Books on a Train

I'm about 3/4 of the way through Naomi Wolf's 1991 bestseller The Beauty Myth, and it has been on my mind a lot lately. I would have finished it a lot sooner if it weren't for my new habit of only reading on trains--if there's one thing New York public transit has taught me, it's to always have a book on hand.

An unfortunate strength of the book is how relevant it continues to be, nearly twenty years after it was published. It is soul-crushing to have pointed out to a reader, in explicit detail, exactly how marketing and sales interests have worked throughout our lives to chip away at women's, and more recently men's, sense of self-worth until we lose sight of what is worthwhile in life and instead waste all of out time, money, and energy worshiping and attempting to embody intangible, impossible, unhealthy perfection. It hasn't gotten better since the '90's, women haven't stepped up and stripped off the shackles of perfection ideology, we're still strangled, distracted, and berated by the need to be objectively beautiful, still taunted and tsk-tsked like four year olds with beauty do's and don'ts that constantly contradict themselves and get more expensive.

That's something I've found funny--women did speak up and complain that it wasn't right that we were being targeted as objects of aesthetic scrutiny, that every element of our culture was pressuring us to not only buy beauty products and gym memberships, but to adhere to them religiously, feel guilty when we didn't, and allow ourselves to be chastised ruthlessly when we aged and fattened anyway. So the market responded--they roped men into it too. Now Everyone feels ugly, fat, and unlovable. Progress!

What really gets me, however, in this text, is exactly how relevant Everything she says is to me. I don't merely breeze through and occasionally stop and reflect when she's right-on--my progress through the book has been sluggish at best because I have cause to reflect at least twice in every paragraph. I find this personal accuracy on the part of Wolf both reassuring and distressing--I applaud her insight, but am irked by the fact that I gelled so neatly and uniformly into the mold she describes for modern women. Dammit, I thought I was an individual with quasi-unique concerns and interests, not some stamped out fembot with pre-programmed personality paradoxes and marketable mental hangups that were clearly itemized before I was born. But Ms. Wolf actually wrote out, verbatim, the circular reasoning that entered my head during puberty and continues to this day which has prevented me from accepting a compliment...when I was 7.

Nothing he can say about this is right. He can't speak. Whatever he says hurts her more. If he comforts her by calling the issue trivial, he just doesn't understand. It isn't trivial at all. If he agrees with her that it's serious, even worse: He can't possibly love her, she's fat and ugly. If he says he loves her just as she is, worse still: He doesn't think she's beautiful. If he lets her know that he loves her because she's beautiful, worst of all, though she can't talk about this to anyone. That is supposed to be what she wants most in the world, but it makes her feel bereft, unloved, and alone. (Wolf, 170)

This just isn't fair. How is it that in twenty years I haven't done something about what was going on, how my culture has not only played upon my insecurities, but Given me insecurities to play upon and make money off of? How I was given beauty magazines as a child and encouraged to learn from them what big girls cared about, as though it was privileged information for adults and I was being bad-ass by reading. As though Seventeen magazine isn't written with impressionable twelve year olds in mind. I felt fat before I had fat. I felt short when I was taller than every boy in my class. I felt ugly before my skin knew how to produce oil. I had those mass-market insecurities deeply ingrained long before I was a viable buyer. The last time I looked at a mirror and didn't suck my belly in I was an infant. I can actually recall being about five and having a cashier tell my mom I was a very pretty little girl, and automatically dropping my eyes, fidgeting, and saying "thank you" without any sincerity. Somehow even by then I'd been trained to not believe it, knowing that adults were required to provide children with empty platitudes and compliments.

I tell you something, I've never felt pretty. If I am, I don't know. I can clearly recall my first insult, but compliments bypass my self-esteem like the breeze. (for anyone curious, a male classmate called me "bug-eyed" in the lunch line one day in first grade shortly before flicking a rubber band in my face. When I sneered and turned my back on him, he spat his gum into my hair. It took my mom hours and a full jar of peanut butter to get it out. I still hate that child. Six years later another boy spat gum into my hair on the school bus. I punched him in the face, and although it bruised and clearly hurt he laughed, lest his ego also be bruised, and mocked me for hitting like a girl. When moments later I was reprimanded by the bus driver for fighting like a boy I was left baffled, and realized that both comments were degrading. That was about the point I started hating being a girl, and I've lived with it since.) Every compliment I've ever received has been meticulously analyzed by my Self-Hatred Committee (I think their offices are near my left ear) and has only reached my starving Ego with a lengthy note attached. "He says you're pretty because he thinks you're trash and wants someone easy to have sex with him." and "They say you're smart because it's an easier lie than 'you're pretty.' Read: you are ugly and stupid." are the two form letters that get pinned to compliments most frequently.

I'm insulted when people point out I'm pretty. I'm insulted when they don't. All in all, I hate it when people notice and/or fail to notice that I'm visible. When my other half thinks he's covering his ass thoroughly by saying that I'm both pretty and smart and neither asset detracts from the other and he in fact values both independently but finds that my intellect makes me more beautiful but I was pretty to begin with I am able to retort that he's a bastard who doesn't care about me because he acknowledges that I have an outward appearance at all. When he acknowledges that that's true only to the extent that if I had no outward appearance I'd disappear from view, I tend to agree that that would be best. He has since resorted to only giving me compliments when I'm too tired to argue.

This is frustrating to no end--I would absolutely love to be able to say "thank you, I feel pretty, I think you're pretty too, lets curl up and look at each other and enjoy it," and leave it at that. But, while currently that would be a logistical nightmare anyway, no matter what is said something in my head has to pipe up and contradict it, say he's lying, or simply remind me of the areas of my body I've been trained to despise. It's as though I've got a little Scorpius hovering on the edge of my consciousness, a pop-up ad in my soul, brought to you by Proctor & Gamble.

It isn't fun, it isn't easy, and its more common than influenza. Somehow a large group of people, purporting or perhaps even intending to be helpful, have encouraged me to see artificially enhanced young women as the beauty ideal and attempt to emulate them. They've convinced me to try to become them because that's what boys like, and have encouraged, through helpful language like "You have the power to be beautiful" me to hate myself when I fall miles short because I eat when I'm hungry, I don't have a team of dedicated photo artists on hand 24/7 to clear my skin, and I'm not being paid to work out and have pictures taken of me.

That's just it--beauty is not my job. Unlike models and porn stars, far from being compensated for my efforts to become pretty, I'm expected to pay for it, and take time out of my day in excess of my day job (or worse, take money out of my savings when the temp agency doesn't call) in order to attempt to achieve what "beautiful" women have made a career of doing. I'm sure many struggled and strove to get started, and smaller-time models probably have to pay for their gym memberships themselves, but they can see a direct cost-reward line between working out and getting paid. The rest of us are supposed to somehow work out, never eat, be productive in our fields, have energy for family and friends, be happy and interested in our worlds, and not go into debt over our heads. There are two approaches I could take to this--I could try and fail, or I could not try and also fail. I choose the latter because its cheaper and, as I'm not Catholic, I don't harbor guilt.

Which brings me to the issue of models and porn stars--the image they generate of pretty, skinny women participating in sexual acts, not for pleasure, but for pay, is frustrating. Women like sex, and as biologically the whole point of sex is the transfer of genetic material into a woman, you'd think that as a culture we'd make a point for the sex-act to be about pleasing women. Sexual encounters effectively end when the man comes to orgasm, right? We know he's going to keep at it until he gets off. That in itself is not noteworthy and it requires no extra effort on the part of a woman to achieve it. If you want to suck his penis, fine, but it's the same sensation that leads him to orgasm no matter where he gets it. Women...not so much. It does require extra effort to stimulate the same receptor cells and achieve the same physiological response that men achieve through coitus--due to some odd evolutionary snafu the clitoris is not directly involved in the sex act. She may enjoy penetrative sex greatly, but it simply does not stimulate the same nerve group or elicit the same spasmodic reaction as clitoral stimulation. It doesn't.

So you would think that, seeing as a man's orgasm generates the risk of pregnancy in a woman, so she is running a big risk by allowing him to come near her at all, he would be expected to do something to earn the right to. I.e. he should bring her to complete and satisfying clitoral orgasm before proceeding to use her body to bring himself to one. This still isn't remotely fair considering she's still risking 20 years of responsibility and lost self, or an expensive avoidance procedure, for that orgasm, but at least for the sake of leaving both participants satisfied it is a reasonable arrangement.

Unfortunately, when sexual activity is depicted on film for the sake of educating the men and women of tomorrow, this arrangement is never seen. Almost invariably the woman in the demonstration is subordinate to or a mere vehicle for the man's enjoyment. To draw the power structure visually, she begins and ends the encounter on her knees. Some demonstrations include brief, cursory woman-pleasing scenes, but the technique used (generally understood to facilitate the camera operator) is either so ineffective as to be pointless or appears painful. For the most part, however, the woman performer goes directly from orally stimulating the penis, to vaginally stimulating the penis, back to orally stimulating the penis, before the encounter ends with a mess on her face. While she may make a lot of noise during the encounter it is understood by both performers and audiences that she is not having a particularly good time but is, in fact, imagining the fat paycheck at the end of the shoot.

