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Sunday, November 8th, 2009
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9:51 pm - Hot Fun in the Summertime - Part II
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The Smithsonian Folklife Festival
Both Chris and I enjoy learning about other cultures, so the Smithsonian Folklife Festival is perfect for us. It's relatively easy to get to (on the Mall), it has things to look at and read, people to talk to, and wonderfully, it's free. We went last year on July 4th with my parents, but it was a bit of a mob scene because everyone was out for the fireworks. This year, we went the year before and brought a picnic.
It turned out to be a perfectly lovely day. We ate our bread, cheese, fruit, and home-made pickles on a blanket on the Mall, surrounded by other like-thinking picnicers. We used our plastic wine glasses to drink fizzy cider. And we learned about Welsh history, South American music, and African-American storytelling. The Welsh showcase had a particularly diverse array of exhibits, from green homes to handcarved fishing boats. There was an entire section on Welsh labor unions, which I used as an excuse to talk to the Welsh people manning the booth about the Manic Street Preachers. They seemed extremely happy anyone was interested, and I'm always happy when someone has heard of the Manics, much less know what their songs are about. We also watched a cooking demonstration by a Welsh woman of Caribbean descent who created a spicy Welsh dish, an oxymoron if I've ever seen one. It smelled wonderful though.
At one point, we did have to seek cover because it started raining. However, it seems like rain and us visiting the Festival just go together, as it was raining last year as well.
Fourth of July
Last July 4th, we had moved to D.C. just days earlier and knew no one in the city except my parents, who were of course, only visiting.
This year, Ecolocity, the environmental community-building group I'm part of, was putting on our second "Potlatch" event. We took the term from a Native American ceremony where those with the most possessions would share what they had with those that had the least. Our version is a community event that is a cross between a potluck lunch and a swap meet. We would like to do them once a month, but the center where we meet only has space available on weekend holidays. So our first one was on Memorial Day weekend, but we didn't get a big crowd. Fortunately, our Fourth of July potlatch was much more successful. It helped in part that the Community Supported Agriculture pickup for a local farmer was at the Community Center at the same time, bringing in many people who may not have come otherwise. I made ice cream (as Larry advertised, "Any flavor you want, so long as it's vanilla") using my ice cream in a can skills I gained from being a teacher for Scotia Glenville Travelling Museum. It was part of our "reskilling" focus, where we teach people how to make things homemade in a (hopefully) cheap and easy way. We shook, shook, shook, and ended up with ice cream that turned out surprisingly well. Even the vegan ice cream made of coconut milk was excellent. (Unfortunately, the ice cream we made at the Labor Day potlatch later on was much wetter, but the temperature was much hotter. C'est la vie!) There were some genuinely interesting conversations that didn't degenerate into radical left-wing rantiness. I'm fine with radical left-wing, but the yelling rantiness annoys me. I can get into "angry activist" mode occassionally, which is when Chris tells me to calm down, but some people get way more over-the-top and single-minded than I possibly can. Fortunately, they didn't this time. We even bought a print from Gerri's (one of my favorite members) husband. He's an artist, who makes wood block prints, and he was selling prints with small mistakes in them for a song. It was a really nice, relaxed time, with people buying things from each other and sharing their company.
After the potlatch, we weren't quite sure what to do. We had been invited to someone's house for a party, but we had only met the person throwing the party once or twice and weren't sure which of our poker friends would be there. So instead, we went home, hung out a bit and decided to come to the fireworks on the Mall. Unfortunately, I had incorrectly remembered the starting time of the fireworks, and we arrived at the Smithsonian Metro Station a good 15 minutes after they began. And we wondered why the Metro was so uncrowded! Luckily, the Capital's fireworks display is insanely long, so there was another solid 20 minutes of fireworks to come. We actually ended up standing half-way in the street, because it had the best view. No one cared anyway, because there was no traffic, and the little there was had basically parked in the street. That alone made it pretty unique. The fireworks seemed more impressive than they had the year before as well, because we were so much closer. But despite their impressiveness, both times I've felt there was something missing at the Capital's fireworks display. I think part of it is the lack of a soundtrack - the crowd near the Capital gets a live orchestral accompaniment but they have to wait for hours to get those seats. Although the music in Albany was frequently not to my taste ("Proud to be an American," ahem), it did lend a sense of emotion. And of course, the most choreographed of all fireworks displays, Disney, has the perfectly chosen music. But more importantly, the DC display lacks a sense of danger. When I was little, I was afraid I would get hit by the falling fireworks. As I grew older, I understood that the experts timed them just right so that wouldn't happen. But there was still that thrill. This was always especially true in Albany, where they set them off surprisingly close to the Empire State Plaza because they would hit the State Capital building otherwise. In Clifton Park, one of the great disappointments was that they had to shoot the fireworks off progressively lower and less directly over your head because of increased development nearby. (The development also destroyed my beloved blueberry farm [shakes fist].) But the DC fireworks lack of that feeling of danger. Even at the closest they allow people, you are still terribly far away. I don't think even a child would think they could hit them. The very fire of the fireworks is rendered harmless, leaving only sound and light.
Once the fireworks were over, we were left with a dilemma. Besides the Inauguration, after the July 4th fireworks is the most crowded time on the Metro all year. So Chris suggested we go get drinks. We figured we'd walk the two Metro stops to Metro Circle, the closest area with anything besides museums. It was still really crowded there and we weren't really happy with the options. So we continued up to Dupont Circle, two more stops up. Despite Dupont's reputation for being a lively place, we could only find restaurants that served drinks, not bars. Since we didn't want food and didn't want to go home, we were a bit stuck. I was at my eye-rolling point - the point at which I seriously question that Chris knows what the hell he's talking about. We had been walking for at least 45 minutes by this point.
In a last ditch effort, Chris suggested trying Adams Morgan, the raucous neighborhood known for its noisy bars and clubs. Unfortunately, neither of us knew how to get there. I had been there once in the daytime, and Chris had never been there (and yet somehow claimed he knew how to get there). Thankfully, I had just gotten GPS service for my phone, and we were able to have a guided walk to Adams Morgan by the ever-reliable "Gigi."
Our first stop was a jazz bar with a good band and expensive drinks. Unfortunately, the place was almost completely empty, which rather bothers Chris. So we listened to a couple of tunes, had a nice conversation, finished our drinks and left. After some scoping of the options (Shannon: "That looks too frat-boy, that has a cover, that's a restaurant, that looks lame..." Chris: "You don't want to go anywhere!"), we decided on a dance club that looked reasonably non-trashy. Now, I like to dance. I'm not very good at it, but I find it enjoyable. Because of this, Chris and I have gone to a number of dance clubs in a number of places. Unfortunately, I have also discovered that I really hate most dance clubs. Most importantly, I dislike (and sometimes hate) the music most play. I dance because I enjoy the music and interacting with it, so why would I want to dance if the music sucks? A club with good music (the sadly-defunct 1970s-80s place in Pleasure Island at Disney, the Brit-pop night at the Black Cat, virtually any club in England) can make up for all of the other flaws. Besides music, they are always too crowded (I always feel like I'm in someone's way), too loud (I like to be able to have a conversation at some times), and have too many people annoyingly trying to grab everyone else's attention. I always feel hopelessly out of place, like I'm at the junior high dance in the poorly chosen outfit of construction boots and a jean dress. So I tried to dance - at least they were playing a lot of Michael Jackson still - while vaguely watching parts of The Matrix, which they were showing on the TVs mounted on the wall. The place was quite stereotypical, except for its faux Greek-painted ceiling. I just couldn't be unself-conscious enough to enjoy it. After a while, Chris had his fill, so we headed home after a long night.
Our legs and feet were tired as we climbed aboard the Metro, which still didn't have a single seat available. But it had been a good day, a holiday spent in an unusual way, but good nonetheless.
current mood:  mellow
current music: NFL on TV
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| Sunday, November 1st, 2009
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8:26 pm - Hot Fun in the Summertime - Part I
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Much like last summer, this summer was filled with visitors who wanted to learn more about and/or experience more of our glorious area. However, unlike last year, Chris and I weren't getting newly acquainted with DC ourselves. This year, we knew where to bring people, had ideas about what to do, and did some venturing outside of Metro DC on our own. We didn't have a formal vacation until September, but we put in some travelling right at home and nearby. Of those months, here are the highlights:
Ocean City, Maryland
For our third anniversary, Chris and I decided to visit Ocean City, Maryland. I had been there senior year of High School with my church youth group and remembered it being a grand old time. (Although that was about all I remembered apparently - the geography was completely foreign to me this time.) I figured it would only improve by having Chris there. I was right.
Because it was our anniversary, we didn't want to stay in a cheap hotel. Thankfully, with my parents' generous anniversary gift, we were able to stay a couple of nights in a lovely Bed and Breakfast across the street from the Boardwalk. Although it suffered from a bit of flowered-wallpaper and frilly pillows overload, the owners were beautifully warm and welcoming. The drive is quite long, so we only had the chance to eat dinner at an Irish-themed pub on the first night before going to bed. But the next morning, we ate breakfast with fresh pastries and pancakes and came back late at the end of the day to be welcomed with home-baked cookies. Mmmm....
We spent much of the first day frolicking in the ocean, swiming and bodysurfing. I caught several good waves, and experienced that bliss of weightlessness. Unfortunately, a few others smashed me into "hard" water and just about knocked the breath out of me! Inbetween swimming sessions, we walked up and down the shore, watching kids build sand castles, surfers struggle to mount waves, and good-looking lifeguards decked out in red bathing suits. Often we talked, but sometimes we didn't. Just being there with each other was enough.
At the day moved into afternoon, we left the water for the Boardwalk. We ate deep-fried oreos and pizza in a place that holds an annual Polish sausage eating contest, as described in a number of yellowed news articles on the walls. Even the fast food had character and history! We wandered through an Art Galley with varying quality and prices that was owned by a very self-promotional madman and billed itself as The Attraction to See in Ocean City. Apparently the owner planned on driving a car off of the pier, although it sounds like the city wouldn't let him. We drank in two different bars, one on the very end of the pier that looked out onto the ocean. A tiny place, the bartender noticed us right away when we sat down and looked skeptical. But once we showed her our ID, she became incredibly chatty and friendly. It was the type of ideal place you expect to find in an ocean town, like Key West - laid back and friendly and not touristy and not super busy. Just nice. They even had one of those crank nut dispensers, which we fed several quarters into so that I could eat pistastios to my heart's content while we watched news about Michael Jackson's death. After that, we visited the Ripley's Believe It or Not Museum because I have a weakness for gloriously tacky museums and Dad refused to bring me to the one in Las Vegas when I was in high school. It was a mix of the surreally educational (lots of "ooh, foreign culture" that was definitely colonialistic) and the just plain bizarre (shirts made of human hair!).
That night, we had dinner at a place that offered "All you can eat" freshly steamed crab. I never thought I was capable of eating so much crab. They brought a bucket of crabs to our butcher paper-covered table and once they were gone, they brought more and more and more. The funny thing about eating crab is that it's very labor intensive. Getting the best meat out of the individual crabs takes a lot of time. So we weren't stuffing our faces, like I know I do (in my lesser moments) at buffets. Rather, it was a meticulous process of cracking the shell, cleaning out the goo, picking out the meat, and struggling with the legs and claws.
Of course, after all of that food, what else was there to do but go on rides that spin you round-and-round? In Ocean City, the rides are on the very end of the Boardwalk, along both sides. On the ocean side, we rode the Giant Ferris Wheel, with its views over the whole Boardwalk - stunning as you hit the top, then always a bit disappointing as you descend, then the whole thing all over again. I also challenged the "Guess Your Age" guy and was so confident he would lose that I was picking out my prize before he even guessed. I was right - he guessed 19. Not really believing I was 26, he said, "Such a baby face. I wouldn't let you into my bar," several times in response. On the other side of the boardwalk, we bought a whole bunch of tickets. We first rode the wooden carousel, which was the oldest continually operated wooden carousel in the country, beautifully hand-painted, and ran and upkept by the same two families for several generations. Then we went on a rickety metal roller-coaster like the Boomerang, and the Matterhorne. Chris got a good laugh at my expense as I spent the last couple of tickets in the Mirror Maze, which I think the 10 year olds in it with me completed faster than I did.
We were out until late, and tired from the sun and the walking and the little-kid excitement. We tried walking to the other end of the Boardwalk, miles past our B&B, but didn't get very far.
The next day, we decided not to go back in the ocean, but I did get to fulfill my other beach longings. We bought a brightly-colored kite from a lovely kitchy store and tried to fly it. Hilariously, Charlie Brown could have gotten the kite up better than we did. The kite store made it look so easy, but running in the sand is really hard! Then we had Olde Tyme Photos done, something I've always wanted to do because I adore dressing up in costume, but was too cheap or embarassed to do. The process was surprisingly formulaic. We picked was "theme" we wanted (cowboy/saloon), and then I got shuffled to a back room while they gave Chris his accessories in the main room. In the back, they had "dressers" who put a dress on me (really a half-dress that tied in the back), selected shoes, put gloves on me, stuck a bunch of fake money in my garter, and placed a bow on my head. I hadn't felt so manhandled since preparing for my wedding! Once we were together - me perched on a piano, Chris on a bench under me - they put everything just-so. They wouldn't even let Chris hold the gun like he was shotting it - he had to have it by his side. It was so planned that it was funny. The photo with both us of came out pretty well, and I gave a framed version to Mom for her birthday.
