men at the bars of Southport, and crashed back at our room pre-midnight. Tate came and whisked my lover away from me, and after reconciling my evening to a night of a Porter and Seinfeld alone, I was pleasantly surprised by a visit from JP. After some nice conversation, JP exited and I wandered down the hall to waste a good three hours before finally falling asleep around 4:30 am.

I was awoken this morning by the rude, bitter USPS man who pulled more-or-less the "you're a privileged white girl at Northwestern" bullshit on me and I went back to bed angry to have dreams about singing Backstreet Boys in bed.

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Pretense.

So whilst talking to Brandon on the phone this afternoon, I got a beep on my other line. I unwittingly walked into the lair that houses disgruntled and uppity Medill secretaries and aides.

I had emailed a prof in Medill for the course I want to take come fall quarter that had filled in the section I wanted. The only section open, which I would have signed up for, conflicted with my schedule. I sent this email that I worked on for quite a while to word "just right," and make sure he knew how much I wanted to get into this other section so I could take the course.

When I answered the beep, I got a garble of introductions from a haughty woman on the other line, all I caught was Northwestern University. I deduced that she must be calling about my class switch.

Before I could say more than hello, she hissed into the receiver, "You DO realize, I'm SURE, that you CANNOT BE a journalism major."

Excuse me?

She went on to spit and steam about how I was in CAS (woah! is that what school i applied to because NU's damned admissions office made journalism sound impossible?? oh right!) and how I couldn't be a journalism major because of that.

Right, I said. It was my intention to take this course as a student in CAS and provided that, as will most likely happen, I enjoy the course, I will apply to transfer into Medill for winter quarter.

(let it be known, if you don't know already, this decision has been a huge struggle for me...the last thing i need is some lower end registrar telling me what to do with my life.)

Wellll, she huffed, It is difficult, if not nearly impossible, for sophomores to transfer into Medill. It's hard to get into the Medill School of Journalism as a freshman.

(Hey, thanks for the encouragement and words of advice...)

Well, I said, Regardless, I want to take this course.

She quickly exhaled a curt and disapproving "hmph."

I sat on the other line while she grumbled complaints and put-downs for five minutes, changing my schedule.

Thanks so much for your help, I said earnestly when she finished.

Not even a "you're welcome," but rather I got a final word from her: Well, just because you're IN this class doesn't mean you're a journalism major. Very few people are accepted as transfers into Medill. If you don't do well in this class, you might as well not get your hopes up.




Wow.



I sometimes want to take a reality stick and beat people with it. Or maybe certain organizations.

Get over yourself, I'd say as I beat them with the hard oak of get-real.



Fortunately, I received an email from the professor this afternoon, asking me if all went well with my class switch. He said if there was any reason it didn't go smoothly, to contact him and he'd fix things.

Maybe I should tell him to fire his uppity secretary.

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Summer School

So for those of you who don't know, I'm currently taking a Children's Book Illustration course at Miami U with this published kids' writer named Catherine Siracusa. She won the Children's Choice Award a few years back for her big hit "The Giant Zucchini." It's really great experience so far, but it's exhausting as hell since Miami is about a 45-50 minute drive from my house (I drove it in 35 today.) and I draw/write from about 8:30 am until 5 pm. For kicks, and with the creative brainstorm talk I had with Bryan, I decided to write and illustrate a story about Wink, the accidentally magical cat (woot), and who is based on my cat, Scout.

Not surprisingly, this experience has provided for some interesting times with the people in my class and at Miami ("back-up" school numero uno).

My class is comprised of thirteen people, including myself, the majority of whom are at least over thirty, if not forty.

To put it shortly, I have been introduced to the scary, creepy world of disgruntled adults who have been rejected by publishing companies and seek revenge. Granted, not every adult in the class is like this stereotype. Let's do a run-down of the standouts in the class.

Two kind women from Cleveland: currently sleeping in the dorms, met in college 20 years ago and love being roommates again, been published in kids' magazines. The two are very nice women, despite a certain grudge they hold against Random House, Inc. They are very chummy with our instructor and I think they have mutual friends due to the publishing industry.