Which is fine, opponents to my frustration claim--porno is intended for male audiences, so why not pander to the audience?

Because men aren't the only watchers of pornography, and teenage boys are not the only people who are in a position to be influenced by it. Let's be honest with ourselves--security pages on the internet are there to inconvenience the very people who are most able to bypass them. If you put a lock on a cookie jar, you're going to wind up with it mysteriously emptied but the lock apparently untouched. Young teenage girls crave porn, and why wouldn't they? It's interesting, it's risque , and it helps them safely satisfy their very real and urgent sex drives--which started developing before the boys in their classes lost interest in cooties. Locking porn away from children is adults' way of pretending that their children are asexual, and will remain so until they're 30, married, and have children of their own. So the internet has done the next best thing--it has locked the porn away to appease parents, and made the lock page far easier to overcome than those pesky tops on the Vicadin ever were, to appease kids.

But what these kids are seeing is unhealthy--not because it's sex, but because it's an unhealthy depiction of sex. It's violent. It's demeaning. It's painful. Women are subjected to humiliation and apparently unsafe practices. Grown ups know it's all pretend--everyone there is getting paid, no one is getting hurt, and most of the performers respect each other as friends and colleagues within their industry. But even if kids know that, the imagery sticks far better than the explanation. What we need is to revamp the sex industry and encourage people to produce happy sex--scenes in which obviously consenting teams of normal, healthy adults engage in mutually pleasing activities that leave both clearly satisfied, depict accurate and helpful techniques for pleasing women, encourage the female performers to enjoy actual on-screen orgasms, refrain from putting women in subordinate or demeaning positions, reduce or even negate the emphasis on the blow job, remove the undertones of rape, sex as payment, sex as a means of getting better grades, sex as a behavior women consent to merely to appease men, and sex as a means of perpetuating the idea that women use sex to promote their careers, and when it's over, refrain from covering anyone in slime.

I don't care if your analyists don't think it'll sell. Porn doesn't sell anymore anyway. Everyone who's got half a brain watches it streaming for free and avoids the eyebrow-raising credit card charges and .tmp files. I'd be willing to bet nine-tenths of today's porn consumers have never paid for it and never will. The fact is, young people will get their hands on porno by any means necessary, so it is important that what they find presents them with a good first impression of sexuality. Please don't delude yourself into believing that with guidance and involved parental support young people won't seek it out and be influenced by it. If your fourteen year old tells you s/he's never looked at porn, s/he has learned how to lie. Or that with proper internet management we can keep kids from seeing content that's intended for mature audiences. If the audience was mature, they wouldn't seek it out. Porn isn't just for perverts anymore. Perverts have had to reach above and beyond sex to stand out from the crowd.

I applaud some recent efforts within the amateur community for their attempts to depict natural, happy sex. These unpaid or low-paid exhibitionists are more likely to have healthy body weights, are more inclined to perform only with partners who know them and their bodies well, and are more likely to look like they're having a loving, fun time. Keep it up! (C'mon folks from South Preston--you remember porn-n-hors-d'oeuvres nights. We heckled then--the comment "damn, those shoes are going to perforate that sofa," was one of mine--We can encourage now. We're apparently grown ups.) I think a genuine effort on the part of the porn industry to promote a healthy female body image and a healthy female relationship with sex would work WONDERS toward promoting healthy women in our society. (so of course it won't happen--if they like themselves, they won't buy our products! bastards.)

Hizzle

I sat down and compiled a list recently of all the places I've called home in the past 24 years, and came up, to my astonishment, with 10. I've lived in all but 3 since I started this blog, nearly four and a half years ago, and in that time have gotten so used to moving that all I need is my copy of Ender's Game on the shelf to feel settled. (not my signed one--this is my travel copy. Ender's first few pages in Salamander Army are a little loose but still good.) Anyway, this list attempts to describe the houses and structures I've resided in within a certain set of real estate ad-esque criteria, plus a few market-irrelevant details.

We begin. . . in 1984!

1984-1990 Pineville, NC. (single family home)

3BR, 2.5BA 2 story w/ blue aluminum siding on .1 acre cleared lot. 1981 build. Informal LR, DR, Den. Full kitchen with sm. breakfast area, ground floor rear porch. Laundry, 1-car garage. Tot. occupants: 4. (a number my older sister resents to this day.)

1990-2002. Fort Mill, SC (single-family home)

4BR, 3.5BA 3 story brick on .2 acre wooded lot. 1989 Build. BR 10'x10'. Formal LR, DR, informal Den. Full kitchen w/ breakfast area. Laundry, 2-car garage. 2BRs and Den recently converted to offices. Tot. occupants: 4+1 cat. Smells Like: Home.

2002-2004. Columbia, SC (Preston College, University of South Carolina)

120 double-occupancy 100-150 sq. ft BR, 90+ensuite BA, 3-story concrete+stucco Colonial-style dormitory with front and rear porches on landscaped lot. 1936 build. Formal lobby w/ piano, large aquarium, historic sofa from Zelda Fitzgerald's estate. 100-150 sq. ft BRs. 03-04 partial kitchen (no stove) and small LR. Communal laundry on main floor, staff-only parking. Tot. occupants: 240 men and women+1 dog. Smells like: freshmen, marijuana, scented candles.

2004-2005. Canterbury, Kent, UK (Homestall, Parkwood, University of Kent)

5BR, 1.5BA 2-story brick facade townhouse (13 of 19 in a rough U, central courtyard with bicycle storage and limited parking.) 1990's build. Full kitchen and small table, no other communal spaces. 100 sq. ft BRs (avg) Laundry, bodega, communal space .2 mi away. Tot. Registered occupants: 5. Tot Regular occupants: 7. Smells like: cooked macaroni, melting pot handles.

2005-2006. Columbia, SC (South Quadrangle, University of South Carolina)

4BR, 2BA apartment on first of 4 story yellow concrete/stucco 100-apartment complex. 2000 build. 49 sq. ft BR. Full kitchen in small LR with square breakfast table. Poorly lit: little sunlight, small windows, no overhead lighting in communal area. Some parking available across street at PE center, laundry down hall, convenient garbage chute. Formal, minimal landscaping. Tot. occupants of apartment: 4 women. Tot. occupants of building: 400 men and women. Hall part of Global Community, most hall mates were foreign. Smell: beer, cigarettes.

2006-Summer A. Noyac, NY. (near Sag Harbor, NY)

2 story gray wood slat house with Mother-In-Law suite downstairs. 1980's build. 4 BR, 2 full BA, 2 full Kitchens, 1 formal Living/Dining room (US) one informal LR (DS). Laundry, driveway and on-street parking, wraparound US deck. Outdoor shower. .2 acre cleared lot. Tot. Occupants: 12 men and women. Smell: feet, sleep.

2006-Summer B. East Hampton, NY.

1-story ranch-style natural shingle house with unfinished basement. Unknown build, converted from duplex to single-family home. 3 BR, 1 BA, full kitchen, large living/dining area. BR:8'x8'. Partial laundry in basement, mud track driveway with ample in-grass parking. 1-car garage (locked and full of lawn furniture), wild wineberry shrubs on .3 acre wooded lot. Tot. occupants: 6 men and women. Smell: fuel oil, mildew.

2006-2007. Berkeley, CA. (Regent Hizzle)

2-story natural shingle house with finished basement (private apartment inhabited by owners), townhouse duplex to rear. 1905 build. 6BR, 2.5 BA, full kitchen with breakfast nook, LR, DR. Purple heart inlay in full hardwood floors. 9'x9' BR. Driveway, timed onstreet parking. Heavily landscaped .2 acre yard w/ fruit trees, tropical flowers, etc. Tot. registered occupants: 6 women. Tot. typical occupants: 7 women+1 man. Smell: women, marijuana, curry.

2007. Central City, CO. (Parish House)

2-story yellow wooden slat house with earth cellar. 1875 build. 6 BR, 3 BA, full kitchen, Formal DR, LR, mud room, semi-detached secret room. 6'x6' BR. No parking, laundry .2 mi away. Un-landscaped small grassy plot. Smell: Women.

2008. Baltimore, MD. (USCGC TANEY)

300' white steel Coast Guard Cutter (retired). 1937 build. 9 BR (4 offices), 3 toilets, 2 showers aft; 80 berths, 3 showers, 7 toilets forward. 5'x6' BR. Partial kitchen with mounted tables, benches. Add'l 5 BRs, Full Industrial Kitchen, Clinic, workshop, bridge, map room, navigation center, engine rooms, boiler rooms, barber shop, gift shop (not for personal use). Typical occupancy (weeknights): 1 permanent resident, 5 seasonal. Typical occupancy (weekends): 1 permanent, 5 seasonal, 80 boy scouts, 15 chaperones, 4 employees. Smell: cosmolene.