I appreciated and enjoyed all of these "goofy" things because they brought back the simple pleasures of being a kid. Then, eating fried dough, riding roller coasters and going to arcades were as good as it got. Even though I've come to appreciate more adult activities, I've never let go of my fondness for things that kids are supposed to like the most - bubbles, playgrounds, water parks, fighting with sticks, tag - those things that are inherantly play. That's one of the things I love about Chris the most. He knows how to just let go of adult pretention and play. He reminds me how to just embrace that freedom when I get too self-serious and forget how. We had such a fantastic time because we weren't worried or tied down or burdened with a sense of being adult. We were free to just have fun.
We ate some fried dough (very healthy lunch), checked out of the B&B, and headed over to the Assateague Island National Seashore. Assateague is best known for its wild horses, which were once domesticated, but at some point escaped and took to living along the seashore. Now there are two herds - one on the Maryland side and one in Virginia, which is rounded up each year and their foals sold off for conservation funding. These days, on the Maryland side, they hang out by the campgrounds where they can mooch food off of tourists. This fact was illustrated to us quite early on. As we drove into the park, gazing out the window, I spotted three horses chomping on the grass on the side of the road! I yelled for Chris to stop, but he couldn't. Someone was stopped going the other direction, there was nowhere for us to pull over, and we didn't want to block the entire road. So we drove slowly past, watching them eat, unperturbed by the people gathered quite closely around them. The thing we noticed the most about the horses was their size - they were quite chubby! Chris pointed out that when he thinks of horses, he thinks of the Saratoga horses, and these guys had probably never ran a furlong in their lives.
Unfortunately, the rest of our time in the park was horse-free save another extremely brief glimpse from the car on our way out. But we did see some other wildlife and vastly different ecosystems on our two short walks in the park - the Sandy and Wetlands trails. The Sandy trail was a 1/2 mile through the dunes along the beach. Most of the trail was loose, unpacked sand, making it feel much longer than its actual length. There were all sorts of unique dune plants - grasses, shrubs, and delicate flowers. But the most befuddling thing was a hard, black stone formation that appeared and reappeared along the path. It looked volcanic, which didn't make any sense, both because of the location and the fact that it had layers. After discussing its possible geologic origins for a few moments, Chris started laughing. Looking at him with a raised eyebrow, I asked, "What's so funny?" He said, "A piece of wood is embedded in it...It's a road!" Recalling what we had read earlier about the history of the place, I laughed and nodded, realizing he had solved the mystery. Assateague Island and Ocean City had been connected at the beginning of the century, until a huge hurricane blasted a hole in the shoreline, forming a channel. The "rock" we were examining was actually a piece of the exact same road that ran in front of our hotel! It was funny to think of the honky-tonk on the other side and the semi-wilderness of the dunes, and realizing that they could be reversed. The wetland walk was a pretty walk along boardwalks and above little streams. We saw a heron, a couple of turtles, and a few other birds.
At that point, we gave up on seeing horses (although we saw their droppings), so we ended by stopping quickly at the beach and then headed out to Baltimore. While we were at the Ripley's Museum looking at a VW Bug covered in gold coins, Greg B. had called to see if we wanted to hang out the next day. As Chris had received a phone call from work telling him he didn't have to work Sunday, we took Greg and Christine up on their offer.
We arrived at their apartment and took the grand tour - including their lovely little balcony. We also met their menangerie - several cats and a crazy dog they found roaming Troy in a tutu. We then walked to the baseball game through their neighborhood, Federal Hill, which reminded me of the nicer parts of Capital Hill with its brick walkups. I could see Greg's vision of a nice neighborhood bar with Chris as chef fitting in very nicely here.
The baseball game was a lot of fun, despite the fact that I generally dislike baseball. My attention gives out before the seventh inning stretch. But Camden Yards - the Orioles stadium - is a really classic stadium, almost elegant, with a lovely little park area. The stadium even bought the old brick factory next store when developers were going to tear it down so that they could preserve the historic atmosphere. It also helped that they were playing DC's team, the Nationals, which even though I don't follow them, I hear enough about via flipping past the Washington Post's sports section in the Metro. Despite the connection, I cheered for the Orioles anyway. Greg was pretty excited, which helped too, so between wandering and talking and actually watching the game it all went by quickly enough.
After the game, we had a particular treat; they were showing Field of Dreams. I had never seen it but as Greg said it's his favorite movie and half the time it inspired tears from him, I was looking forward to it. Plus, the setting was just perfect - it was a gorgeous summer night, warm but not hot, and surprisingly unbuggy. The only issue came when we ignored the admonitions to move to the lower levels and had the speakers turned off on us! We hustled down the stairs quickly and didn't miss much. I really enjoyed the movie, with its emotions and messages. I especially liked James Earl Jones' character, the once-idealist who's now cynical and annoyed with humanity at large. Greg didn't cry this time, but we had a nice conversation about it afterwards. In fact, we had nice conversations about many things after the game, walking back to their apartment and then hanging out until past 1 AM at their place. Chris and I both agreed that it felt so comfortable, effortless, hanging out with them. We were just enjoying the time spent together, talking and laughing. And even though every night isn't perfect, in the end, that comfortableness, that happiness of being yourself with someone, is what friends are for.
current mood:  loved
current music: Joni Mitchell - The Jungle Line
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| Sunday, October 25th, 2009
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10:19 pm - "Music is the space between the notes." - Claude DeBussy
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Both Nine Inch Nails and Jane's Addiction are bands that I've never taken a specific interest in, but I enjoy when they come on the radio. Chris is actually a bigger fan, and owns one album by each of them. However, I had heard they were both great in concert. So when Drew said they were touring together and asked if Chris and I would like to meet him and Greg in New Jersey to see the concert, we immediately said yes. I love concerts and hardly ever get to them anymore, Jane's Addiction was actually reuniting (and unlikely to stay together for very long), and most importantly, we would be able to see our friends! Then, it got even better - I found out Ilya was coming, whom I hadn't seen in years.
We drove up to New Jersey playing Jane's Addiction's Nothing's Shocking over and over again. Chris said, "You know, I always forget about this album, but it's really great." Indeed.
We met the guys on a grassy hill in front of the amphitheater. They weren't letting people in yet, unless you were a member of the Trent Reznor Fan Club. (Which despite Ilya's hiliarious Trent Reznor paper bag puppet presentation in high school, none of us are.) So we sat in the grass, talking. It was like we hadn't been separated at all. Like we hung out all of the time, even though we've only seen Greg and Drew during holidays (and when Drew visited last summer) since we moved here. I think that's the test of a great friend - even if you haven't kept in touch well, you feel like you have when you see each other in person. We all have gotten a little older, but can still laugh and comfortably enjoy our time together, just as we have since high school. We talked about music (the one thing that Greg, Drew, Ilya and I are all passionate about), work (mainly Ilya's experience at Princeston, but a bit on the NYS bureaucracy from Greg), and our fellow-concert goers.
And there were definitely some characters to talk about! Now, I certainly wasn't dressed shyly. I had my black and pink punk dress on with my Victorian gothy high lace-up boots. (It was pretty great - even Uncle Rick thought it was cool.) But some of the girls made me look like a wallflower. One had a corset she was popping out of and a PVC skirt so short you could see her underwear from the bottom. There were many others with lots of PVC and fishnets as well. But the odd thing about that particular girl was that I kept running into her - at the entrance, after the ticket gate, coming out of the bathroom. I'm sure if she was dressed more sedately, I wouldn't have noticed, but it just seemed bizarre.
After about 45 minutes of waiting on the grass and then standing in line, we finally got in. Now, from my aunt's description, I envisioned the Garden State Arts Center as similar to SPAC - nice theater-style seating under a roof, with a beautiful expansive lawn open to the elements. I was half right. The inside seats - where we were - were fine, albeit not quite as nice as SPAC's. But the rest of the place reminded me of the few sports stadiums I've been in - all concrete and plastic, with the occasional wire fence. And the lawn was just a strip of grass in the very back, up against said fence. Nothing like SPAC, which is lovely to walk around before the show. It reinforced both my opinion of how nice SPAC is and everything I already thought about New Jersey.
We got food and talked and joked another half-hour or so before the show got started. The opening band was Street Sweeper Social Club, which featured Rage Against the Machine's Tom Morello on guitar. (Guilty music confession - I thought Tom Morello was the singer until after the concert. Oops.) Their music was loud and sort of angry, but fun. Very energetic, especially their lead singer. He bounced around on stage like a pogo stick and yelled about as melodically as possible. It was good body-bopping music - not as vigorous as banging. Although it was getting both a little annoying and funny-ridiculous when the lead singer said, "We're not just a band - we're a social club" for the umpteenth time. Also, they name-checked themselves an awful lot.
Finally, Trent Reznor arrived on stage in all of his goth-god glory. At first, the stage was pitch black, then this crazy bank of lights came on behind him, which lit up in neon colors and blinding white. (And that was downgraded from his usual set, according to Drew.) The whole thing, when combined with the music, was a sensory barrage of light and sound. He wore a black t-shirt and pants, standing at the front of the stage. From the beginning, he gripped the mic and never let go. His intensity was magnetizing. I usually don't enjoy shows as much when I know only a few songs, because after a while, everything starts to sound the same to me. But his presence absolutely riveted me. He sang with so much energy, so much emotion that you could see it in the tension of his body - how he stood, how he walked around the stage. From the anger in Head like a Hole to the sadness in Hurt, you were experiencing every moment right with him. I think that is the mark of a great storyteller, whether in song, art or literature - to not only create something that the reader or listener can relate to, but that draws them in and helps them experience emotions and situations they would have never experienced on their own. The crowd helped too - it was obvious they loved him, with a passion they had for nothing else but perhaps their significant other (if that). Having a great crowd builds beautiful energy and enthusiasm that you can never create on your own, and it was there in droves. As Drew noted in his review, the crowd could have easily sung all of Hurt without Trent having to say a word. As a non-super-fan, it really lent depth to the experience.
Next up was Jane's Addiction. Perry Farrell is known for being a mad-man, even in the insane world of rock-and-roll. He brought at least a little of the madness - wearing some crazy leopard-print thing, much like one of my favorite musicians (Nicky Wire from the Manics) and having just about as much energy as Trent Reznor, albeit in a very different way. While Trent was channeling some dark, beautiful passion, Perry Farrell was like a little kid who had way too much sugar and had been listening way too much to his dirty older cousin. His mic never stayed on the stand. Instead, he held it and swung it while he bopped around on stage like some children's toy on crack. He also appeared to sexually molest several things on stage, including a speaker and the guitarist, Dave Navarro. He also has a nearly-childlike voice - high and almost reedy. Although it's very distinct on the albums, it's even moreso live. It communicates a sense of innocence mixed with mischevious, illicit activity. Juvenile, but in a true, honest, and as a result, good way. The perfect example is on "summer time rolls," when he sings, "She loves me / I mean it's serious / As serious can be..." Like a teenager who thinks he's in love, but wants to seem cool, he's passionate as could be, but then backs up just a little bit in defensiveness. And his delivery on it has that perfect mix of intensity and uncertainty. Ilya said he always imagined Jane's Addiction as being about joyful, colorful chaos, and Perry Farrell delivered perfectly on that image. He was also just as enthralling as Trent Reznor. He swept you up in a mess of color and sound and bright craziness. Although my legs started to hurt from standing on the concrete, it was only towards the very end that I wondered how many more songs they were going to play. I just let the music wash over me.
Afterwards, we talked for a while, but police were starting to shoo people away and so we said our goodbyes. Also, we couldn't stay too late because Greg and Drew were driving all the way back to Albany. It was sad to say goodbye, knowing that it would be several months before we saw them again. But it was so wonderful to spend that time with them, to be there together. Chris and I have a great time when we go to things together, but spending time with friends - especially our high school friends - is something special.
Note: For an actual review of said concert, see Drew's great review on his music blog - http://www.bloodygoodhorror.com/bgh/blogs/06/08/2009/ninja-tour-concert-review.
current mood:  chipper
current music: Jane's Addiction - ted, just admit it
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| Sunday, August 30th, 2009
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12:28 am - "How wonderful is it that nobody need wait a single moment before starting to improve the world." -
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I've been an activist almost as long as I can remember.
While some environmentalists recall fondly playing in the woods (which I do as well, but...), I smile at the memory of my third-grade self attempting to sell my pom-pom creatures and magnets at my "Planet in Peril" store, where I planned to give my profits to environmental charities. I received a copy of 100 Things Kids Can Do to Save the Earth early on, and proceded to read it over and over and over until it became rather dog-eared. (I think it still resides somewhere at my parents' house.) Once I grew older and knew abvout poverty, I took that on as a cause as well. I wrote a lot of angsty romantic poetry as a teenager, but I also wrote a pretty powerful poem from the point of view of a very poor, starving child.