Frank: at least 75 years old, fourth year taking this course. Frank is writing a story about his cat, Declawdia, and is not very good at drawing cats or people.

Now, I don't rock at either, but we sit next to one another, and although Frank could kick my ass at drawing steam engine trains and watercolor landscapes any day, my cat is mos def out-doing his cat.

Today I noticed that he stands angrily over me while I draw sometimes, and this creeps me out. He is very defensive about his cat and will bring Declawdia up into conversation with little or no prompting.

The other day, he snapped at the one of the two other girls my age when she referred to his scissors as hers. ("WHOSE scissors did you say those were?! MYYYY scissors!")

Silent angry guy: about mid or late twenties. see name for description.

Ericka: most likely mid-twenties, taking the class so she can finally graduate with her art degree from Miami, a year late.

She doesn't show up for class until afternoon.

Debbie: My PERSONAL favorite. Early to mid 50s. First day, she gave a two minute introduction to herself, when we were asked to give just our names. She also asked our teacher if there was a crucial difference between the terms "educational books" and "teaching books."

She demands the instructor's attention for half of the day and criticizes other people's work, even though hers is terrible.

(Note: She is writing her story, with her, "Grandmother Deidre," as the MAIN character.(good thing she changed her name, "grandmother deidre" will be much less of a mouthful for the kiddies as compared to "grandma debbie" or just "gramma").

Kids just love reading stories from the perspective of their grandparents. Especially when the kids themselves are secondary figures in the story and all the large spreads are just of the grandmother.

It's also good of Debbie to take up two tables of workspace. I mean, she REALLY deserves it with that killer story of hers.

Debbie brought in goat cheese on Tuesday to share with the class. When someone asked where she bought it from, she snapped that "Iiiiiiiii have a goat. Myyyyyyy goat MADE it." When the girl, embarassed, asked where she could buy some cheese like Debbie's, Debbie responded: "HOW should Iiiiii know?? I MAKE me cheese, REMEMBER?"
I don't often see goats pasteurizing their own dairy products, but whatever.
And damn it, I did eat her cheese. But it doesn't mean I have to like her.

Tuesday, she also brought in examples of her own artwork with woodcuts rather than bringing in her favorite kids' book, as our instructor had asked. But hey, what's the difference, right??

Today, she brought in a crystal vase and daylilies. This single vase took up a third table that was previously someone else's workspace. I thought perhaps she was using it to observe while drawing it, but no.

She just brought it.

To bring.

And to show off.

And to tell the teacher when she just politely commented, "Oh those are nice," that she not only has those, but she also has twenty other varieties of daylily. Good thing Debbie is God and created daylilies for all of us to appreciate.

Today we had to have a group photograph taken of our class. I believe that we organized ourselves the best that any group of humans ever have for a photograph. Seriously perfect. Two exact lines with perfect height and our teacher sitting in front (holding the vase of Debbie's daylilies).

Well. It was perfect. Until Debbie decided she was meant for stardom, and literally positioned herself exactly in the middle, not in any line but between the two lines, and directly in front of one of the nice women from Cleveland. Incredible.

Debbie and Frank don't like each other. They argued about Frank's cat today. That was terribly amusing. I'm afraid I'm behind drawing because I'm too busy listening in on everyone's conversations.

Also. If you've read this far, here are some interesting differences between Miami U and Northwestern, as well as FYI about Miami...

1. Miami's student center has a nicer dining area indoors.
2. Miami's outdoor dining cannot compare by default of not having a lake.
3. Girls: If you are in need of some sort of female necessity, don't rely on a.) any bathrooms in all of the student center being open because they'll all be under repair. and b.) the one bathroom that IS open having any of said necessities. Good plan: go across campus to find open bathroom that carries the goods (this will take a while.)
4. Miami is beautiful. No denying it. Beautiful.
5. Miami has multiple fine arts buildings. Northwestern has one.
6. Guys at Miami: J-Crew models.
7. Girls at Miami: anorexic.
8. Volleyball campers will die under the blood-stained wheels of my vehicle if the persist to meander in the roads. (This really is nothing about Miami, but it's important.)
9. Miami has fountains. The Rock used to be a fountain.
10. There's nothing to do in Oxford, but there's lots of parking!