2009. Bedford-Stuyvesant, Brooklyn, NY

4-story Brownstone townhouse subdivided into 3 apartments (landlord's family occupying bottom two floors.) Front door on second floor. Early 1900's build. Walk-up apartment includes 1.5 BR, 1 BA, full Kitchen, LR. 6.5'x15' BR. All hardwood. Laundry, bodega 1/2 block away, onstreet parking typically available. Small subdivided back garden (not accessible except in emergency.) 2 disused fireplaces. 6min walk from A-C. Tot. occupants: 2 women. Smell: good cooking from downstairs.

2009. Bushwick, Brooklyn, NY

4-story purpose-built double-fronted apartment building. 8 homes (2 per floor) plus above-ground basement. Front door on second floor. Mid-1900's build. Walk-up second floor apartment includes 2 BR, 1BA, large tiled kitchen w/ breakfast table, microwave, stove, Cuisinart mixer; hallway/LR. 10'x12' BR with window AC unit. All hardwood. Laundry, bodega, decent Chinese take-away 1 block away, Food Bazaar 6-7 min walk away. 10min walk from L,M. Onstreet parking generally unavailable. Fenced, poured-concrete pad behind (not accessible except in emergency.) Tot. occupants: 1 woman, 1 man, 1 "non-girlfriend who sleeps over a lot," 1 stinky cat. Smell: Cat poop.

2010. Lewisham, London, UK

2.5 story private home on tree-lined block. Late 18/early 1900's build. Brick. 2 BR, 1BA, tiled kitchen w/ new hardwood counter-tops. Fully furnished, bare floorboards originally carpeted over. 12'x14' master BR, 7'x11' guest BR (with built-in desk and shelving.) Converted attic study w/ 2 skylights, 1 wall entirely built-in shelving. Washer & dryer. Co-Op, pharmacy 5 min. walk away. Onstreet parking scarce. 50'x14' garden, concrete & topsoil. 1 side walled, the other hedged. Tot. Occupants: 1 woman, 1 man. Smell: Usually smells of nothing, but if we've been away for a while, or have visited Ben's family home, it smells like other people.

TRENDS:

While not mentioned above, as time progresses, availability of carpeting decreases

If I've had a stove, I've not had a microwave. And vice-versa.

I'll keep this list updated as life continues to move me.

Snow Gone...

But interestingly, as an update, I wish to inform viewers that I happened upon a Brooklyn Public Library Branch a bit closer to home than the main library to which I could have, had I known of its existence, brought the keys. I'd like to state that for the record this discovery does not diminish the good day that I had in the snow, nor does it cause me to regret the trip I made to get there, as I discovered a large and bountiful fiction section, read a good book, and explored a little more of my town.

but.

It's half a block away from my house.

New York Snow Day

They really don't shut down the city. And there was over 5 inches of snow overnight!

This morning, for the sake of experiencing my first real snow here, I decided to bundle up (in all my handy-dandy long underwear nyoinked from a large donation to LCF--hadn't needed it since downrigging. My tops still smell a little...cosmolene-y.) and go stomp through the snow drifts in the street. While that was fun for about five minutes, I soon felt a need to occupy myself in a more worthwhile manner. So I went to stomp through snow drifts in the local park. After a delightful five additional minutes of stomping I happened across a set of keys. The ring was smushed, and a number of the owner's grocery store discount dongles were torn, but the keys themselves were fine. I initially opted to try and hang the keys on a railing where they'd be visible if the owner came looking for them, but then I stumbled across his or her library card, attached to another smushed keyring.

An idea formulated. I called my sister.

She gave me directions to the closest library branch,which involved two trains I'd not yet taken, and after a few false starts, I managed to stomp my snow-coated way through the doorway of the Brooklyn main branch. It's a simultaneously attractive and hideous building--spacious, interestingly curved, and interestingly painted with what appears to be zodiac symbols, but monolithic, solid concrete, with little interior decoration and that all-too familiar utilitarian government-issue feel to the racks. After surrendering the keys and cards to the security office I meandered into the fiction section and was surprised to discover the first book I saw was a collection of short stories by a favorite author of mine. I proceeded to make myself comfortable at a reading table and systematically execute two hours.

When I emerged from the library, the wind had picked up and the previously delightful chill had become bone-rattling. My eyes teared up instantly, blinding me, and thanks to the snow re-routing the street I nearly wandered out in front of a moving car. On the brief train ride back toward my house I observed that I'd encountered some sort of pocket on the karmic continuum--I performed a small act of charity by turning in the library card, and in return I enjoyed a book that I wouldn't have otherwise encountered. The moment I exited the library, however, the pocket disappeared and I returned to cold reality.

To suggest the trip to return someone's keys was entirely selfless would be fallacious--if it hadn't been for the library card I would have hung them up nearby and hoped for the best. But any excuse to go to the library is a good one for me. I had nothing better to do, and the card, far from inspiring a good deed, triggered my nerd-out response. I hope the keys make their way home, and I'm glad I had the time to take the trip.

"I say, look at that pair of birds. And me with this solitary stone."

Why is the World in Love Again?

Tonight I'm going to go see They Might Be Giants perform Flood with Oppenheimer at Le Poisson Rouge in the Village. I'm rather excited, as I've been a rather emphatic TMBG fan ever since I was 8, but this shall be the first of their concerts I've viewed. Flood was the first of their albums that I bought (just like everyone, I'm sure), and if it weren't for such pieces as Dr. Worm and The Sun is a Mass of Incandescent Gas it could have been the only. (that and the dial-a-drum-solo segment of She's Actual Size on the Dial-a-Song album. Pure Genius.)

My cousin, who earned his Ph. D in Chemistry from Berkeley a few years ago, introduced me to TMBG at a point in my life in which I was very easily influenced. A little while later this cousin got me into gin-tonics and Douglas Adams. (It is important to mention, however, that it was my sister who first let me borrow Ender's Game.) My similarities to said cousin suggest that my life could have panned out quite differently had I not been met with an utter dearth of decent math and science teachers in middle school. Alas, now I'm one of the millions of educated, unemployable liberal arts grads in New York City left wondering why we bothered with college at all.

Anyway, TMBG tonight. I intend to rock out with my prosthetic forehead on my real head.

Ch-Ch-Ch-Changes!

Aloha from sunny New York City!

oh wait. Let me try again.

Greetings from the Frozen Tundra that lies north of Baltimore!

Better.

I've moved into a cute sublet in Brooklyn and am rooming with a young, fun personal trainer.

The building is easily 100 years old, but I don't know its exact dates.

It's old enough to have a picture rail and beautiful mouldings and accents on the ceilings.



And Medusa lives on the table.

I've had about a week of work in stage carpentry and electrics and it's been wonderful.


I've had two interviews with universities that I've applied to and both went very well. We'll see.



I'm sleeping on an inflat-o-bed and it's comfortable but I feel I should find something that gets me further than 8" off the floor. And yes, I borrowed the tiger blanket.


I've gotten to know my way around Greenwich Village to a limited extent and have not as yet gone hungry due to being lost. It is helpful that I live right off the A subway line, which has gotten me everywhere I've needed to go with at most one line change. I'm sure this will change.

I'm applying for temp work as I do hope my stay here in lovely New York is temporary. We'll see.

Freeways, Runways, and the Interconnectedness of All Things

I love the design of the interstate highway—the road gradually curving and blending and expanding, giving the impression that it is fluidly sliding away below your tires and you are actually sitting still. I love the effortless branching—whether or not you can actually merge safely through the onslaught of confused and angry motorists when the time comes, there is an understated beauty in the natural divergence of one lane into two. The continuation of this into bridges and multi-level overpasses, while again frustrating (in the case of I-80's Maze east of the Bay Bridge I never got it right) turns the simple beauty of an onramp into a symphony of delicate navigational transitions. Bear left, under the bridge, quick right, follow the cloverleaf, merge in from the left, get your speed up to join the fast lane. . . after two continents of this it feels less like you're consciously moving and more like you're floating along effortlessly down a vehicular river.

I like to have window seats when I fly--partly to have something to rest my head on, but mostly so I can peek down occasionally and watch the ground slip away in the high-altitude equivalent of slow motion. If I close the shade it's hard to believe the plane is moving. (And when we fly through dense, contour-less clouds it's hard to believe we're in reality.) I noticed on my most recent venture into the skies that from the air freeways look a little. . . stagnant. The fluid curves and river-like visual movement to them seem pointless when you're not on them, particularly when they're empty. The feeling I get when I observe an empty freeway juncture from above, all its voluptuous contours reduced to a tiny, burnt-gray concrete knot—it's like taking off my roller skates. An empty freeway is the first few frustrating moments of friction after your internal inertia has acclimated to gliding.

Just like city driving. Stop. GoStop. GoStop. erk. erk. erk. ugh.

Tonight I managed to drive five miles along a light-studded section of a Charlotte boulevard without so much as slowing—it's amazing how well well-engineered traffic systems work if you just stick religiously to the speed limit. It's amazing how frustrating driving can be when cities erect traffic lights at random.

Rutabega!

So I finally learned what the American name for a swede (root vegetable) has been all along: Rutabega! Everything is in its proper place. The universe makes sense again.