However, I didn't become a "real" activist until I joined SCARCE, Shen's environmental club, senior year of high school. There, I experienced both the joys and frustrations of activist work. The wonder of seeing my hands-on effort do something good that wouldn't have been done otherwise, even if it was just a pile of cans going in for recycling. The frustration of seeing a fellow activist act so self-righteous and accusatory towards a crowd that her speech may have turned some of them away from environmentalism for years (yes, it was that bad).
I took a couple of years off from activism in college to write for the newspaper, which really took all of my time. But as the politics reporter, I made sure to go beyond what the student council did and cover the environmental groups at Cornell. I knew how essential media coverage was to public awareness of issues (especially science-based issues), whether they were campus-wide issues or global. (I covered what the conservatives did too, by the way.) I picked it back up my junior and senior years by participating in Habitat for Humanity and the Cornell Greens. As dysfunctional as the Greens were - it's shocking we accomplished anything - I learned a lot about how not to run a campaign (information alone is not enough) or a group (getting and keeping committed members is the most important function you have - everything else will flow from there).
Following on that disaster was the most fun and rewarding activist experience I've ever had - Oxford People and Planet. It was an incredibly idealistic, smart, dedicated, energetic group of young people. You just knew these were people who would Change the World. And we managed to cram a surprising amount into one year. We marched in a massive climate change protest in London, received training on media and campaigning that I've found useful at my "real" job, showed a couple of movies and had a great Buy Nothing Day booth. But our most significant accomplishment was our campaign for Ditch Dirty Development that we based on materials from People and Planet's parent office but made very much our own. Putting our heads together, we came up with a tabling set-up that combined street drama - a tug-of-war between "renewables" and "fossil fuels" - with an interactive, artistic petition. We asked people to trace their hands in black marker as well as sign the sheet, indicating that they no longer wanted to have "dirty hands" that supported oil and natural gas investments by the World Bank. We had so many people sign our wallpaper rolls of signatures that it ran from wall to wall when we rolled it out! We then presented this massive petition to one of Oxford's two Members of Parliament, along with some well-thought out talking points. And he actually came to us! I had never had such an opportunity to interact with politicians at home like this. Heck, when we visited the New York State Senate in high school on Earth Day Lobby Day, we got blown off and could barely speak to a staffer. (Of course, New York's economy is probably about the size of the U.K.'s, but still...) But the Oxford M.P. listened patiently to our points, agreed to take most of the actions we asked for, and even suggested a few that he would take that we didn't know were possible. It was - oddly - the most rewarding experience I had with democracy until canvassing for Obama. In addition, that campaign taught me how to summarize very complex issues in only a few words, a very valuable skill.
Unfortunately, like all things Oxford, I had to leave People and Planet when we returned to the U.S. In the Capital District, I did a couple of activist activities - organizing a climate change panel at the New York State Senate and volunteering for the Art for AIDS Sake auction - but hadn't found anything I was dedicated to. I had finally decided I was going to volunteer weekly at the Damien House, an organization in Albany that runs a support center for people who are HIV-positive. But that's when I got the call from the Department of Energy, and the job offer was too good to turn down. However, it started my search all over again.
After a few false starts in DC, I found Ecolocity, a transition towns group. From the beginning. it sounded ideal - addressed climate change, local focus, integrated social justice and environmental issues, big focus on food - it covered all of my issues. The entire idea appealed to me - re-learning how to build our lives around our neighbors and community rather than making them dependent on fossil fuels. Unfortunately, I found out that Ecolocity wasn't exactly ideal. For one, they didn't have any projects that you could just join in on. Larry, the founder, had lots of fantastic, great ideas, but they were all too large to actually do now or even wrap your mind around to find a starting point. Every time I suggested an idea, Larry enthusiastically said, "Well, that's a great idea, Shannon! Why don't you do it?" Which was certainly a fair answer, but not the one I was looking for. Having a full-time job, I wasn't looking to be a leader starting independent projects. I honestly just wanted to contribute my time and energy to something I could see concrete results from. I understood it was a new group - it was only formed three months before I joined - but it didn't make it less frustrating. For once, I didn't want to be the one with the grand ideas and doing all of the work. It certainly didn't seem like I was the only one with big ideas, but at the same time, I felt like I was the only one who wanted to do more than talk about all of the exciting things that needed to get done. I wanted to take action!
Thankfully, I wasn't the only one who wanted that concrete action. As it turned out, I learned that Larry was pretty frustrated with the group's progress as well. From what he had read about other transition groups, they were ready to launch some grand city-wide project with the buy-in of a number of major stakeholders (like the mayor!) after a year. Meanwhile, we were still limping along with no more than 10 people at most of our meetings. When we had more than that, they never came back. It was especially frustrating because we knew how much potential there was for our work and how badly DC needed it. Unfortunately, none of us really had any idea how to fix this problem. I wrote up a draft mission and vision, but I didn't really seem to take hold.
Around the same time, I came up with my own Big Idea - Transition Tales. In other Transition Towns, I've seen Transition Tales being done as newspaper-style feature articles about how community members imagine the world to be once their community once they have achieved transition to independence from fossil fuels. As a writer, and especially journalist, at heart, this idea deeply appealed to me. Plus, I deeply believe in the power of telling stories and how that can guide a community (I spent enough time thinking about it for my thesis!). A different transition idea is Honoring the Elders, the idea of drawing on older people's knowledge and experience to prepare for a low-carbon, low-fossil-fuel future. Somehow, I was folding, kneading these ideas of in my mind and they melded into a unique take on the Transition Tales idea. I came up with the idea to interview elderly people, particularly those who lived through the Great Depression and WWII (even as small children) and put their stories together as articles. We would then bring these stories - via summaries of articles or better, with the elderly person speaking - to DC schools. We would share their experiences with the children, and then the students would write their own Transition Tales for the future, based on what they had learned. I think it would be mainly with elementary school students, partly because I have the most experience with them, and partly because they have less of a set curriculum and their teachers might be more willing to work with us. Plus, I like working with them much more than high schoolers. Admittedly, the project also appealed to me because I've always seen and heard these activists interviewed who described all of the cool projects they launched. Unfortunately, I've never felt that way. Obviously, you don't do such things for personal glory, but it could give a lot of self-fulfillment to point to something revolutionary and say "That was my idea." I admit it's self-righteous but I do have to recognize that motivation.
Despite this project, I still felt lost. This could be like many of the Ecolocity efforts that seemed to be mentioned, started, and then fell by the wayside. I wasn't feeling a lot of active support - enthusiasm for the idea, but not engagement from the others. Again, I didn't want to be a one-man-band. Nor I did I think I should be. This needed to be a community project. I know Larry was feeling the same way about the local complementary currency he launched, Potomacs. (They're like Ithaca Hours, local money that you can only spend in local establishments. It's totally legal, and one of Ithaca's many crazy but brilliant ideas.)
Thankfully, among all of this uncertainty, we had an activist fairy godmother. Her name is Heather, and she's a professional organizational consultant who specializes in working with non-profit and activist groups. Delightfully, she volunteered her services to help us out of our existential angst. She scheduled out a block of time on a Saturday, and asked us all a number of organizational questions beforehand - why we joined Ecolocity, how we personally, benefitted, how our community benefitted, etc. Then, on that Saturday, we all met up at a DC public library (where I managed to get hopelessly lost on the way there somehow) and brought veggie food to share for lunch. And then we sat down and talked. And talked. And talked. But unlike some of our more rambling meetings, nearly everything that was said moved us closer to our goal - to find our focus. To dig down in all that is the overwhelming Transition movement - all of the ideas, the goals, the values, and the potential programs - to pluck out something we could wrap our heads and hands around. After five hours and some delicious food, we found that focus - community-based, sustainable food systems. We always have the people attend our Food and Farming meetings, and D.C. has serious food issues among the underserved, both in quantity and quality. Perhaps most importantly, food is a universally understood need - everyone needs to eat.
Since then, Ecolocity has been more vibrant. Larry's been more enthusiastic and less beaten-down. Our last swap meet/potluck event, on July 4, was much more successful than our first one. Likewise, more of the regulars are consistently showing up and the discussions are more focused and less wandering into philosophical disagreements. As for me, the food aspect gave me a focus for the Transition Tales project, which is actually getting underway. I think having one focus will allow for a stronger narrative thread among stories, and therefore a more insightful project. So despite some struggle, it appears we're moving forward, and really going to Make a Difference in the future.
current mood:  idealistic
current music: ESPN in the background, which Chris is watching
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| Tuesday, June 23rd, 2009
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7:09 pm - "We love because it's the only true adventure." - Nikki Giovanni
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As of June 10, 2009, Chris and I have been married for three years! We had a nice dinner out at a tapas restaurant in Rockville, but our official celebration is this weekend, when we're going to Ocean City. Chris has never been there, and what is a better carefree weekend away than the beach?
Recently, two different movies reinforced for me what it means to be married and in love. Both of these have minor spoilers, so if you want to see these movies and haven't yet, don't read too much further.
The first was Pixar's latest, Up. Now, I love Pixar, but I was absolutely not expecting this movie. I was expecting a cute movie about a grumpy old man and a kid heading off on some grand adventure. Which I certainly got. But the first twenty minutes of the movie aren't about the grumpy old man. Rather, the movie starts when Carl (the future grumpy old man) is a little boy, and meets Ellie, a boisterous, bright little girl who turns his world upside-down. He wants to be an adventurer - but in her own way, she already is. She has grand plans to have a treehouse in South America, and pulls him into her dreams, makes them his dreams, their dreams. Not surprisingly, those dreams and their relationship long outlast their childhood. And those dreams - while fantastic - drive their fairly ordinary life together. (Well, not completely ordinary. She works as a vet at a zoo and he sells balloons there.) Between the section with Carl and Ellie as children, and the "grumpy old man" section, there is a 20 minute silent movie about their life together. Without words, it shows them getting married, moving into their first house complete with a mailbox they paint themselves, celebrating their joys, mourning their sorrows, and sitting quietly together into their old age. It ends with him at her bedside as she passes away. I cried through this entire montage. Not heavy sobbing, but quiet tears rolling down my eyes. And not just during the sad parts - probably more during the lovely, joyful parts. I cried because it was all so beautiful, and true. Even if they never went to South America together - even if that particular dream was lost in the busyness of everyday life - they were so in love and so happy. And their relationship, born out of friendship and a shared sense of child-like glee, reminded me of Chris and I. Even though Chris and I didn't know each other that early, I understand growing up together, having that person shape who you are early on in your life. Being positive that that person will always love you, and in some ways, always has, even before you knew it consciously. I understand never wanting to be without that person there beside you, because you never have been truly separated. When being away from that person means that you are missing a part of yourself - knowing you are a better person because of their presence. Chris was crying a bit too, so it wasn't just me. That aspect of the movie - the lifelong companionship, devotion and pure joy from being with each other - really shed some light on a comment someone had made to me the week before. On Memorial Day weekend, we went to Hannah's house and we were talking to one of our poker people and his fiance. When we said that we had been high school sweethearts, she asked, "What is it like not having baggage?" and I didn't know how to answer the question. I think I didn't know how to answer it because for me, the question I would ask her is, "What is it like knowing who you are without them?" That's why I think I understand Carl's absolute agony without Ellie - I can imagine going through that myself in such a situation. I can imagine having difficulty answering the question "Who are you?" without the influence of the person you love so very much.
The second movie that highlighted the joy and sometimes difficulty of love was Away We Go. Co-written by Dave Eggers (author of one of my favorite books) and his wife, it tells the story of a couple who finds out they are pregnant and have to decide on a city to move to. (Funnily enough, the couple isn't married and never will be, but that's irrelevant to what I got out of it.) They visit a number of couples, each who has their strange quirks and problems. The wife in the most affecting of the couples is played by Melanie Lynskey, the weird neighbor from Two and Half Men (surprisingly), and the character says something that really struck me. Unfortunately, I can't find the quote anywhere, but it was basically, "Being in a family is the hardest thing you will ever do. It will bring out parts of you - giving, loving - parts of you you never knew you had." And although we don't have any children, I get that quote. It's not that marriage itself is all that hard (contrary to what people think), but it's not easy either. It's not easy living with someone every day, finding ways to meet both your needs, forgiving both small and larger problems. It's not easy finding time to spend together when on one hand that's all you ever want to do, and on the other hand, there's so many other things (work, writing, activism, for me) demanding that time. It's not a constant struggle, but it's a constant giving of yourself. It's giving of your time, your affection, your effort, and your intimacy. Even just when it manifests itself in washing the dishes. And I'd imagine that giving of yourself is only multiplied unimaginably when you have children. The other part of the movie that struck me was that the relationship between the two main characters reminded me of our relationship. Sure, they were funnier and quirkier and more clever. But they made fun of each other, knowing it was a sign of love. They were obviously friends, and enjoyed talking to each other. They were easily affectionate - so much was expressed through glances and smiles. They wanted to be good parents, not by being perfect, but by finding a home that would be the best possible for their child. And as we're now saving for a house - won't really look until next year though - I understand their need to find a place that says "home." What is home? Can it be anywhere you want it to be, so long as the two of you are together? Or is there a particular place that you know is right when you find it? As Chris and I are struggling with that - and how to fit it into our current lives - I understood the character's struggle and the effects it has on their relationship.