So this has been an incredibly long entry and I bet half of it was about Debbie. So... I'm going to go work on my drawings. Thanks for bein a pal and readin'. :)

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And then there was the time...

After a rather lethargic late lunch at Panera and a coffee-stop at Unicorn, I decided that there comes a time when one must face the facts and go home and take a nap. However, my plans would soon be thwarted by one 30-something flamboyantly gay man and one 20-something ethnically and handsomely ambiguous gentleman.

Walking along Sherman, the two men stopped me in the street, the flamboyantly gay man, who we'll call Charlie, demanding a "woman's opinion" on his ethnically-ambiguous friend's (Rufio's) hair. "How high is too high?...I'm talking height here. Not volume. REAL height!"

Slightly concerned that I was being hit on in some strange-conspicuous manner and eager to leave as quickly as possible, I quickly offered my advice that as long as the hair fits the personality, all is well.

"Okay, great! Thanks!" Charlie chortled. He reached out, grabbed my hand, and suddenly, I find myself being spun and danced around like an awkwardly-positioned mannequin holding an iced latte, purse, and textbooks. I laughed uncomfortably as the people eating outside Camilles sat by and watched.

"There, I just did that to see your smile, because I JUST KNEW it was beautiful!!" Charlie beamed at me. At this point, I was really ready to go and my latte was beginning to brim over and spill onto my hand.

"Thanks for being such a sport," he smiled, reaching out his hand once more. When I shook it, I didn't realize I would be forfeiting my own hand for another five minutes.

"Look at her handshake!!" Charlie grabbed Rufio's shoulder. "Isn't it INTERESTING??" During the next five minutes, my hand was passed between Charlie and Rufio, as they told me all about...me. A little sidewalk-offered palm reading.

"He knows ALL about this stuff," Charlie oozed, hiking his thumb at Rufio.
"I spent two years living in the mountains," Rufio offered.
Oh, that explains it, I thought.
"You know, monks and Nepal and all that junk," Charlie teased Rufio, handing my palm over to him.

Rufio squinted as my reddened palm, "Oh...Your heartline is short." Rufio's laments seeped through his eyes as he stared apologetically at me. "Your lovelife is unstable, is it not?"

Whose isn't? I thought. But, being the kind Ohio girl I am, I uttered instead, "I guess so."

"Yeah I can see that here," Rufio bit his lip. A moment's contemplation and, "Oh! Her lifeline is split in half." He turned to Charlie, concerned. Obviously this split-lifeline would prove some sort of problem for me. The people at Camille's sat on the edges of their seats, waiting to hear exactly what sort of problem it was.

"You live two lives," Rufio sternly and solemnly judged. The sentence was passed. I imagined myself donning a black leather suit, climbing the walls of Kresge, crawling the perimeter of Tech, and tormenting drunk Northwestern students at the rock during all hours of the night, screaming animalistic shrieks of terror.
"Yeah, I guess I do," I agreed with Rufio.

Abruptly, Charlie seized my hand, bent my fingers back and pronounced me to be as stubborn as they come and that was that. I didn't get a chance to voice my opinion on that judgement.

With that, Charlie asked me judge Rufio's mountainbred accuracy on the scale from Bruce Willis to Mohawk, short to tall hair, one to ten. I gave them a hearty "six or seven," wistfully recalling my nights in the bushes around Tech, black leather sticking to my sweaty legs.

And with Charlie's last confiscation of my hand, "a twirl to the left and-uh twirl to the right," I was on my way, having entertained not only the people lunching at Camille's, but passerbys as well, including my subtly-handsome-quiet-boy Geo Sci TA. I waved goodbye to Charlie and Rufio for maybe not the last time. Who knows, maybe it lies in my future to cross paths with them once more?

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