So England is still there, for anyone who was curious. Even after all the colonizing there's a few people left to hold down the fort.

My objectives in visiting were straightforward--look at schools, travel the countryside, and make good use of the intervening time in the company of one ginger-bearded beatnik.

All three objectives were met with fairly high levels of success. Schools were indeed visited, and heaps of first impressions were garnered. I enjoyed talking to nearly everyone I met--except for one dangerous and disgusted-looking receptionist. I'm sorry for looking like the guy who gypped you out of owning Madagascar, ma'am. Really. I actually apologised when I asked if I might be allowed past the barbed-wired checkpoint to use the restroom. "Fine, its to the right, up the stairs--the women's room has a stick-figure of a woman in a skirt on it. Don't go in the one without a skirt. That's for men." "Thanks, where I come from ladies just use the earthen pit with a door." Anyway. All the other receptionists I met were friendly and helpful--particularly the young man who not only helped me get a tour of his school's props department, but got out a map and guided me to the right street when I got lost on the way. He gave me an excellent first impression, and I applaud his institution for employing him as their face and voice.

In the interest of courtesy I'm not going to list the details of my school tours here as I don't really know the people I encountered and, what with the ready availability of information on the internet to those who seek it creatively, I'm sure its easy to link my applications to all of the dumb things I've posted here over the years. So why exacerbate the problem?

The thing I always find rather disquieting is how many people share my exact name, and of those, how many are near my age, roughly share my interests and inhabit places I've lived. I have an unsettlingly large number of people to trust with my reputation--what if one of them gets convicted of murder? Or uploads a compromising but faceless video onto youtube? I do my best to be internet-obscure, but even if I didn't use the web at all these folks could inadvertently smear me in the eyes of a curious department head. I'm keeping a close eye on you, Kristen from Denver!

In any case, Canterbury is still lovely and still slowly collapsing under its own age. London Bridge station is still crawling with gruesomely made up actors (who have swallowed a Lot of pride) trying to recruit visitors to the London Dungeon. Cornish pasties still taste amazing. The weather still shows off with snow and fog when I come to town. The automated voice announcing that this is a Piccadilly-line train to Cockfosters still makes me laugh like a drain. And the center of the London Tower Drawbridge still refuses to bounce, no matter how hard you jump on it.

New discoveries for me this trip included Canterbury's Boho Cafe (with its delightful motif of early 1970's-era clocks--some are right twice a day, some will never catch up), new management at the Cricketers (and new employees who enjoy American football--c'mon brain, think of a team name! think of a team!), hilarity and good music at Brighton's Sanctuary Cafe's "Cella," (where I gained a new appreciation for ants, dad gags, and dinosaur figurines), and a new perspective on roller coaster terror by observing the carnival rides on the Brighton Pier.

Art I enjoyed this go 'round included Thomas Brock's Eve and a silver and diamond bodice ornament at the V&A, the water features of More London, and the hilariously, disgustingly gaudy Royal Pavilion, Brighton.

As usual I expressed my sympathies for the preserved Egyptian man at the British Museum and vowed to demand my remains be cremated, tripped over at least twelve cobblestones on the Canterbury High Street, and consumed entirely too many potato-based foods. I gained five pounds. It was fabulous.

Ah, Southeast England--it had been too long. I want to come back to stay--will you have me?

Back Safe

I have returned from London. Victorious.

Not over London.

My victory came about twelve hours later when my reckless driving ticket was dismissed in court. While it might have appeared reckless to drive to Virginia minutes after a 10 hour flight (Gatwick to Cincinnati, Cincinnati to Charlotte—remarkably, all on time!) it needed to be done so I grabbed my mom and headed up. The snow was constant but not bad and traffic was low--thanks, I think, to everyone on the eastern seaboard camping out that night in DC. I'd never seen lorries drive—or have the ability to drive—that fast on I-85. I stayed out of the way. 65 is fast enough for me in the snow. Anyway, slept over in South Hill (twitch) and headed to court the following morning in the nearby town of Boydton through a dazzlingly white landscape. Everything was delayed a few hours on account of the snow but I only had to wait half an hour (after three trips through courthouse security. My mom, a nurse, always has scissors and at least one hemostat in her purse. These came up in the bag x-ray and I had an amusing time explaining to the security guard what a hemostat was while she bustled her tools back to the car.) The judge was straightforward and fair and looked surprisingly like the judge from Baltimore's traffic court. Most of the day's defendants didn't show, which is normal, so mine came up pretty quickly. Turned out the cop, the judge, and half the room had had trouble on that onramp and the cop even emphasized "that real tight curve with all the ruts in it" and "tried to correct but landed in deep mud." The judge asked me if I'd gotten caught in one of the ruts and I said I did. To paraphrase his final comment on the matter, "This court is very familiar with accidents caused by that onramp, and I personally am very familiar with it, and can't find you at fault. Case dismissed--you're free to go." I thanked them politely and booked it out of there. Hooray!

Oh yeah, England is good too.

Londres

My Christmas present to myself is 10 days in England. So there.

I have knitted 3 hats since I've been home. The process is exceptionally easy with a round knitting loom, and a delightful, mindless activity to keep my hands occupied.

I'd love to get into theatrical hair and make-up. Prosthetics and fake blood and bruises and wigs are just neat. Sadly I don't believe my work experience affords me much of a chance to get a job in this field without re-training. "Okay, what are your credentials?" "Well, gimme an hour and an angle grinder and I could probably make you some scissors..."

I got a little creative in the bar the other day and came up with a tasty new drink. If it already has a name I can't find it, but its an ounce of peach schnapps, two ounces of white wine (i used a chilled Pinot Grigio), two ounces of grapefruit juice, and a splash of club soda. It is very refreshing and not too sweet. I shook it and strained it into a balloon glass filled with ice. Garnish with a grapefruit slice.

Ow, I just burned my tongue on hot tea.

The Sentimental Truth

Since the moment I could recognize sounds I've known and trusted the voice of radio personality Garrison Keillor. I can recall hearing A Prairie Home Companion from my baby seat, clad in my rumpled Sunday best, sucking on my fist and dozing off to the comforting drone of Minnesota's finest humorist. The words, incomprehensible to an infant's ears, meant little, but the deep, calm meter of his monologue was just the remedy for the morning's stresses of an itchy dress, a hard pew, and brimstone.

Twenty years—and a few religious crises—later I was struck by just how deep an impression those car rides had made upon me. Keillor's voice, and indeed even the opening bars of "Tishomingo Blues" to this day elicit in me such feelings of safety, of well-being and warmth, that any place I hear them instantly feels like home. Though the coziness generally dissipates after a few moments, I still find it remarkable that I've established such a deep connection with the voice of a complete stranger.

The discovery that I was hardly alone in this sentiment led me to appreciate and quietly covet the power of vocal presenters—particularly those of National Public Radio. When an undergraduate classmate jokingly mentioned that I had "one of those NPR voices" after I'd read a particularly soporific piece of prose I secretly hoped it was true, and I could find a use for it. Studies and social nights in Canterbury validated the utility of my regionally-neutral American voice, particularly in November of 2004 when it was a bit incriminating to sound Southern. My calm, trustworthy NPR voice still tends to come out when I address large groups of people—namely excitable children and sobriety-challenged adults who tend to panic around sailboats. It finds use when I answer phones for pledge drives and leave voice messages for strangers, but I've always wanted the chance to read the news, review a book, or simply declare the time of day in a broadcast. Would my desire to speak on the radio be sated by a simple "the current time is ten fifty-seven pm" announcement? Probably not, but if it was all I got I hope I would continue to relish the moment.

This is the sappy and saccharine but true reason behind why I want to study broadcast journalism. Now I have to figure out a professional, dedicated, and experienced-sounding reason to write up in 250 words and submit to the masters program alongside two references from professors or professional contacts who have actually read something I've written. (Wherein lies the greatest trouble—no one who knows me academically or professionally has ever needed me to write anything more than my name for any academic or professional purpose. Any ideas?) I may be biting off a bit more than I'm prepared to chew. Or pay for.

Virginia

I began writing this story from the comfort and warmth of a motel in southern Virginia, before it was actually over. I finished it in the comfort and warmth of my bedroom in South Carolina.

I have omitted names out of respect for people's privacy. Everyone I encountered was incredibly nice and helpful and I intend to send them Christmas cards.

The story began Sunday morning, shortly after I had exited the train which had brought me from my thanksgiving festivities in New York City back to my car in Baltimore. It was drizzly and cold but not awful and the roads were reasonable. I knew that traffic was supposed to be bad—it was the last vacation day of the Thanksgiving holiday—but from where I stood, and indeed throughout most of my trip it was tolerable and even normal. I believe I'd caught one of those weird travel pockets, where everyone else encounters a horrible ordeal—traffic, fog, driving rain—but I was whisking along at or just below the posted speed limit, pretty close to on time.

My destination was home. 450 miles or so. My vehicle contained everything I'd had in Baltimore, minus a few ruined items of clothing that had since been donated to charity or interred in a landfill. I was listening to Boy, by Roald Dahl, and was doing the automotive equivalent of mooing along with the herd. I was content.