The one thing that connected both movies together for me is the idea of love as an adventure. Chris and I have been on many adventures together, many that we wouldn't have gone on by ourselves, because we lacked the strength or the courage. But being married is itself an adventure, and now that we've been married for three years, our lives together are as much of one as they ever were. And far more of an adventure than they would have been apart. As I wrote in the letter to Chris that Father Keith made us write to each other before the wedding, "I expect that in a lifetime spent with you, I will learn and get to know so much that I have no way of seeing now. And I look forward to that lifetime of learning from and loving each other." Three years later, I still look forward to learning more every day.
current mood: in love
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| Sunday, June 21st, 2009
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10:31 pm - Happy Fathers' Day!
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In my parents' house, my father has always been the quiet one in the background, while my mother is the loud one, the social one, the one who takes charge. So naturally, when my friends at home think of my family, they think of my mother. Drew even claims he's never heard my father talk, which is blatently not true (but still funny).
But I've seen a side of Dad that few people have. He's not all that different of a person when my mother isn't around, but he has a chance to shine. Mom can be a bit overwhelming, and he often allows her to do the talking. Without her there, he talks and shares more, from his thoughts on politics - usually a bit vague and simultaneously insightful - to his quirky sense of humor. Thankfully, throughout my childhood, I always had some time set aside that was time between just Dad and I.
When I was little, it was going to the Burning Bush town pool. Mom didn't like going to the pool, so Dad would bring me and we'd stay there for hours. I'd swim around for a while, showing off my ability to do handstands and flips underwater (I certainly wasn't doing them that well on land) and pretend I was a world-class gymnast. He would applaud, and then get into the water himself. He always got in by jumping in off of the high dive. I think he liked the cold rush of water. Eventually, I followed him and did the same. Once he was adjusted to the water, we'd go into the semi-deep part, and he'd pull me onto his shoulders. He'd crouch down in the deeper part, stand up quickly, and launch me off his shoulders into the water. It was incredible! Just for a moment, I was flying. As I got older, he taught me how to dive off of the high dive. I was scared, of course, and I think I climbed down a couple of times before I finally did it. But standing at the bottom of the ladder, he talked me through it. And then I finally did it - a different kind of flying, I never got enough of the hang of it to do anything but sort of lean into the dive, but that was enough for me. At the end of pool time, we'd towel off as much as we could, but still soaked the seats of his Taurus that we had named Mork (because everything was egg-shaped). He didn't care, so long as I was happy.
My love for the water extended to competitive sports, when I joined the swim team in sixth grade. Dad drove me two or three days a week to practice, all the way to Schenectady at first, and then to the Clifton Park YMCA. Sometimes we would listen to the radio, and not speak at all, but just be comfortable in our enjoyment of the music. (As a sidenote, as a little kid I was always impressed at Dad's ability to identify songs on the radio during their first few seconds. I thought he knew all of the songs in the world! It was a disappointing day when I found out he didn't.) Sometimes, we would talk, about any number of subjects. I would ask him his opinions, something he rarely shared with Mom around, as it can be hard to get a word in when she's sharing her opinions.
At some point in-between swim team and high school, skiing became our default activity. My mom skis, and actually taught my Dad how to do it, but was never particularly willing to ski unless conditions were perfect. Dad loved to ski, even when the snow was rather crummy. The fact that they had a Sunday afternoon family deal at Bromley Mountain only made it better, as Dad is incredibly thrifty (I get this from him as well). So for a couple of years, Dad and I would go skiing regularly on Sunday afternoons. I was almost as good as him at that point, so we were able to have fun on all of the black diamond slopes and bomb down the blue squares. Besides Bromley, we also went to Gore Mountain, which had the advantage of being relatively nearby. Skiing with Dad was immensely fun because he was always incredibly upbeat. Mom tended to complain. In contrast, whenever we were on a three or four-person lift with someone we didn't know, Dad would cheerfully ask, "Have you been to the top yet? The weather's pretty good today." I think he would have made that comment about the weather even if it was sleeting. He was so chipper that Mom and I started to call him Mr. Rodgers and sing, "Won't you be my neighbor?" As downhill skiing got more expensive and the deals seemed to disappear, we went downhill skiing less and less. But around that time, I had been on the cross-country ski team for two years, and started to do that on weekends. This time, I was the one who taught Dad how to ski. It was pretty funny at first, because he had it all wrong. But once he realized he had to push rather than pull with his poles, he kept up pretty well. We'd ski along, content in our silent company.
Once I got to college, Dad began some new traditions to remind me that he was always there for me. Specifically, he sent me the Sunday comics every week. On Sundays at home, we would sit around and read the paper, and I'd always ask him where the comics were. Since I didn't get them in college, he sent them, often with some newspaper article he thought I would be interested in. I always looked forward to getting my weekly envelope from Dad in the mail. These days, he doesn't send me comics. But instead, he's started regularly sending me something else - pictures on my cell phone. He's gotten more into texting than I ever could have thought - he hardly ever used the computer at home - and loves taking photos and sending them to me. I actually remember the first photo he ever took on his phone - of Mom and I cross-country skiing in Saratoga State Park. Since then, he's sent me photos of covered bridges, a mama duck and her babies crossing the street, Mom and him cycling, and sunsets. Basically, anytime he's doing something that he thinks I'll find interesting, he sends me a photo. Because I refuse to erase any of them, I have so many on my phone that I'm running out of memory!
Even though he exudes calm and quietness, I've always found spending him with Dad to be an adventure. He's funny in an unpredictable way, and taught me to take chances that I never thought I could take. So I'm glad to have Dad as my father, and was glad to talk to him on the phone today (and text him!).
I wrote this piece my senior year of college for a Writing for Magazines assignment, but I still like it. It covers a lot of the same stuff, but put it in context of what I was going through in college as well.
( Lift Me Up )
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| Saturday, April 4th, 2009
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8:36 am - Inauguration Part III: The Ceremony and the Celebration
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Finally, after an eternity of waiting (6 hours), the actual Inaugural program began. We were close enough that we could tell there were people on the steps of the Capital. In fact, we could see the red sweaters of the children in the chorus. We could see even more through our binoculars – okay, we could see slightly larger people-shaped things. We were close enough to definitively feel that “we are here, part of this historic event!” and not just watching it on TV in a very cold living room. But in terms of seeing anything useful – not so much. Needless to say, we had to watch most of it on the Jumbotron.
It started with the Prelude by the Marine Band, which sounded like pretty much every Marine Band song I've ever heard. The songs by the San Francisco Boys and Girls' Choruses were nice though. Senator Dianne Feinstein opened the program with an introduction that served its purpose, but was unmemorable. Rev. Rick Warren then gave the Invocation, which was both theologically and socially/politically awkward. By choosing the pastor of Saddleback Church, which is a conservative, evangelical mega-church that is anti-gay marriage, some liberals, especially gay/lesbian activists complained that Barack Obama betrayed them. (I know Brent was really pissed.) Listening to Warren's speech, I could tell that he was trying so hard to be inclusive, while also mentioning Jesus as many times as possible. I've been in enough evangelical churches to know that any occasion for a major speech in front of “non-believers” – including weddings, funerals, any family gatherings whatsoever – require preaching about Jesus and an altar call if you can fit it in. So you could see he was fighting the urge to describe the Four Spiritual Laws (an overly-simplistic summary of the Gospel taught by Campus Crusade) or the “Bridge Metaphor.” On the other hand, he wanted to show the general public that evangelicals weren't scary or prejudiced or narrow-minded. So he used a lot of “inclusive” language (“God loves everyone” and “Let's love one another”), all of which was true, but not very moving. And then once in a while, something extremely evangelical-Christian slipped through. Like saying the Lord's prayer at the end, which in words alone can apply to Judaism, but which is obviously so, very very Christian. Overall, it just made for a mildly lame, weird, mostly inoffensive but ineffective sermon.
But then – the performance that followed made everyone forget Rick Warren's boring-as-hellness. Aretha. Aretha Franklin. Absolutely fantastic. You could tell that she was so thrilled and passionate to be singing at the first black President's inauguration. She had this crazy, wonderful hat on, with this gigantic, bejeweled bow. As the rest of her outfit was plain gray, it highlighted her awesome presence. She sang “My Country Tis of Thee” with such joy, warmth, and enthusiasm you could feel it in every word, every chord. Then, the Vice Presidential Oath of Office, which was pretty much uneventful. Joe Biden is Joe Biden, and as long as he doesn't say anything, it's going to be uneventful.
The next musical selection consisted of the Greatest Chamber Orchestra of All Time – Yo-Yo Ma (oooh), Itzhak Perlman (oooh), Gabriela Montero (who? well, I'm sure he's good) and Anthony McGill (ditto). They played a lovely, lovely version of the classic Shaker tune Simple Gifts. It was brilliant because it had so many levels while being so simple at the same time. For one, the wonderful lyrical theme of the song ('Tis the gift to be simple, 'tis the gift to be free, / 'Tis the gift to come down where we ought to be ....) was perfect for the occasion. For what is more American than the appreciation for freedom? On the other hand, the song is incredibly easy – it's the first song you learn in seventh grade band. But they turned it into this beautiful, complex song with lots of layers, without losing that ideal simplicity. It was disappointing to find out they weren't actually playing that day – just playing to a recording – but it was lovely nonetheless.
Then, there was what we were all waiting for - the Presidential Oath of Office. The time that would mark a new era in politics, or at least a new era in American history, depending on your political leanings. (Even if you think Obama is just another politician, I don't think anyone can say that the first African-American American president being sworn in is not a Big Deal.) With baited breath, we waited and watched. We felt proud for being an American, here at this moment and waved our flags enthusiastically. We cheered, happy to know that our country had reached a major milestone. But at the end, we tilted our head sideways and thought, "What just happened? They botched it up!" How do you botch up the Presidential Oath of Office? Honestly, I don't think it's entirely Justice Roberts' fault. At first, I really thought it was all now-President Obama's fault, in fact. But I know I would have been confused as well if I had memorized it one way and someone else said it a different way right before me. It wasn't a big deal in the end, but it was kind of ridiculous in its level of importance and silliness of mistake.
The inaugural address was next, which I was looking forward to. I found so many of President Obama's previous speeches to be inspiring and memorable, and hoped this would be the same. Overall, I liked it very, very much. I wouldn't say it was the most inspiring or the eloquent speech ever, but it was both of those things in a measure that was appropriate and right. I know conservative commentators thought there weren't any particularly memorable phrases ("Do not ask what your country can do for you...") but I thought there were a few, and I wasn't sure that was what we needed as a people right then. What we needed was a speech that was inspiring and honest, and I think it was both of those things. At least, he rivteed me with his speech. Almost everything - even my cold feet - seemed to matter a lot less now that he was finally speaking.
From the very beginning, I liked that President Obama said was that he was humbled to be there. Although Obama doesn't always seem humble, he always seems grateful that people put trust in him, which Bush never did. And I don't know if it is an inaugural tradition or not, but thanking Bush for his service to the country was classy. Most of all, I like how Obama emphasized over and over how it's the spirit of the American people that drive the greatness of this country. Throughout Bush's administration, it seemed like the people were ignored or put-down by both parties. I think so many people liked and believed in Obama because of his trust in the American citizens to work hard and do the right thing. People like being respected and appreciated. And they like a leader who asks responsibility of them, which has always been a stumbling block for liberals. I thought this sentence summarized both of these ideas well: "At these moments, America has carried on not simply because of the skill or vision of those in high office, but because We the People have remained faithful to the ideals of our forbearers, and true to our founding documents. So it has been. So it must be with this generation of Americans." I also liked that he told it like it is - that things are tough and they are only going to get tougher. (And as we've seen, it was a accurate assessment.) But despite the doom and gloom, he still managed to maintain a tone of hope. I particularly liked how he dually expressed confidence in our ability as a country to get through the toughest times, but also the cold reality that we can only it by all of us doing better than we have recently. I also liked these lines: "Starting today, we must pick ourselves up, dust ourselves off, and begin again the work of remaking America. For everywhere we look, there is work to be done." Indeed, there is. Also, he did something that few politicians can do without sounding contrived - he acknowledged and celebrated our diversity and the strength that we draw from it. He mentioned the immigrants from Europe and the slaves alike who came to America, and even managed to talk about religion without forgetting atheists.