I stopped for gas about twelve miles from the North Carolina border.

I happily printed my receipt—about $22 for 12 gallons of gas, and popped it into my center console. I figured I would eventually frame it. I eased my car back onto the street and pointed her toward the freeway—I-85 South, toward Carolina.

I rolled up to a stop at the large intersection before the interstate and waited for the left-turn light to go green. It did so in due course and I mounted the onramp. It had signs indicating you should be aware of some curvy-ness, which I acknowledged just like any other road warning. I was smoothly accelerating, and had been doing so for about four or five seconds, when I saw the curve. I think I was going about 35 miles per hour—the yellow sign recomended 25. I saw that it was a tightish curve, and tapped the brakes. As I came around it, however, I realized a bit too late that it was a tighter curve than I'd initially believed, and attempted to slow down further while turning the wheel to follow it.

This did not make my brakes very happy, apparently, and the anti-lock mechanism began to engage. This did not help matters, as it caused the wheel to jerk frightfully. I held on, and kept the wheel aligned, but the tires were already set on their trajectory—about 10 degrees from the pavement. I skidded to a stop on the embankment. It was just before 7 pm.

I didn't hear any bumps or crunches, but the hill was essesntially a soup of red mud and grasses. After ascertaining that I was okay I hopped out to see how things looked. The car looked essentially okay except for one rather important thing—when the rear tires slipped down off the road they sank instantly into about eight inches of mud, the upshot of which was that the rear bumper got caught on the asphalt and quite literally popped off.

Not wonderful, I told myself, but not the end of the world. I'll need a tow truck. I hopped back in the car and, with shaking hands, dialed AAA. The phone was answered by a kind lady who, as per company protocol, asked me if I was in a safe place. I believed I was.

That's when the shouting started.

Two middle-aged men and several of their dogs were running toward me, yelling something incomprehensible. I stepped out to see what was going on and was greeted by a small, excited hound of some persuasion. They remained incomprehensible even in close proximity, but were basically asking if I was okay. I said I was and was on the phone to get a tow truck, I'm sorry to have alarmed you. I climbed back in the car to speak to the AAA lady. The men kept shouting and one pulled open the door. He hollered for me to get out. I refused, pulled the door closed, and locked it, rather terrified of his bloodshot eyes. After a few confused moments in which the lady on the phone asked me where I was, I saw a fire department vehicle pull up, lights and sirens blaring. I unlocked the door, which set off the alarm. Christ on a bike.

After fumbling with my keys until the alarm quieted I stepped out to hear one of the men shouting, a bit more clearly, at a fire department member a few inches from him.

"we live on the hill there, we saw the car go off'n the road, we thought it was on the roof so we dialed 9-1-1." then to me, "you need to slow down there on that curve."

"Thanks. No, really."

One of the fire department members, of about 7 in the vehicle, came and asked if I was all right, said that EMS was going to pull up in a second and check me out. I expressed appreciation for their concern but was fine and really just needed a tow—I'd be able to handle it from there. As I said it, the remainder of the uniformed men slogged up the muddy hill and swarmed the car–they popped the hood and disconnected the battery so as to prevent the airbags from deploying and inspected what they could of the damage in the dark. A police car arrived.

After inquiring as to my well-being, the officer asked for my license, registration, and insurance information. I climbed back into the car and found these bits of paper and plastic and handed them to him. He walked back off to the squad car.

I lifted my phone back to my ear. The nice AAA lady was still on the phone, and asked me to ask someone where I was. I said I didn't know, and asked another police officer. "We're handling it," he replied, "now please follow the other officer back to the car." Baffled and still trying to get a tow, I continued trying to describe my location until the second officer stated, "the tow truck is already on the way. Your insurance will pay for it." Shit. Insurance.

I thanked the nice AAA lady and hung up. I approached the squad car, and the cop unlocked the door and offered me a seat. I left my feet on the road as my shoes were muddy. He was filling in what looked like a mountain of paperwork.

"How fast do you think you were going?"
"I think about 30, 35 miles an hour."
"You sure?"
"Yessir, I couldn't have gotten up much faster than that. I'd been stopped at the red light just a few yards back."
"hmm."

"So what happened?"
"That curve—i just didn't realize it was as tight as it was. I turned too late, my brakes locked up, and I was off the road. It wouldn't be so bad except for the mud."

I looked through the windshield and saw a tow truck operator hooking a line to my rear axle. The fire department members, now a dozen or so, were standing around looking bored.

The police officer got my attention again.

"I'm writing you a ticket for reckless driving."
"What? Reckless? I just said-"
"You lost control of the vehicle. Legally, that's reckless driving."
"But sir, I wasn't going that fast, I just wasn't aware of the shape of the road. I'm not from here."
"I know, I know. And I suggest you take that up in court. Seriously."
"I'm sorry?"
"I'm legally obligated to write you a ticket for this, but I think you need to contest it in court. I'm setting you a court date for January 20th."
"Sir, I'm sorry, but this just isn't right. All I need is a tow."
"If there's more than $1,ooo worth of damage I'm required to write a ticket."

I glanced back at my bumper, fully intact and popped back, delicately, into place by the tow truck's cable.

"You think that's a thousand dollars worth of damage?"
"Maybe."

He showed me where to sign and informed me that he would not tick the box indicating I could pay the ticket by mail. My signature affixed, he handed me the large ticket, my registration, license, and insurance card. I climbed out of the car, slightly dazed and beginning to grow angry, and began to wander toward the car and all of my posessions.

The car was nearly in position to be hauled up. As it returned to the road I watched the rear left tire squish oddly off the wheel where it hit the asphalt ridge. Well shit.

I stepped back and found myself surrounded by firemen. They were chatting amongst themselves, and I overheard the line, "well, its not as bad as the one this morning."

"What was that?"
"we pulled another car off this spot this morning. Right here. You're prob'ly the fourth, fifth person we've pulled off here this month. This curve is treacherous."
"Whoa. Well, that makes me feel a little better."
"Yeah, people come down the onramp thinkin' they're going okay, then wham, they get spun off."
"I didn't think I was going too fast..."

A fireman glanced into the car and saw my handbag in the passenger seat, my colorful wallet peeking out of it. "Want your pocketbook? Or anything else out of the car?" Pocketbook. I'm really out in the sticks. He handed it to me. I later hoped that I'd thanked him.

I called my mom. I believe it was the second time I'd called her and begun with, "Hi mom. I'm okay, but..." The car was pulled fully onto the tow truck and I began to look at the damage. Tire, bumper, mud. Was that really it? All this for what could easily be handled with duct tape?

I heard myself swearing and choking up. Great, you're in front of dozens of people who you've just told you're a rational and sane person to have on the road. I dimly heard mom encouraging me to relax and get a hold of myself. Seeds of doubt and fear began tracing across my mind. Were you speeding? Did you jerk the wheel? Did these people put this here as a trap? Does this town depend on car accidents? Are they evil? Are they aliens? The reds, yellows, and blues of emergency vehicle lights were growing misty and confused in my eyes, like a dirty kaleidoscope. I realized my hands were shaking and dimly registered that I might have dropped something.

The tow truck driver was trying to subtly get my attention. He opened the passenger door of the cab and I clambered awkwardly in. My shaking hand fumbled to close the door around the odd parcel of paperwork it still contained.

The driver looked to be in his mid sixties, large and strong. My mouth fired off, babbling thanks for his help and a variety pack of other asinine information as he smoothly completed a three-point turn and started off back up the onramp. I was a bit surprised that we weren't going out and around until I glanced up and saw three fire trucks, punctuated by lines of road flares, blocking the entryway.

"Sheez. I had no idea this was such a big deal. These folks work Fast."
"This happens often enough that we got a routine set up. They had plenty of practice this morning."
"I'd heard about that. Was that one as bad as this?"
"Yours ain't bad."
"I'm sorry it caused such a fuss—seems like every fire department in the county answered."
"Don't worry about it. Not much else goes on around here. Everybody wants to get involved."

Feeling a bit like Arlo Gutherie I fell quiet.

In a matter of seconds we were pulling into a Citgo station full of cars and tow trucks. I hopped out and followed him into the store, where two men and two women, one of which looked near my age, were chatting. He handed me a business card and disappeared into the garage, where two cars hovered overhead on hydraulic lifts. A forty-something man with sandy hair and a goatee grinned at me.

"Here she is! How's the car?"
"I broke it."

Everyone laughed and smiled in a pitying sort of way, and I heard several renditions of "they need to do something about that curve–you're the second one today" while the girl behind the counter asked me where I was from and if I'd need a place to stay. After everyone expressed their sympathy for my distance from home, she called her friend over at the Comfort Inn. Calmed and somewhat less confused, a message arrived from the accounting branch of my brain. License. We've lost track of the license. Eyes and hands–look for it. I obeyed. It was gone. The goatee'd man was orating.

"You know, I think they could save a lot by paving over where that gravel is—y'know, putting yellow lines on it to show that it ain't road, but if people skid off they can get back on. 'Cos you and that guy this mornin', you coulda just got back going if the gravel weren't all wet and gouged out. Folks run off an they come back in and smooth out the gravel, but five, ten people skid off there a day without gettin' hurt and gouge out a hole. Then it rains and all that turns into mud. Till you come along and skid into it and what with the mud an the hole you fall in an get stuck."

"Well you know the state ain't gonna do nothin about it until somebody gets real hurt and sues. Till then they'll just blame the drivers and hand out reckless drivin tickets. Did you get one?"

"I did. I was pretty surprised." I showed the girl the ticket and she nodded. "I think I dropped my license."

"Did the cop hand it back to you?"
"Yeah, I must have dropped it in the mud."
"Well who was the ticketing officer? Maybe you dropped it in the car."
"Er...C. S."
"I'll give him a call."

She picked up her cell phone and hit a button on speed dial. "Hey darlin, could you have a look around in your car... yes she said you handed it back to her but she dropped it... no she's got everything else... call me if it turns up. I'll talk to you later."

Paranoia flared again. Are these nice people in cahoots with the cops? What kind of a set-up is this?

"You all gotten to know the police force?"
"Aw of course. My husband's a state trooper. C.S. is a good guy—the sheriff's real tough on 'em. I intend to give him a piece of my mind about sayin you were drivin reckless over there, though–he knows how bad it is, 'specially if you ain't from around here."

After a few more moments of shuffling in which I returned to the tow truck and searched around my seat i found myself getting back into it with the friendly goatee'd man and taking a quick ride over to the Comfort Inn. He lowered the ramp in the parking lot so i could get my passport out of a notebook in a large suitcase in the back. I dragged it inside and was met with the tastefully decorated lobby of a business-class motel and an attractive lady in what I guessed was her late 60's from her whitening, smoothly tucked-up hair. She smiled at me from across the high check-in counter.

"So here's the girl of the hour."

She began typing and looking for a room for me. I asked if they offered a AAA discount and she looked at me over her glasses. "I'm giving you every discount I can find." I wanted to hug her. She placed me in a downstairs room with two queen beds for $40 a night. I discovered later that this was just about half their going rate. I signed the check-in agreement and she asked me to call her when I got settled.

With my driver's help I offloaded about half of my worldly possessions into my large, clean room. I attempted to tip him and he backed away quickly. I hoped I hadn't insulted him. Inside, door triple-locked, I settled in to call my insurance company and parents. My first call to the insurance company ended suddenly—I heard crackling and shuffling akin to someone else in the same house picking up the phone which the agent did not hear. I asked if perhaps her quality assurance monitor was messed up and the connection was instantly severed. I tried again. This call was successful and, after providing her with as much information as she required and reminding her I was stranded far from home, a different agent assured me that someone would call me first thing in the morning. It was 8:30pm.

I placed the call to the front desk on the motel phone and the same thing happened. Shuffle shuffle click. I tried again, weirded out, and informed the desk lady that I'd gotten in and settled, thank you so much. She reminded me to lock my doors and get some rest.

I called my mom and told her I thought my phones had been bugged. She told me I was exhausted. As she's a healthcare professional and tends to be right about these things I believed her.

I set my alarm for 8 am and crawled into bed. It was 10pm.

After about fifteen minutes of sleep I was jerked awake by clock radio honky-tonk and continued the pointless stream of arguments I'd been mulling over all night. I called the insurance company again and was given the name and number of my case's assigned agent. The agent wouldn't reach his desk until 11:30am. Check-out was at 11 so I went back to the hotel desk and the same nice lady gave me the same nice price for the same nice room for another night. We chatted a bit and watched Law and Order on the big lobby television while I waited to make my phone call. She had been an upwardly-mobile actress in the Village back in her day, but she got married and didn't want to raise her family in the City. She tried to continue acting in regional theatre in upstate New York but was prevented by her race. She did some dancing and modeling for some Black-community pageants but grew disgruntled quickly with the prejudice that prevented her from pursuing her dreams.

I called the insurance guy again. No answer. I left a message. To pass the time I wandered over to the tow company's garage—it was visible from the hotel—bought a soda and settled in to chat with the folks who ran it. They were mostly family and the man who'd collected the car was the patriarch and owner. A number of family members and regulars wandered in and out to pass the time—one of which was a retired cop. He'd heard about me already and recounted with amusement that back in the day he sat at the end of that onramp to catch speeders on the freeway. This was really convenient as every time someone wiped out on that curve he'd just have to back up to help them out.

Every half-hour or so I called the insurance agent, but he never answered, and his voice mailbox was full after my first message. I dialed the call center and suggested that perhaps my agent wasn't in today and if so could I get someone else on my case so I could get things moving oh did I happen to mention I'm Stranded here have a nice day. They connected me to another voice mailbox with a message that clearly announced that its owner would not be in today. I called again, recounted the story so far in four part harmony and requested that something useful happen soon.

My agent called me. He was sick and had just gotten to work after he'd called in to say he couldn't make it and his boss said he had to. He sounded like he was running on Day-Quil. I felt like an ass for hating him up until this point. He was just a liability adjuster and, once he confirmed I was the only person involved, put my claim in to be handled by someone local. He got in touch with the garage and asked if a little bit of work—a tire and a mud clearing—could get her running well enough that i could get home. Someone noticed something a bit off about the front end and said they didn't think so, it needed to go to a body shop. The agent called a rental company and asked if it was possible for me to get a car after having misplaced my license. Her "no" response was so quick that he didn't press the issue. Not particularly helpful on any front, the agent said a claims adjuster would come out to evaluate the car and get things moving by the end of the day.

I used the hotel computer to hop online and entertain myself in between calls to keep myself occupied. A friend informed me that I was the sixth person he knew who had run off the road in the past two days. I told him he'd jinxed all of us. As the end of the day rolled around and my constant calls and messages led to a steaming heap of diddly-squat on the claims adjustment front I returned to the garage to ask if anyone had seen my license. The owner drove me over to the onramp and I slogged fruitlessly through the mud for a while. Upon our return to the garage his granddaughter, a pretty high school-aged girl who'd once played softball in my hometown, drove me up to where my car was stored and helped me dig through it. Again unsuccessful, I retrieved my laptop from the heaps of baggage and returned to the motel in the dark. I called my other half on Google Talk and allowed his soothing voice to quell much of my frustration. As soon as he dozed off it all came back, but it was a welcome respite.

Again, bed around 10. Fifteen minutes of sleep just before 8. More phone calls. Even less accomplished.

I puttered around between the hotel and the garage, making more friends. Tuesday's shop attendant was a soft-spoken woman of indeterminate age, probably around 40, who kept me entertained with conversation for several hours. I would periodically step outside to bug the insurance company and she would comment on how they were probably giving me the run-around in hopes that I'd get annoyed and cancel my service so they could fine me for breaking contract and not pay a dime toward repairs. Later, when my mom called to give me an update on her progress toward picking me up, she mentioned that she was surprised I didn't urge her to hurry and "get me away from this scary Stephen King novel." I really liked her.

An elderly, toothless man came and went periodically through the shop, occasionally making remarks to the attendant in a barely-audible wheeze. He told a number of racist jokes and got annoyed when I didn't laugh. They weren't funny. One in particular sounded like a threat. I didn't like him.

After a while it occurred to me that I hadn't eaten in about three days and the attendant pointed me toward the buffet restaurant next door. Named the "Down Home Country Restaurant" the buffet offered fried okra, green beans, kung pao chicken, lychees, sweet potato casserole, egg drop soup, peach cobbler, oysters on the half shell, stuffed portobello caps, crab ragoons, and about seventy other dishes, most of which contained meat. After sating myself on every vegetable in the place and consuming a cream puff I paid my $5.50 and returned to the garage, giggling maniacally.

After a while my mom arrived and thanked everyone she could find for being so nice and helpful while I was stuck here. We loaded up everything I owned, which took some pressure off of my car's flat tire, thanked a few more people, and crept back onto the dreaded onramp at about eight miles an hour. When the ramp straightened out mom relaxed, we sped up, and the car hurried up toward home.

The insurance adjuster finally called yesterday afternoon and said she'd get my car towed to a garage that was part of the company. I'll still have to go up and collect it when its ready—a 7-hour bus ride. This is assuming that the finance department actually pays out–they've been searching for loopholes since I filed the claim. Then in January it looks like I have a date in court. I'll let you know how that goes. The obnoxious part is the cop was right—even though the damage to the car is not extensive, the sheer cost of towing, driven up by insurance companies, and storage, driven up by insurance companies, compounded with my insurance company's refusal to do anything for four days, will easily put the cost of this whole incident over a thousand dollars.