In terms of specific subjects mentioned, I certainly cheered loudly when he said "we will restore science to its rightful place," to expand alternative fuels and energy, and tackle climate change. But I also liked that he touched on the need for stronger regulations in banking, the importance of civil rights even in times of conflict (or as I said to Papa Shea, "I don't want my country's policy to be based on fear!"), and the necessity of building better relationships with countries around the world. These issues are all near and dear to my heart, as they all relate to some area I am passionate about, whether social justice, the First Amendment, or peace. In terms of the latter subject, this was a great line: "Our security emanates from the justness of our cause; the force of our example; the tempering qualities of humility and restraint."
Lastly, I liked how he tied our current "winter" to the original winter crisis in our country's founding - Valley Forge. Often, it's good to remember what has come before us, so we can move ahead. I think Obama knows that too - and not just in speechwriting - and I'm glad that he's willing to learn from the past. I think that willingness to learn is the hallmark of a great leader.
And then it was over. Only not really. You see, the ceremony was still going on, but the important part - the Presidential part - was over. So everyone started leaving the Mall en masse. I tried to convince Mama Shea and Melissa to stick around for just a few more minutes, to listen to Elizabeth Alexander recite her poem. Listening to the poem, I liked it. I liked the imagery, the focus on the common people that Obama spoke about, the hard work of those in the past inspiring us now. It was a poem of hope, a hope held in many people's hearts that early afternoon. As she said: "In today’s sharp sparkle, this winter air, / any thing can be made, any sentence begun. / On the brink, on the brim, on the cusp, / praise song for walking forward in that light." Praise, indeed. Unfortunately, she wasn't the best person to deliver it. Many poets seem to have this problem, which is ironic, because poetry is written to be read aloud. But although she wasn't the most engaging, I enjoyed it anyway, allowing the words to wash over me without comprehending (or really hearing) all of them.
The last thing we heard was the benediction, which I heard after-the-fact was far better than Warren's speech. Unfortunately, everyone, including myself, had abandoned any thought of standing one second longer out in the cold and were in the process of leaving the Mall. I heard snippets of it, but it just seemed to go on and on, as disconnected words. Anything that could possibly be standing between me and warmth was clearly not important any more. Instead, we scrambled up walls, hustled along the sidewalk, and even trampled through the Air and Space's garden. I stepped on a tree and walked over a bush. I felt really bad, but there were a very limited number of exits. The whole thing was planned so poorly, that I didn't feel too, too guilty for my minor squishing of public property.
We finally got inside the Air and Space Museum, and somewhere along the way, I lost track of Mama Shea and Melissa. They got swallowed up into the crowd ahead of me. However, I knew we were all meeting at the McDonalds there, and headed in that direction. As the place was absolutely packed, it was unsurprising that I couldn't find them. So I sat outside the restaurant, looking for Chris. In the meantime, I went through the awkward process of checking to see how my feet were doing without being gross about it. Because when my feet get cold, they go beyond just getting cold. They get cold, and then they turn white and go numb. It's not frostbite, but it's a definite lack of bloodflow. Because of the frigid temperatures and the endless standing around, I was quite worried. I had prepared that morning with lots of layers and footwarmers, but my feet still felt rather lifeless. Thankfully, in taking my shoes and socks as unobtrusively as possible, I found that my feet were only a little white and still had some feeling in them. It was quite a relief.
Eventually, after calling Chris about 15 times and wandering around the extremely crowded McDonalds, we all found each other. I found Mama Shea first, then Melissa returned, and then Chris finally showed up. He said he barely made it in before they closed the museum. Bizarrely, although she stood in line and ordered from the counter, Mama Shea only bought 2 sodas and no food. Chris's response, delivered in a sad, disappointed voice was, "That's it?" Mama Shea replied, "But I have sandwiches in my pouch!" But as the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches had been in her jacket pocket for many hours, and were both squished and cold, they weren't exactly appealing. On the other hand, none of us were willing to get back in line. So I drank some water, Chris mooched soda, and we all warmed up to the point where the thought of going back outside wasn't completely horrifying.
We walked back, the same way we came. We were slightly less lost this time, rather colder, and definitely more tired. It was like finishing a athletic event or the end of a grand party you organized. There was exhaustion and a bit of relief it was over, but a remaining sense of buoyancy, of light and lingering excitement.
Besides, the day wasn't entirely over for us – we still had a party to go to! I had bought tickets to the party thrown by DC for Obama, the group that organized the canvassing. Unfortunately, unlike the post-election party, I didn't know if anyone I knew was going to be there. (As it turned out, there wasn't.) All of our poker people were going to the Lawyers for Obama party at a different bar down the street. But $30 a person for unlimited drinks sounded pretty reasonable, especially considering that tickets for some of the balls were hundreds of dollars. I would have loved to go to the DC Neighborhood Ball - one of the official ones that Obama was guaranteed to make an appearance, with tickets for only $25! – but it was only open to DC residents.
Once we arrived home, we sat around for a while, and then got dressed in our party best. I wore the dress from my wedding rehearsal dinner, an Asian-style fitted black and white number. I was concerned that it no longer fit, but Chris reassured me that it actually did look good. I don't ever completely believe him, but I was convinced enough to go ahead with wearing it.
Although a bit bundled up in coats and scarves, the walk from home to the Metro and from the Metro to the bar was really cold. I never did understand how girls in college wore tiny little skirts and low-cut shirts in the Ithaca winter. It was a relief to reach the bar, which although not warm, was a vast improvement. We had been to the same bar for the post-election party, and it was a pretty classy place. Lots of leather couches and blue-colored lights - the sort of place that just feels “cool.” On top of that, this time we were in the “VIP” section upstairs. However, we soon found out that it wasn't all that much more exciting. All it meant was that we had unlimited booze and even that was only basic liquor rail drinks. Which meant that I couldn't have my trademark drink – orange juice and Malibu rum. They only had regular rum, which has the twice the alcohol and twice the alcohol-flavor. Alas. So I ordered an orange juice and rum, and went back to the couch on the edge of the room that we had staked out. As we got there shortly after the party started, it was really quiet for the first hour or so. We sat around, talked about the inauguration and other things, drank, and ate. One of the advantages of coming early is that when they come around with hand-passed hors d'oeuvres, you get first dibs. We ate a lot of finger food, most of it surprisingly good. Eventually, the party did pick up, and soon the dance floor was crowded. As both Chris and I love to dance, we soon joined them. We danced to Spanish songs about Obama (da da da, Obama!), we danced to hip-hop songs about Obama (boom, boom, boom, Obama!), we danced to just plain old rock. Mama Shea and Melissa joined us on the floor at various times, all of us switching off so at least one person was protecting the purses on the couch. I find dancing in heels exhausting, but it didn't matter – we were dancing! We were dancing and we were having fun and it was a wonderful day and a wonderful night.
But eventually, the magic wore off and we were back to being tired and sore and cold. And the rum combined with the orange juice was making me rather nauseous. The party was dying down anyway, and I had to go to work the next morning. I would have taken the next day off, like Chris, but I had required training for my program that I had signed up for months in advance. (Although I couldn't complain too much, because both Martin Luther King Day and Inauguration Day were national holidays, so I got them off for free.) We sighed, gathered up our things, and headed back out into the cold night. We had originally contemplated stopping at Ben's Chili Bowl, a legendary DC landmark that Obama had eaten at earlier in the month, but ditched that idea soon enough. It was late, and definitively time to go home. Once there, I stripped off my clothing, put on my pajamas and collapsed into bed. It had been a long day.
To quote Melissa: “It was wonderful, but I would never, ever do it again.” I don't think I was quite as miserable as her, but it certainly was a very intense experience. But needless to say, I was very glad I did it. There was something uplifting and quite honestly, historical, about being there. And having our level of dedication and determination just involved us all the more, made us feel that we participated in something grand. That we didn't just watch but that we were truly Part of Something Big. Because we were. Never again was the nation going to experience this first. It transcended politics. And that's why I was glad I was there. Yes, I supported Obama because I agreed with his policies. I was certainly glad he won, and believed – and still believed – that it was a significant change for the better for the United States. But here, this occasion, the United States proved that racism may not be fully overcome, but that we could look past the color of someone's skin enough to judge them on their ideas, their words, and their actions and in that examination, see a President. And that, more than anything else that I have ever experienced, made me proud to be an American.
current mood: happy
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| Wednesday, April 1st, 2009
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8:11 pm - Inauguration Part II: The Morning
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Inauguration morning, I woke up at 3:45 AM. The Metro was scheduled to open at 4 AM, and we wanted to be on one of the first trains going into DC. Melissa and Mama Shea, bless their souls, got up even earlier than I did. As we had all showered the night before, most of our time getting ready was dedicated to dressing very, very warmly. I had five layers on top – a pink fleece long-underwear top, long-sleeved bicycling shirt, fleece jacket, my peacoat, and the outside of my ski jacket on top of it all. Then, three layers on the bottom, including the fleece long-underwear. Over all of that, a hat, gloves and mittens, bicycle socks, fleece socks, and most importantly, my official Obama scarf, complete with campaign logo.
We got to the Metro station about 4:10 AM. It wasn't near full, but there were definitely a number of people on it already. All looking extraordinarily bundled up. As we anticipated it would be impossible to actually change trains at Metro Center, we got off at Judiciary Square instead and walked to the Mall. Except that instead of walking straight towards the Capitol, we had to detour all the way around it because of security. Thankfully, they shut down one of the highways through the city, allowing pedestrians to walk through the tunnel under the Capitol. From the Metro station, we followed the loose group of people, twisting and turning, until reaching the tunnel. There, it became a mass of people, a river of excited humans, all walking towards one location. It was bizarre walking through the tunnel, with the only vehicle being the occasional police car. I kept walking backwards, taking photos of people, and then running to catch up with Melissa and Mama Shea. Even when we emerged, it was still terribly dark out, and the number of people only continued to grow. We got pretty confused for a bit as to which direction we should take to the Mall – we seemed to disagree with the rest of the crowd. At one point, we were walking down a pretty abandoned street, which was a little creepy.
But we did eventually get there, around 5:30 AM. Once we were there, it was even more ridiculous. There was a huge crowd of people crowded near what was supposed to be one of the few entrances, but the police wouldn't let us in. People kept yelling, trying to find out what was going on. Without really answering anyone's questions, the police kept telling people that only those whose group was already inside could come in, but who was already inside by 5:30 AM? After being yelled at for 10 minutes, we continued on down the Mall. Eventually, we came to a point where people were cutting through the Hirschorn Museum's garden, even though it was obvious we weren't supposed to. But it wasn't officially closed, so through we went. I tried desperately not to trample any plants, but I think I stepped on a few by mistake. Once we reached the actual Mall, we actually ran towards the Capitol, in hopes of getting a good spot. Mama Shea was rather slower than Melissa and I, but we always made sure to check behind us and make sure she was still there. Most of the section was empty so far, and once we actually reached people, we started weaving our way through the crowd. Eventually, we reached a point where the crowd was pretty dense and we were satisfied with how close we were.
And then, we waited. It was still very dark, and we knew it would be for a very long while. The TVs were up and ready, but nothing was showing on them. So we took some photos, and chatted to the people behind us. There were a couple of college students from McGill (one was Canadian, one American), and a bunch of kids around our age from California. They were very kind, and offered to share their cardboard with us, if we shared our space with them. As we wanted to sit down, and cardboard was better than the hard, cold, frozen ground, we readily took their offer. The people in front of us weren't quite as social. The couple in front of us had a blanket, but the guy was sleeping on his back on it for probably about an hour after we got there. It was a little odd.
The whole area was like one big, weird, cold party. To add to the party atmosphere, the Boy Scouts were handing out flags, so everyone was very patriotic. And waving the flags gave us something to do. Everyone huddled together a bit, some talking, some just chattering. For a very long time, I was warm, sweating from being in so many layers on the heated Metro, and then hiking quickly to the Mall. But standing and sitting in the bitter cold, I gradually got colder and colder, wondering when the sun would rise. Thankfully, it rose over the Capitol in a beautiful pink and purple sunrise about two hours after we arrived. It didn't warm up right away – I don't know if the temperature ever actually rose during the day – but it was a sign of hope, at least. Even this early in the day, hope for warmth was starting to seem important than political hope.
After a certain point, Mama Shea, Melissa and I started rotating out to go take walks around the Mall. They went to the bathroom, but discouraged by the thought of the Port-a-Potties, I just wandered around. I found people doing the “Cha Cha Slide” and joined in for a bit. I spotted army cadets talking to enthusiastic inauguration-goers, and took a photo of them at relaxed attention. I peeked inside a white plastic tent and saw people were shivering together inside, having no source of warmth other than each other. I thought about joining a giant group surrounding a television camera on a moving arm, taking video for some news channel, but decided against it. The day before, we hung out in front of the CNBC booth, but failed to be there when the “crowd” camera was actually on. We saw a couple of the CNBC anchors though. Also, by this point in on Inauguration morning, the giant Jumbotron TVs had started playing the concert from Sunday afternoon. People were grooving to the music, and one was so joyous I had to take a photo of her. I couldn't help but smile, even though I couldn't really feel my feet any more.
Around 7:30 AM, I received a call from Chris. He had called me at 6:15, to tell me he had arrived at work, but no one was there. Which was quite surprising, because his boss told Chris he was supposed to be there that morning. Almost everyone else was serving at an inauguration party on Pennsylvania Ave. that they had to be there at 3 AM because of the security issues. At the time, I told him to wait until 7 AM and leave if no one showed up. Chris's second call was to tell me that he had been hanging out at the coffeeshop across the street until his head chef showed up, at which point his head chef told him he didn't need to be there. Because didn't Jeff tell him he didn't need to be there? No, he didn't. Clearly. So I told Chris to come down to the Mall and meet us there. After taking a cab as far as he could – to Chinatown – he walked the same way we did. Around 9:30 AM, he called me a third time, babbling a bit. Trying to figure out what he was talking about, I left our spot again to search him out. By the time I figured out where he was, I also understood his problem. Our section was absolutely closed to people coming in. Chris was standing at a gate at the end of our section, which was open, but guarded by a couple of very zealous policemen. I went up to Chris, and talked to him through the chain link fence. I even handed him our extra mittens, as he didn't have anything on his hands. (He was at least able to pick up a hat from an Obama vendor on the way over.) It was like some bad Holocaust movie. And like one of those movies, no matter how much I pleaded with the guard, he was not going to budge. I made the “can you please let him in?” question, “but he's my husband!” plea, the “we planned well and him being here late was an accident!” but none of them worked. No sympathy at all. So I went back to Chris, talking through the gate. He informed me that apparently he wasn't the only one kept out of our section – he had seen a very annoyed Samuel L. Jackson in the next section down! His handler was obviously in big, big trouble. After talking to me, Chris walked all the way back to the Washington Monument to watch the event from high on the hill. Afterwards, he said it was actually pretty crowded back there, as everyone was gathered around the Jumbotron.
From then on, we didn't do much else except watch the TVs. They showed the rest of the concert from the day before – This Land is Your Land was gloriously hippie-hopeful. I sung along to the song, and sang especially loudly when Pete Seeger sang the really activist verses about the Freedom Highway and private property. Then they started showing the various dignitaries and politicians coming in. At least it was more interesting than what they had on before, which were a series of tips for staying warm. It was a bit useless, considering that we couldn't leave, for fear of not being allowed back in, and were told previously that we couldn't bring in thermoses anyway. But watching the “important people” was rather fun. I tried to take a lot of photos of the Jumbotron, over people's heads, and had limited success. Some came out clearly, some came out with completely different people in them than I expected, and some came out with some level of thematic significance (lots of waving flags). Hillary and Bill got cheers, as did Colin Powell. (Is there anyone who doesn't like Colin Powell?) I personally cheered for Al Gore. Not surprisingly, Bush got heckled when he appeared on screen (“Na na na na, hey, hey goodbye...”) and Cheney got really booed. Most of it was in pretty good nature, although one lady behind me definitely bothered me. She had a little kid – probably no more than 5 – and I could totally respect her wanting her kid to participate in this historic moment. But when Bush and Cheney were on screen, she made the nastiest, most self-righteous remarks one could possibly make to a 5-year old about political issues. She said things like, “Look at him, honey. He's a bad, bad man. He should die.” Even if you disagree with someone, even on something so horrible as a war, you should never, ever tell a five-year-old someone should die. I held my tongue, but it made me angry that a political movement that I love because it is essentially grounded in the hope of a better future should have so much bitterness and lack of forgiveness. But I think that's true of any political movement – they all are subject to that. Besides the essential “Jesus loves everyone” idea, that is why we need to love those we disagree with – sometimes, they are right! That's why I didn't boo, even in a half-hearted way. I campaigned for Obama because I wanted to move beyond this nonsense. I wanted to build a better future, with better politics.
current mood:  blank
current music: The dishwasher draining
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| Saturday, March 21st, 2009
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1:12 am - Inauguration Part I: The Lead-Up
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For me, President Obama’s inauguration practically started on Election Day. It was so thrilling to see that what I did actually made a difference that I was eager with anticipation. In addition, since I was way too tired on Election Day to celebrate in DC, I was looking forward to a good party on Inauguration Day.
And I knew we were going to have people to celebrate it with. Mama Shea and Melissa had planned on coming to the inauguration way before Election Day – pretty much since we moved here. Melissa said that she would refuse to come if McCain won, but clearly, that ended up not being a problem.
Friday
On the Friday before the inauguration, we met them at the airport, first Melissa and then Mama Shea. As Mama Shea’s flight was delayed by weather, we ended up going straight home, instead of into Baltimore or Bethesda. We made up mixed drinks (of course) and hung out until it was time to go to bed. Melissa had seen the apartment before, but Mama Shea was quite impressed by our setup. It’s always nice when someone confirms your domestic abilities, especially because I always feel deficient in that area.
Hearing of the hoards of people descending on DC for the inauguration, I determined that we would not be frequenting any of the traditional tourist stops. And sadly, the weather was too cold to wander around in any of the fun shopping areas. So I picked a couple of art museums, and hoped for the best. Our first stop was the Phillips Collection, which pleasantly surprised us. For one, the museum was half-price for the inauguration. But more importantly, it happens to feature Melissa’s favorite painting of all time – Renoir’s Luncheon of the Boating Party. I knew the collection included Impressionist Art, but I was actually surprised at how prestigious it was for a rather small museum. Besides the Boating Party, it also included a painting I recognized by Picasso ( The Blue Room), works by Degas and Matisse, and several Van Goghs that I didn’t recognize, but I really enjoyed. One, The Road Menders, featuring a beautiful tree-lined street, evoked my memory of St. Giles St. in Oxford so strongly. The sturdy, yet ever-moving trees in front of the traditional Dutch houses, reminded me of walking to church along the street under the trees’ shade. Beyond those, the museum had some other fascinating exhibits: one on painters who engaged in social commentary, a searing series of paintings on the African-American migration from the south to the north and a temporary one on Christo and Jeanne-Claude’s (the crazy artists who put all of those flags up in Central Park) efforts to cover part of the Arkansas River in filmy cloth. Adding to the atmosphere of all of this art was the fact that it was housed in a beautiful old mansion but still organized in some sensible manner (unlike the “don’t touch my stuff or I’ll take away your money!” museums).
After standing around and staring at art for a couple of hours, we moved on to the National Portrait Gallery to stand around and look at more art for a couple more hours. But before we left Dupont Circle (one of the few beautiful historic districts in DC), we stopped at the Firehook Bakery. Grabbing one of the four tables in the little quaint-looking cafe, we noshed on sandwiches, fruit tarts, and hot soup before venturing back to the Metro. Once we were at the National Portrait Gallery, we decided to start with the portrait photography exhibit. I think Portrait photography, whether of famous or ordinary people, is fascinating. This exhibit mixed them both, from “normal” people staring the camera straight-on with dead honesty to Morrissey in concert hopping around the stage like a madman. I found myself staring at them, hoping to draw some kind of lesson or learn something concrete about humanity. From there, we wandered around, and happened upon what was then the newest addition to the collection – the iconic Shepard Farey painting of Obama. Honestly, I had no idea it was so big – it was far, far taller than us. The painting was so popular that there was a line to have people take their pictures with it! Being in Obama-mode the entire weekend, we patiently waited so that the curator could take our photo, even if it was just on Melissa’s cell phone. We sent the photo to Chris’s Aunt Pat and to Papa Shea. Aunt Pat was amused; Papa Shea was at best, apathetic.
From there, we moved on to an exhibition about Lincoln (random facts: he was enigmatic; he probably grew his beard to look older) and then the Presidential portrait gallery. The gallery has portraits of every President, which are made according to his wishes at the end of his term. Most are fairly realistic, except for Kennedy’s, which was almost impressionistic. The wide lines were blurred together, an apt representation of both Kennedy’s dynamic presence and our country’s vivid but conflicted vision of him. It really captured his character and legacy in a way that most of the other Presidential portraits didn’t. Although Norman Rockwell apparently painted Nixon as more attractive than he was in real life, the most controversial portrait they had was the most recent: George W. Bush. We spoke to one of the curator/guides about it, and she looked thrilled that someone cared. She told us that Bush actually had a talented friend from Yale paint the portrait for him. He’s leaning forward, his elbows on his knees, with that famous half-smile that says, “Sit down and have a beer with me.” Apparently, some people were slightly offended by the friendly tone of the painting, but more were disconcerted by the plaque hanging next to it. It downplayed America’s violent adventures in foreign affairs, and mentioned the economic downturn but didn’t pin blame at all on Bush’s decisions. Despite the current view of Bush, I can understand the writer’s hesitation to have a judgmental commentary. This was going to be a document accompanying the painting pretty much forever. And the others certainly highlighted their subjects’ high points and ignored the low points – Nixon’s barely mentioned Watergate and scandals of others were largely glossed over.
But despite the controversy, George W. was not the star of the exhibit that day. While I was talking to the curator, I saw a bunch of people whispering and pointing at a crazy-haired gentleman with his back to us on the other side of the rather small room. I leaned over to the curator, and said, “Who is that?” She said, rather excitedly, “It’s Bon Jovi – he has a private tour arranged!” To which I looked over, and stared and gaped for a moment. And then nudged Chris, who was standing next to me, and whispered “It's Bon Jovi!” As if he didn't hear the curator himself. And wasn't already looking at him. After tracking down Melissa, I found out that she had already seen him, and had actually been sort of following him around for the past few minutes. Apparently, she got close enough to touch him – although she didn't actually touch him, of course. Needless to say, it was very weird. The closest I've randomly gotten to a celebrity before this was that I once saw Ricki Lake in the Times Square Toys R Us. But she wasn't that popular by then, and she was always sort of ridiculous anyway. No one ever worshiped her. But there are people who totally worship Bon Jovi. I don't – I really dislike most of his songs – but that aura surrounds him. The “It's Bon Jovi! Wow...” aura. It pretty much made the entire room stop and stare, and then pretend like they didn't just stare. Because that would be rude. It was such a D.C. reaction in its celebrity-gawking reaction but complete denial of that reaction. Not that Bon Jovi seemed all that exciting in person. In fact, nothing particularly screamed rock star except for his hair. Which is, actually, even outside of concerts, completely ridiculous. I have no idea how he manages to look like he's just walked in front of a giant fan at all times.
We saw a few more exhibits in the museum, including an incredible painting of an imagined, untouched West, and moved along. We had dinner reservations at Aria (a restaurant), followed by tickets to see the Capital Steps. As we knew Melissa and Mama Shea were coming for the Inauguration, we bought them tickets as soon as they went on sale, figuring the political parody group would be perfect to see that weekend. We picked Aria to eat at because when we went there with my parents, the food was pretty good, and more importantly, it was right next to the theater. Unfortunately, the theater menu was the only thing available this night, and the choices were far less interesting than on the regular menu. My dish was pretty good, but everyone else was rather disappointed with theirs. To make up for it, we drank a lot of wine, leaving me rather tipsy. Wine really affects my balance, so when they decided they wanted to kill time by hanging out in the middle of Pennsylvania Avenue, I wasn't all that keen on it. Not wanting to be a drag, I went anyway. The Avenue was shut down for security reasons, to prepare for Tuesday, so we could actually see all the way down to the Capital and up to the White House without any traffic. We sat on the bleachers that were going to be prime seats just a few days from now, and chatted with tourists and DC residents alike. The entire weekend, everyone was so congenial and light-hearted that you couldn't help but smile despite the cold.
Capitol Steps was great though - almost as funny as when we saw them the first time. I say almost because about a third to half of the songs and sketches were the same as ones we saw when we went with my parents. However, considering that we saw them less than four months earlier, replacing about half of their material was pretty damn good. The new ones addressed current day issues, of course, including my favorite, "Help Us, Honda." Done to the tune of "Help Me, Rhonda" by the Beach Boys, it featured the Big Three Auto executives dancing around, singing for financial assistance from Honda, Congress or anyone else who could possibly give it to them. As my e-mail box for the past several weeks had been filled with news about the issue, I thought it was hilarious. It's actually up on the Capitol Steps' homepage, under February 9th: http://www.capsteps.com/.
After the show, we wandered back up Pennsylvania Ave. to check out the parade route some more. We walked behind the White House, where the special glassed-in viewing area for the President and the bleachers for the media were set up. The whole thing was a little surreal, as if we were getting behind the scenes at the Oscars. Although the weather didn't seem too bad at first, it felt increasingly worse the longer we were outside. Eventually, we were really hustling to get to the Metro stop because Mama Shea was extremely cold. Afraid that Chris and I didn't know where we were going, she started freaking out, in fact. It was awkward. And then once we reached the Metro stop, she refused to walk down the escalator. I honestly don't know how she survived a childhood in New York City. Maybe Clifton Park has crept into her bones.
But despite the weather, it was a very good day. I had managed to pick attractions wisely, and everyone enjoyed them, for which I was very grateful. I like knowing I've been a good host.