This event has provided me with a valuable life lesson: I'm ready to move to England.

unemployed and homeless

so. i lost my job.

snigger.

the season is over, the boats are shrink-wrapped, the spars are safe, the hangovers are receding, and everyone has scattered to the four corners of the globe.

well, everyone has scattered. some just scattered to other houses in Baltimore. others have flown to the west coast and beyond to Australia, a few are moving to new york, and one brave soul is moving to Maine. I'm going to have thanksgiving with my family before I come up with any more definitive plans than "move to New York, try again."

its all fine. i'm going to try and wash the taney out of my clothes for the next couple of days.

well, its not fine fine. i have just completely lost all of the friends i'd spent the past year bonding with. i feel that my likelihood of encountering any of them again hovers around a 12% chance.

The Lady Maryland's cook was picked up by his family on Saturday, and it blew all of us away to hear him called Grandpa. Their captain and mine have bought a Rover and plan to sail it from Myrtle Beach to Buffalo once the canals re-open in spring, and i might get a call to help on the transit. LM's first mate has bought a ketch and plans to sail it from Maryland to Maine soon, while her second mate has some rather Kerouac-esque goals in mind. Almost everyone has warm, homeward-bound feelings right now and hopes to re-connect with their estranged land-based families. I wish them the best, and happy holidays.

I'm not alone out of my crew when I express the sentiment that i'm not entirely sure where i'm going from here, or for how long, or why. We rode this gig like a runaway train until it suddenly stopped, flinging us off the roof onto our now bruised behinds, dizzy and perplexed.

Again...any suggestions for graduate study? Something cool i don't know about? Journalism looks like fun, but where is it going to get me that a BA in theatre hasn't? Radio broadcast also looks like...HEAPS of fun, but with competition and the fact that i've barely adjusted a knob on a stereo receiver i have a funny feeling i'm not an ideal candidate for admission. Alas. maybe i'll sign up for some welding classes in January, or try for some freelance theatre gigs with my sister. Or try and get a deckhand gig on the Lettie G. Howard. I don't know anymore. Doesn't anyone just...know what i'm supposed to do?

Aha! I'll take up religion.

tee hee hee hee hee

Actually, I discovered with my haircut (or lack thereof), if i wear an Under Armour black mock turtleneck thermal garment, i look like a priest. Its pretty funny. well, i thought it was funny. other people might say the more appropriate word is "offensive" given the context.

So technically i'm not homeless--i'm in a house now. An actual...house. It doesn't list to starboard at low tide, it doesn't creak in high wind, it doesn't make that wonderful sloshing noise and rock me gently to sleep...it just sits here bravely atop a scenic overlook with the bay beautiful but powerless down below.

On the whole, my housing situation's cool factor has warmed a few degrees. Oh well.

I'm handling it well, i think. At the beginning of last week it didn't occur to me how much i was going to miss my Taney mates and their little noises and behaviors to which I'd grown so accustomed. Seeing the light go on through the holes in the wall, hearing barely-suppressed music through someone else's headphones, hearing the sighing, the swearing, the snoring, the shaving, the shouting...when I left yesterday morning there was complete and utter silence. To say I exited in a hurry would be an understatement. I freakin' ran.

So there you have it. The boats are in exactly the same condition as when I arrived last year--a few things have improved, but a few others have degraded and need maintenance. The pier is vacant, the kids are gone, the crabs have been released and a light film of dust has already begun to settle. I am again looking for work, housing, and friends.

Did 2008 actually happen?

wordle

wordle makes my life out to sound pretty damn cool.
thanks Kim.

yesterday marked the end of the LCF shipboard department's
sailing season. As of today, all of the boats are down-
rigged and half have frames erected for winter coverings. 
Its all very sad, very cold, and very hard work. I spent
today at the top of Sigsbee's mast taking down blocks and
lines--I'd imagine that's the last time i'll ever be up
there. Weird.  The sails are stowed, the spars are stored,
and we have 3 days left of employment.

Save the Day!...light

While I'm not a huge advocate of daylight savings' time, I am happy to fall back every year. After two or three weeks of waking up in the dark, it is wonderful to have at least a little more time of waking up to sunshine before that, too, disappears in preparation for winter. Ah, temperate zones.

So my absentee ballot application was mailed to the wrong address, bounced, and came back to the voter registration office. I got in touch with them and they sent out a new one...and it arrived today, November 3. (for anyone unfamiliar with the absentee voting system, you are first mailed a ballot application, which you fill out and return, and upon receipt of a perfectly filled out application, the actual absentee ballot is mailed, which you then fill out and mail back. its asinine, it wastes paper, it wastes time, and i put in for it with plenty of time to take care of everything, and South Carolina screwed up.) Thanks, SC. you've fucked me again. Way to withhold constitutional rights.

So, I had a great week in Philadelphia. The kids were awesome to work with, we made and ate some delicious food, i discovered new bars and new beers, i slept in a real bed, and, what fabulous timing--the Phillies won the world series while we were in town! It was fun to watch the revelry in the streets after that--that was until they started lighting things on fire and looting. Didn't quite grasp how "hooray we won" translates into "hey, lets break shit!" but oh well, i've never been a Phanatic.

I also discovered one of those awesome bookshops in the old part of town--called the Book Trader, it had scores of volumes stacked right to the ceiling, confusing, tight, twisty, irregular aisles, funny lighting, that old-book smell, a huge upstairs, and the best shopkeepers i've yet met. I bought six classics i've been needing to read for about eleven dollars and practically skipped home. (by "practically" i mean "i skipped home.")

On the slow, difficult transit up I took a number of photos of the bridges we went under in the C&D Canal (chesapeake & Delaware). as soon as I retrieve my camera from Sigsbee i'll be sure to share a few. It was a very pretty, if laborious, trip up--the current was strong against us the whole way, it was freezing, and the wind was directly on our quarter, which meant the main wanted to jibe the whole freakin day. Most of the time we held it off or allowed it to jibe safely, but steering was a relentless battle against the wind. A positive upshot of the current was that when we finally did get into Philadelphia, the entire exterior of the boat had been cleaned of algae. Who'd a thunk it.

The transit back was quick and easy by contrast. Whereas on the way up we averaged about 3.7 knots, the way back we averaged 9.3 and made it in 14 hours. Instead of two days. The wind was still on our quarter, but the current was helping at an amazing clip (that same amazing clip we were fighting before) and practically threw us into Baltimore. The buoys, anchored against the onslaught of water, looked like they were motoring past as the waves broke around them. I'd never thought to personify a buoy before, but it was pretty funny.

I finished James Michener's Chesapeake! I knocked out the last 500 pages in about 4 days. I was sad to see Rosalind's Revenge go. Say what you will about the power of the seas and the perpetual motion of nature that maintains the universe's constancy... Dammit, I Liked that house!

I'm currently about halfway through The Kite Runner, which I borrowed from a crewmate after I ran out of pages. While transits can be tough, there's also rather a lot of down-time when you're not on the wheel. While I'm not enjoying the story per se, it is excellently written so far.

Fillie

Sigsbee will be heading up the Bay to Philadelphia beginning tomorrow morning. we expect to arrive on Sunday, but will not be sailing Saturday during what is expected to be gale-force winds and unpleasant precipitation. We'll be in Philly for just over a week running sails with a youth program. It should be an adventure. I've got my long underwear all clean and ready.

Today marked the annual shipboard Jack-o-Lantern contest, bumped up a bit on account of our iminent departure for the frozen north. Mildred Belle won hands-down, with a beautifully carved design of a white perch...on fire. In close second ran a delicately rendered hellcat, entered by Snow Goose of the Chesapeake Bay Foundation. An attractive lighthouse scratched out by the Lady Maryland crew earned them a third place ranking, and Sigsbee's crew pulled fourth with a delightfully vindictive depiction of the Mildred Belle...on fire. And sinking. All pumpkins will be visible for the next little while on Pier 5 on their respective boats.


I am currently open to suggestions as to what I should go to grad school for. I'm not hugely interested in maths, sciences, arts, languages, medicine, law, or history. Unfortunately I can't find Small Engine Repair at the Ph D. level.

pretty boats

This past week Baltimore played host to the Parade of Sail, the pre-game show for the Great Cheasapeake Bay Schooner Race. I experienced the joy of participating in the parade from the deck of the Lady Maryland, who went on to finish second in the race. In honor of yet another of my birthdays, I decided that this year's celebration should be of boats, which are a touch prettier than rats. Please note, as usual, all photos are mega-huge, and were taken by me in Baltimore's Inner Harbor.

Small, private schooner Martha White. Raised two questions: Are they really all that into flour? Is that really all bottom paint?

Pride of Baltimore II firing a cannon salute in the Inner Harbor. The ensuing audio battle among vessels Pride, Constellation, Gazela, Lady Maryland, Mystic Whaler, and others led to the National Aquarium at Baltimore to call over the VHF "please stop firing your cannons. You're scaring the dolphins."

Sigsbee! Aw, I'm sorry you didn't get to come, darlin. She's lookin' sharp.

Baltimore Clipper Amistad. -Wait, That Amistad?- Yes, That Amistad.

Schooner Mystic from a Boston Whaler.

Square topsail schooner Sultana, from Chestertown, Maryland. Judge her size compared to the people on deck. She's a perfect miniature. And a good friend of Living Classrooms.