Sunday
Unfortunately, Chris had to work on Sunday, so we went into Baltimore. Melissa's good friend from college, Jackie, lives there, and we planned on going to the Aquarium and then meeting Jackie for lunch. The Aquarium was a perfect place to visit because Chris had already been there with Drew, and despite my love of marine animals, I hadn't visited there yet. After some amount of frustration involving parking that involved me driving around in circles near the Inner Harbor and swearing to myself a bit, we finally made it to the Aquarium. My very first reaction was "Yikes, it's really expensive!" Which it is - $30 a person! And Mama Shea said that she wasn't paying for anything on this trip for us except for dinner the night before. But because we were going to be there a while, and wanted to see the whole thing (including the dolphin show and "4D immersion theater"), I paid up. Also, I wanted to get inside as soon as possible - the ticket booths are outside for some bizarre reason and it was pretty chilly out.
Fortunately, I knew as soon as I stepped inside that it was going to be worth it. As you walk through the doors, a huge waterfall is right in front of you, falling down into a pool with fish native to the Baltimore area. The waterfall splashes down realistic-looking (albeit fake) rocks, that surround native trees. From there, we turned right and entered the dreaded Tourist Zone. The Aquarium provided a coat check and lockers, but required you to buy tokens for them, which required cash in small bills. Thankfully, we had the small bills, but it was still a mess of confused visitors, most armed with strollers and/or small children in tow. The second floor was set up much more intuitively, thankfully. A huge set of teeth from an ancient shark welcomed us at the top of the stairs, and it seemed wrong not to get a picture posing inside of it. Luckily, it was set-up for just that, and the photographer was kind enough to take multiple photos with my camera, as well as the official Aquarium tourist camera.
As it was close to the time for the dolphin show, we headed straight over there. Chris had said he was unimpressed with it, but I thought it was fun. However, I did notice that they don't have the dolphins do some of the more "showy" tricks. I know places like Sea World have dolphins do them, but as some of them are pretty unnatural, I was glad the Aquarium refrained from that. I would have liked to see more of the dolphins actually doing things though, and fewer overdone video clips. I also missed a couple of impressive things because I was trying to take photos, which was disappointing. After the show, I went down to the tank with the little kids and their parents. I've always been fascinated by watching dolphins swim, observing their combination of strength and fluidity. While the little kids were placing their hands against the glass, I watched, smiling at the dolphins and the children who are so fascinated by them. I hope that some of them maintain that fascination after they grow up. I know I have. Part of it is knowing that they are so intelligent, and yet so very, very different from humans. Monkeys are smart, but we are very similar to them. But dolphins have evolved almost as much, if not past monkeys, but their entire way of seeing the world, from habitat to communication, is so vastly different. Yet they too are able to communicate with us, despite their divergent evolution. I think they are as close to intelligent aliens as we will make contact with, at least in my lifetime. And of course, they are simply inherently beautiful. As a child, I wanted to keep a dolphin when I grew up. My plan involved having a house on the cliffs of Cape Cod (yeah…my geography was a little off), where the dolphin could swim back and forth between the pool in the house and the ocean. Having that ability for the dolphin to be able to leave, if he or she wished to, was always key. I think I always understood that a dolphin could not be kept as a pet - they were just too smart and freedom-loving for that. But they could perhaps, be a companion, if they so chose to be. Deep down in my heart, I still want that, and that connection resonated through me while I stood at the glass, watching them swim.
But I did leave eventually, as Melissa and Mama Shea wanted to see something else besides dolphins. We went to the Immersive 4D Experience next, which was basically an "interactive" version of a section of David Attenborough's Planet Earth. I found the sprays of water and "scampering" insects a little distracting, and thought I would have much rather watched it normally. 4D just doesn't work for documentaries - it's too gimmicky. We then moved up to the main part of the Aquarium, which has the giant water tube running through the middle. In the opening section, we looked down on manta rays, serenely gliding through the water. Dolphins may be the closest we get to meeting intelligent aliens, but there are plenty of other ocean creatures that may not be very smart, but are certainly alien. Winding up a wide spiraling staircase, we came to a section on Maryland's own ocean and bay ecology. Considering that I always love knowing about the ecology of the area I live in, and yet know little about Maryland's land and seascape, I was glad for the insight. Next up was an exhibit on adaptation, which I think was mainly an excuse to show a lot of neat, brightly-colored or oddly-camouflaged animals. Charismatic minor-fauna. I spent a lot of time trying to photograph a couple of specific fish, but animals that never stop moving are really hard to get good photos of. Especially when they're behind glass. But probably the coolest animal was the giant octopus, who was curled up against the window, looking like it was sleeping in preparation for world domination. We saw one at the National Zoo during her feeding time, but because she was pregnant, she was as squished into the corner of her tank as far as possible from the window. This one was being much more photogenic, with his tentacles splayed out against the glass. Some of my favorite birds - the puffins - were also kept at the Aquarium, cavorting about and swimming.
Then, there was the rainforest. I hope that one day, I can visit a real Amazonian rainforest (or even an Indonesian one....or Madagascarian...), but for now, I'll have to settle for constructed, indoor ones. Still, the ones that I've been to so far – in the National Botanic Garden (all plants), the National Zoo and now the National Aquarium – have all been exciting and awe-inspiring. In the National Zoo, we saw monkeys and in this one, I saw beautiful parrots up fantastically close. And a couple of nifty bats, albeit further away.
Thankfully, Mama Shea and Melissa were very patient with me. As I knew that we had a 2 o'clock lunch date, and I had seen all there was to see, I wrapped it up. Of course, we met Jackie at a seafood restaurant. Why do we always want to eat fish after seeing them? But as I chose lobster mac and cheese, I didn't feel bad. Lobsters will eat each other if they are allowed to; they're basically giant water cockroaches. Melissa got the same thing, and we were both disappointed, although Melissa far more than I was. Melissa doesn't like seafood, and we could tell she was trying so hard to find something she would like. But it just wasn't a good payoff. And honestly, I can say as a lover of both lobster and mac-and-cheese, it didn't do either particularly well. The lobster was rather fishy, and the mac-and-cheese was just off.
After lunch, we walked around the pier just a bit, and then drove back home to meet Chris. That night, he prepared a lovely dinner for us of lamb, as Melissa loves lamb. I don't even like lamb, and I thought it was great. It was just simply delicious. That is the sign of a true chef – the ability to make you love dishes with ingredients you don't like. And Chris has made meals for me that have done this several times.
Monday
Monday was my atonement for forgetting my camera on Saturday night.
We went into DC in the late morning, with the purpose of taking lots of photos of the pre-inauguration excitement and preparations. Melissa was so disappointed that we couldn't take any photos on Saturday that we promised her we'd take photos on Monday. But when I tried to take some photos, my camera wasn't working. I soon realized that when I changed out my memory card, I never put a new one back in. This resulted in a mad search throughout the city for a store that would sell camera memory cards. As we were along Pennsylvania Avenue, which has very few stores, this was both aimless and extremely frustrating for me (especially because I had to go to the bathroom). We would start in one direction, then go in another, and all the while, having my suggestions going completely ignored. Finally, we managed to find a CVS, where I could purchase a new card for about 30 dollars. We also stopped by the National Portrait Gallery for the restrooms. Everyone was happy.
With that emergency resolved, we set off to be tourists. Tourists on the level of being nearly Japanese in our love for the camera. Melissa really, really loves having and being in and taking photos. As a slightly more conservative photo-taker – a hold-over from when my camera could only store 70 photos, not 700 – it was tough for me to adjust. Plus, posing for photos has always been really hard for me. I'm a lot, lot better at it now than I ever used to be – I actually smile now! - but it's still not my default mode. But Melissa forced me to be. If I didn't take a lot of photos, she was going to take possession of my camera to take the photos herself. So along with my artistic photos of the Capitol and architecture, we also ended up with a lot of “Hey, look at us, we're in Washington DC!” photos. They actually ended up being really cute. We walked from Chinatown, towards the Mall, through a square with a zillion port-a-potties, past the National Archives, up Pennsylvania Avenue, and to the Capital. Along the way, we bought Obama gear – including two different pins that I managed to lose, one that day and one on inauguration day – and gawked at everything. It was nice to get photographs of us in front of the Capital with it all decorated, because there was no way we were getting anywhere that close the next day.
The general goodwill and enthusiasm continued, and was even stronger this day than it was during the days before. Everyone seemed so excited about the event, in a rather non-political way. The city – the country – knew the inauguration was historical in a good, important way, and was proud of it. Despite everything going on with the economy, people were hopeful. For a city known for cynicism and manipulation, kindness and friendliness were the currency of the day.
After wandering around in the cold for long enough, we hopped back on the Metro and went home. We could have attended the “Concert of a Lifetime” down on the other end of the Mall, but we decided one day sitting in the cold for hours on end was enough for one weekend. So we watched it on HBO instead. Much warmer, and it's not like the Lincoln Memorial has great acoustics anyway. And watching Malia Obama take five million photos like any normal 10 year old was both funny and very cute.
As we were getting up at 3:45 in the morning, we went to bed very early, about 9 PM. But before I did so, I made sure everything was in place for the next day, especially my camera memory card.
current mood: content
current music: Fox News in the background...ugh
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| Friday, January 9th, 2009
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11:52 am - Adventures in DC Part III - Canvassing for the Team
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About a month and half before the election, the importance of it all struck me. I had never been involved with electoral politics – I never registered with a party in New York, and only did so in Maryland after I wasn't able to participate in the Democratic primary debacle. But despite my previous reluctance, I came to the realization that I should really Do Something in This Election. Considering my politics, it was obviously going to be for Obama. What I should do, I wasn't sure. But I signed up on Obama's site and waited. And when Gerri at my environmental group mentioned she was canvassing, I asked her for information too.
So through one of those sources – I'm not sure which one – I found myself standing outside of the Waterfront Metro station on three consecutive Sunday mornings in October. I had become a canvasser.
The first day was nerve-wracking. After meeting at the Metro station, we all piled into cars to drive 45 minutes to Manassas, Virginia. I drove with Eric, who was one of the main DC organizers, and Tim, his roommate. Arriving at the Manassas Obama headquarters, a cute little house covered in Obama signs and overflowing with volunteers, we listened to a short orientation. (Later on, we passed the McCain office, which was a boring storefront that no one was ever at. It was sort of pathetic.) The Manassas organizers walked us through our canvassing sheet, which involved asking people who they were voting for, saying thanks if it was McCain, giving them voting information if it was Obama, and offering policy information if they were still undecided. At this point in the election, we weren't trying to convince anyone to switch sides, so there weren't supposed to be any hard-core Republicans on our list. But as it was possible they slipped through, so we had to know what to do.
From there, we headed out to the suburbs. Our neighborhood for that day was a well-to-do development, with pretty, mostly-identical larger houses. It reminded me very much of home, actually. As I was quite nervous, I paired up with Eric, and did the first several houses with him. It was then that I realized the very long lists they gave us weren't as intimidating as they looked – most people weren't home. After about 5 or 6 houses, Eric told me to go off on my own, assuring me that I would be fine.
And I was. Although every time I rang the doorbell, I was half wishing someone was home to convince and I was half terrified of someone answering, it was pretty okay. Most people were polite, even the McCain supporters I happened upon by mistake. The number of polite/indifferent people was about evenly split between supporters of the two candidates. The only truly rude person I encountered over all 3 days of canvassing was one lady who announced to me that “I'm not voting!” and just about slammed the door in my face. I was rather surprised and confused at that one. But it was nothing like the angriness recounted to me by some canvassers that had worked on the campaign for several months. Instead, I had several very memorable positive encounters.
The first one was in the housing development on the first day. At first, it was obvious that the woman who answered the door didn't want to talk to me. She told me, in a slightly snippy way, that her husband (who was the one I was asking about) wasn't telling anyone who he was voting for. Like many other people I had spoken to, I smiled, thanked her, and wished her a good day. But just as I was starting to walk down her front stairs and she was about to close the door, she called out to me. “Why do you support him?” I turned around, and said, “He cares about and has good positions on two issues I care deeply about – climate change and poverty. I like his experience as a community organizer, because it meant he knows what it's like on the ground. A lot of politicians don't have that experience.” Still skeptical, but now definitely listening, she questioned, “Well, have you done any volunteer work, like in a soup kitchen, or given money to charities?” Of course, loving any chance given to talk about Maine, my eyes lit up and I started yakking away. I think she got more of a response than she expected. After listening a while about the glories of H.O.M.E., as well as my time in New York City, she said, “That's great that people like you and me do these things in our communities. But the President can't do anything about that.” Having put quite a bit of thought into these issues when I decided to canvass, I responded, “Of course, no politician can do the work on the ground. But they can create the framework that makes that work easier to do or have more impact. And that is very important. And I think Obama will create the best framework.” To this point, she nodded, and a look of understanding crossed her face. She smiled, far more friendly than before, and said, “Thanks. I hope you continue your community work.” I thanked her for listening, and wished her a good day. Although I know I didn't convince her – I'm sure she was a McCain supporter, or perhaps even indifferent – I do think that I bridged some gap. Whereas she was cold to me at first – just another spoiled liberal – we walked away with a greater mutual appreciation for each other. She knew that rather than depending on the government do everything, that I did care about my community and put time and effort into it. That we wanted many of the same things for our communities, although we may disagree on how they should get done. And I think in the long term, that understanding will be more worthwhile than five minutes of rattling off Obama's policy positions would be.