Schooner Virginia. has a reputation for being bad-ass. Broke a gaff during the race. I heard everyone is okay. Is it just me, or does she look like the kind of boat Darth Vader would captain?

Schooners Virginia and When and If?, under Lady Maryland's main. So much canvas.

Mystic Whaler, a beautiful vessel in and out, and excellent hosts. Thank you for throwing a great pot luck!

I'll try to add a Lady Maryland "Fear the Pink" shirt soon.

hot sauce, spider webs, and a gallon of coffee

So. I've been out of town.

Having a blast, by the way. Two weeks ago found me in St. Michaels, MD, running some day programs for Eastern Shore kids, which were a lot of fun (if fast!) My crew and I spent nights alternately weathering rain and enjoying brightly starlit skies from Sigsbee's deck after delicious meals cooked over a lead-melting burner. (a welcome backup after a propane tank attachment mix-up. Big Fire make Fast Dinner. And perhaps the most perfect popcorn i've ever tried.) The crew transit back, a trip of several hours, was passed enjoyably, if a bit noisily, thanks to the addition of four bottles of hot sauce and a box of crackers. Yeowza! (technically we only tried three--the fourth was saved to be shared with the captain of another vessel. After watching the reactions of tasters, I'm rather glad I wasn't tempted to try the fourth.)

Last Friday was spent in drink and revelry at the annual Maritime Magic gala, a large party/concert/auction/local restaurant sampler/boozeup to benefit the Living Classrooms Foundation. The music was great, the food was excellent, free, and largely vegetarian, the vendors were friendly, and nobody fell in during my M.O.B. watch. I'd call that a success.

This week found me on a 3-day trip to Kent Island, complete with an entire department-load of insurance agents on a team-building adventure. Also known as a lovely few days on boats, some lovely restaurants, and plenty of lovely beer. They were generally pleasant people, and though we flatly lost the sailboat race against Lady Maryland, no one was hugely surprised and it was a great day on the water in any case.

An odd thing occurred while we were crossing the bay toward Baltimore--in a rather nondescript area of open water we happened to pass through a giant cloud of bugs. I don't know what kind exactly--they looked like largeish flying ants, but with pointier aft ends. They may have been larval wasps or juvenile versions of any number of interesting critters, but needless to say I spent most of this time cowering behind one of my coworkers as the bugs whizzed past. Most of them passed by without even noticing Sigsbee, and the ones that did land on deck were easily shooed off it again. We passed through them in about twenty minutes at 5 knots, so do the math and tell me what the diameter of the bug-cloud was. Seriously. I'm pathetic at math.

Anyway, we got back to the dock and tidied up the boat, and in the process of tying off the gantline a member of my crew happened to look up and see that every line, every lazy jack and halyard was decorated with hundreds of delicate webs--the entire rig was covered in a filigree of arachnoid fibers. We assumed these had something to do with the bug-cloud, but we really have no idea--no one had heard of six-legged or winged insects with the ability to produce a web, and none of them appeared to be ballooning anyway. Some theories we proposed, but later shot down included:

-the Francis Scott Key Bridge, which marks the entrance to Baltimore's Outer Harbor, just doesn't have cargo ships passing under it like it used to get and is overrun with spiderwebs.
-the bugs were being attacked by minute ballooning spiders and we just interrupted, which led to all of the webs appearing to be over four feet long
-we were attacked by something at the dock overnight (this theory was dispelled when we saw the same webs covering the Lady Maryland's lines, and LM anchored out pretty far from land because the water gets too shallow for her)
-our captain is actually a spider and we've just never noticed.

Any ideas?

in any case, my crew has been rather busy lately and, on account of this, have managed to go through three bags of coffee beans in about three weeks. Is that normal for four people?

The Great Chesapeake Bay Schooner Race is coming up in a couple of days, and boats from up and down the eastern seaboard have been showing up in droves in the inner harbor. Its been a lot of fun to see. I hope to get a chance to schmooze with their crews.

One more thing. This piece of psychadellic art gave me pause to wonder--it looks hand-painted by a giddy stoner with no concept of life-like colors, patterns, or ratios. I think a new religion or at least emphatic cult should form around this clear proof that God trips on acid.

pout, grin, laugh, scream

I was tootling around in the local organic home store, Blue House, today, and came across numerous things that I want but, sadly, even if I could afford them, would be completely useless to me. The Taney is a wonderful home for what it is, but it has its limitations.

Namely, I don't have a stove. Therefore all the nifty tea kettles and cookware they have is completely useless to me. I'm also strictly forbidden from using my electric kettle on the ship, so I can't even use their nifty teabag teapots that i find so adorable. seriously, i live in a place that is highly opposed to the idea of me feeding myself--and for good reason. the wiring around here is historic. anything that draws enough electricity to boil water in three minutes or less is probably a hazard.

Something else I come up short on is windows. I have a 9" porthole, and though it is a very nice porthole, I don't believe the curator of the museum would be very happy with me if i installed a window box below it. Which means, sadly, that all the seeds, planters, and biodegradable flowerpots they sell are not intended for people like me.

I'm also a bit shortchanged when it comes to tables, dressers, and other furniture that appreciate decorative accents. No matter how many doilies you put on them, gunmetal gray cabinets will never look cozy. And vases? recall what I mentioned about portholes and imagine how happy fresh flowers would be in my floating cellar. (And while I suppose filling them with dried flowers is always an option, I really don't have enough cobwebs in my room to pull off the full Miss Havisham look.)

----

I had a delightful epiphany today--I have decided that my sister's as-yet-unscheduled wedding must be officiated by a woman with a delightful Scottish lilt--something in the vein of NPR's Fiona Ritchie.

----

I happened across this album cover in the record store and nearly did a spit-take. I've never heard of this performer or his music, but sheez. (please note, incidental readers--this is not a joke or an insult directed toward the cover's subject, but is rather a reference to the musician's eerie resemblance to a friend. Eerie.) Sarah, you must see this.

----

Another shortcoming of living in a museum is the frequent reminders of which tourist demographic is most likely to visit them--families with young children. A note of advice, parents of toddlers: Children Have No Need to Tour Historic Ships, Watch Movies or Plays, Visit Theme Parks, or Experience Fine Dining Until They Are At Least Ten (10) Years Of Age. Prior to that, you're just wasting your money. And pissing people off. Of Course she's throwing a tantrum. She's 3--its dark, cramped, smelly, confusing, and boring in here! Don't make your child bear with it--learn from it. They don't cry when they're happy.

sketchup

"When the installation process is complete, you should see a SketchUp application icon (it looks like a little house.)"

Oh Google, this is why I love you.

In other news, I'm feeling much better now, I've removed all my facebook friends who vocally support Sarah Palin, and i'm most of the way through Alan Weisman's The World Without Us, which i daresay is a thoroughly enjoyable book about the end of the human race. I'm sure everyone else has read it twice by now, but I tend to wait until books' hype has cooled somewhat before embarking upon them, so as to not appear hip.

In other news, I'm on the search for a nifty, useful, likeable tablet pc. I'd prefer a linux interface, but I have a number of constraints to that end--I like Google Talk far better than Skype for its crystal-clear audio interface and obviously greater stability (though those concerns may not be noteworthy on a faster, happier computer than this 1998-edition Dell Latitude dual boot Win2K/Ubuntu 5gb hd/45omhz pentium II--hey, don't laugh. It was free, and i'm grateful for it.) and unfortunately Google and Linux are, if not mortal enemies, not the best of friends. I tend to avoid downloading anything i don't desperately need and store all photos, music, and misc online, where I have more storage and I believe safety than on this rather senile machine.

I don't think I'll buy anything while i still work for LCF--the Taney's thick steel hull prevents any semblance of wifi from penetrating into my room, and I don't really have much need for more than I have--everything that requires a faster computer and a newer GUI is generally an idle amusement that keeps me cooped up in here when I should go outside and be sociable.

I still haven't bought a pair of Earth shoes, but I may go ahead and get some today. If nothing else, i'm going to get some new Keens for winter. and maybe an additional pair for the rest of the season. yay Keens!

Wow. I think this may be my first product-oriented blog. I generally don't talk about stuff, i talk about thoughts. But thankfully my mind has been blissfully vacuous these past few weeks and all I've concerned myself about has been shoes, computers, and boys.

sniffle

I enjoy the Wombats. particularly the backing vocals. I think everyone should.

I recently bought my first set of Grundens foul weather gear. they are mighty.

I have a bad head cold. the first thing that goes when I get stuffy is my balance. then everything gets funny. then starts the coughing. now i've hit the slap-happy-headache stage. I think its Grayhounditis. When in doubt, blame public transit.

Since I moved to Baltimore, New York City has become less of a hated, feared, nasty place and more of a haven for fun drunken weekends and culture. NYC, I don't hate you anymore!

I still panic in crowds though.

people feets

has any reader worn or tried out a pair of Earth shoes? i'm really curious about them--i hear good things, but they're a bit too expensive to buy on the off chance that they're comfortable.

I'm heading to NY tomorrow afternoon to visit with a foreigner who is quite dear to me. No details to follow.