My second memorable experience was my second day of canvassing, with a lady who who wanted to support Obama – he had even been her senator when she lived in Illinois – but wasn't quite convinced. She said, “I like his ideas, but what has he done? I liked Jimmy Carter's ideas too.” Point taken. So I explained some of the bills he had passed, including an anti-nuclear proliferation one and an ethics reform one. I said that I couldn't remember them all off of the top of my head, but that if she checked out Obama's website, they were listed there. She listened patiently, accepted my literature, thanked me, and closed the door. Although not as feel-good as my other encounter, I liked that she wanted to know more about him before voting, instead of relying on slogans. She may not have had the time to look into it yet – I know I've waited until election day to look up the candidates – but democracy was important to her. Important enough to spend a few minutes of her day listening to a canvasser when she could have said, “No thank you,” and continued on. And I appreciated that. I know not everyone has the time to volunteer, but I do believe that everyone should make the time to inform themselves before voting.
Also, on that second day, I ran into a McCain canvasser. Awkward. She was a middle-aged, pleasant-looking, probably suburban, lady also holding a clipboard. As we had a few overlaps – people who had said they were undecided, I suppose – she pointed out what houses she had visited where people weren't home. After a brief-information sharing session, she said, “It's good that we're both doing our part for our country.” I nodded in agreement, wished her a good day, and walked in the opposite direction so I wouldn't have to run into her again. She was plenty nice, but it was just weird.
On my third day, I visited an apartment complex that was significantly less expensive than the wealthy housing development or the nice duplex communities that I visited on my first two ventures out. They were plain brick buildings, with the apartment doors opening onto the chilly air. My first several apartments belonged to elderly ladies, one of whom was quite friendly and voting for Obama already, another who declared she wasn't voting. But it was further on that I reached a lady who surprised me. She was a rather overweight, working-class, middle-aged woman, who looked like she was frequently very busy. She told me in an almost-lecturing way, “I'm an Obama supporter, even though I don't agree with him on everything.” I nodded, and then was pleasantly surprised to hear her say, “I'm a Republican, and I've always voted Republican, but I'm voting for him this time.” Smiling, I replied, “So is my mother-in-law! She said she'd rather vote for a real liberal than a fake conservative.” She nodded in agreement and said, “Yeah, he convinced me when I heard him say on some radio show that 'Not only do we have to clean up our cities, but people in them have to take responsibility for their neighborhoods.' I liked that he's telling people they have to take responsibility.” I said that I liked that about him too, and asked if she needed any information on voting. She laughed, and said, “No! I've been a poll judge for years, I know all about voting already!” Thrilled that she was already an active participant in democracy, I said, “That's great! I'm going to be a pollwatcher. It's so important that everything goes well and is organized on Election Day.” We talked a little while about our training and what we would be doing in our respective jobs. Eventually – as I didn't want to cut her off – I said that I had to continue on and left. But I was so glad to talk to her. First, that despite her party affiliation, she was willing to consider a candidate that shared many of her values and had good ideas, and secondly, that she was so dedicated to the idea of democracy. Being a poll judge requires a lot of training, and is kind of a pain. Especially this particular Election Day, with voter turnout expected to be exceptionally high.
The last memorable experience was later that same day, in that same complex. I knocked on the door – hardly anyone there had doorbells – and a short, Eastern European woman answered the door. I asked her who she was voting for, and she said, in a rather strong accent, “Oh, Obama. I didn't vote in the last election, and I really wished I had.” I offered information on where and when to vote, and she looked quite concerned. She said, “How do you vote? I've never done it before.” Then, seeming flustered that she hadn't asked already, she asked, “Do you want to come in? You must be tired. Is there anything I can get you?” Not wanting to turn down her very gracious offer, I came inside, but declined anything, even when she asked multiple times if I wanted anything to drink. Sitting on her couch, in her nicely-decorated apartment, I explained, “Most places use a touchscreen, where you touch the name of the candidate you want to vote for. I don't know exactly how your polling place does it, but they will explain it to you there.” She asked a few more questions, and I left her with information on her polling place, and a number to call if she wanted more assistance. And she was so grateful for this information that I felt incredibly honored to give it to her. She certainly treated me as an honored guest. Here she was, presumably an immigrant, so excited to vote in her adopted country. Again, it was democracy in action.
When I canvassed, I expected to find fulfillment in being part of the political, democratic process. To share policy ideas and information on how to vote. I figured that even if everyone slammed their doors in my faces, at least I tried. Unlike Bush's election and the Iraq War, I wouldn't regret not putting in my time and effort. But I never considered the possibility of encountering others (outside of my fellow canvassers) participating in this grand tradition with such interest and enthusiasm. From the very beginning – learning to vote – to the engaged citizen, to the protector of the very right to vote itself, I met people who not only cared about the future of our country, but put time and thought into their participation in that future. And being part of that bigger whole – seeing those people around me, even those I didn't agree with – was encouraging. As a result, regardless of how those particular citizens voted, my efforts were far from in vain. Because I think that I encouraged them too.
Although my personal insight grew each time I went out, the true weight of it all didn't hit me until Election Day itself. Lying on our couch, watching the returns come in, I cheered loudly when Virginia went blue. And finding out that many, many of those votes came from Manassas – far more Democratic votes than any other previous election – inspired a wide smile. Because the “Yes we can!” slogan turned into “Yes we did!” And it made me think that maybe this democracy thing actually does work.
current mood: laughing
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| Monday, January 5th, 2009
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10:02 pm - Adventures in DC Part II (B?): Rockers, Hippies, and Activists
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The third and fourth celebrity interactions I had were completely intentional, ones that I had planned for several months. Unfortunately, they both fell during the last week of one of the busiest months I've had in a very long time. But that only reinforced their impact on me. It was Election Week, and we had tickets to two of the most political people I'm fans of, each in their unique way – Henry Rollins and Arlo Guthrie. I had been waiting to see both for a very long time, kept missing them when they were in town, and was not going to skip out just because I was a little tired.
We saw Henry Rollins the day before the election, although he didn't spend much time on it. The most “relevant” part of his talk was his explanation of how Sarah Palin had enough time to have five kids and be mayor, and then governor of Alaska. It was fantastically rude, but very funny. (“'Mommy, are our pancakes ready?' 'It'll be a minute, honey,' accompanied by appropriate hip-grinding action from Rollins. 'Mommy, why are these pancakes shaped funny?'”) Most of his act wasn't as obscene though – he left out the Sheryl Crow bit this time around. Besides the Sarah Palin bit, he talked about his reaction to the debates and the movie W, but then moved on to more personal stories, which I found far more entertaining anyway. Unfortunately, I think the political discussion actually squeezed out what sounded like a hilarious story – Thanksgiving with William Shatner. He briefly mentioned it and as a result, I spent the whole night waiting for him to come back to it, ending up disappointed. But his descriptions of his experiences in the movie business (especially his tendency to accept parts without asking for scripts and the potential for negative consequences – GoatF****er Number 9: No Goat Left Behind) and his travels were very good. In particular, I loved his story about traveling to Pakistan as an American, which he did just because the U.S. government warned travelers not to go there. The guard at the hotel gate tried his hardest not to let Rollins out, but when you're confronted by a built (albeit short) dude with a crew cut and a lot of tattoos who politely asks just to roam the city, what are you going to do? I also found Rollins' goal of just going up to people all over the world, sticking his hand out, and saying, “Hi, I'm Henry! What's your name? I'm glad to meet you!” delightful, especially because he delivered those lines with the sincerity of a sprightly 10-year-old. Despite his reputation as an angry ranter, I found him to be overwhelmingly optimistic. So much so that in the dark, I wrote down one of his quotes to post on my Facebook profile - “I want a blue, green Mardi Gras fun ball, orbiting through space.” Even in the middle of the political turmoil in Pakistan – Benazir Butto was assassinated in the middle of his visit – he still got out on the streets and talked to people, just to hear what they had to say. It was fascinating, because it's rare that someone travels – especially to the countries he visits – with the only intent to meet and listen to people. His experience mirrored mine in Ireland - people want to tell you their story, and rarely consider your affiliation, so long as you are willing to listen with an open mind. For all of his bluster, I think that's what separates Rollins from a stand-up comic – he embraces people in all of their glorious flawedness. He tells stories that say something about people, regardless of their humor content. His Shatner stories are funny not because Rollins is making fun of him, but because he genuinely likes the guy. Walking away from the show, I felt quite good about life.
Although much more on the hippy-dippy side end of things, the Arlo Guthrie concert left me with much of the same feeling. I was particularly looking forward to this concert because Arlo's music is a family institution for me. His Greatest Hits tape was a fixture in Dad's car and we listened to Alice's Restaurant every Thanksgiving while driving to New Jersey. Even when we forgot the tape, we always managed to find it playing on the New York City radio station at noon. This year, as we both lacked the tape and were too far from the City, we hurriedly downloaded it onto the iPod for our drive to Aunt Patty and Uncle Brian's house.
Stepping on stage, Arlo didn't look much different than he did on the cover of Alice's Restaurant – long hair, wiry body, but grayer and more weathered. The Archtypical Hippie himself. He began with a song I actually recognized - In My Darkest Hour. Not long after, he began telling stories, but they weren't necessarily about the meaning of the songs. Often, they were about how the songs affected him or others. For example, he recounted visiting Leadbelly's grave in New Orleans while doing a tour to benefit Hurricane Katrina survivors. He found the hard-living musician's grave surrounded by a fence, and remarked, “They've still got him in jail!” And so he opened the gate, stepped inside with his fellow musicians, and played a few songs in the presence of the legend.
Another story involved the Motorcycle Song (the Significance of the Pickle), a very stupid (but funny) song that varies in length from 1 to 7 minutes depending on the version. Sadly, he played the short version, but dedicated it to the protagonist of an absolutely ridiculous story about a guy who was cleaning his motorcycle in his living room. Arlo said he appreciated the story because he has rarely has an opportunity to ride his motorcycle, and loved when his wife brought it inside for him during the winter. So while this other guy is cleaning his cycle, the gas goes off and the cycle drives through the wall and into the street, with the guy on it. He returns to the house after being treated at the hospital, and goes to the bathroom, only to discover the danger of dumping gasoline-soaked rags in the toilet, as his wife did. Back to the hospital again – for ass-burns this time. Ouch. If anyone deserved such a dumb but good song dedicated to him, it was this guy.
Quite a few of the stories revolved around Arlo's father, folk legend Woodie Guthrie. The best part of the concert came during the end of the show, when he talked about recording his father's unrecorded songs. Near the end of his life, Woodie Guthrie checked himself into a mental health institution and never checked out. But even when he stopped being a professional musician, he continued to write lyrics, sometimes on tiny slips of paper. At some point, Arlo and his sister (also a professional musician) discovered these pieces of songs and began to write music for them. They released the first collection of this music this year, hoping to share his writing to the world. Arlo sang a couple of these (as well as recorded ones like This Land is Your Land – fantastic), but the most moving part of the night occurred during the encore. It was a simple song, with only 2 verses and a chorus. The theme of it was sharing the peace in our hearts with one another – embracing that peace and passing it on. The words were like a child's song, expressing a hopeful innocence. Arlo started off the song, and then taught it to the audience. Him singing, us repeating, until we were all singing, in a gloriously hippie love-fest Kumbaya moment. Despite my sometimes negative attitude, I am a true peace-and-love gal at heart, and that whole moment struck me right there. Everything seemed lighter, more beautiful, walking home.
The last “celebrity” encounter I had was also connected to my inner activist, but in a much more obvious manner. This time, I was actually at a political event - a climate change rally on Capitol Hill. Apropos to the subject, weather was definitely a pressing concern – it was so freaking cold! As I approached the rally, the roped down windmills were close to being blown over by the heavy wind. There was a huge quilt by 350.org (one of the organizing groups, working to promote the idea of limiting CO2 to 350 ppm in the atmosphere) and it would have been nice to wrap myself up in it. Brrr. Thankfully, there was a large enough group that the gathering blocked much of the wind.
A couple of local activists spoke, including the head of the Chesapeake Climate Action Network. And then Bill McKibbon was introduced. “Bill McKibbon – I didn't know he was going to be here! Cool!” I thought. I haven't read his most famous book – The End of Nature – but I did read The Age of Missing Information for my Environmental Communication class. A great book, it chronicled what he learned from 48 hours spent camping in the Adirondacks compared to 48 hours of every TV show shown during that time on a cable package. Cool idea, and insightfully pulled off. I also have a bit of a regional affinity – I think he lives in upstate New York. Although his speech was relatively short – under 10 minutes – he certainly got the crowd fired up. He talked a lot about alternative energy, and harnessing the power of the public to take advantage of the great opportunity we have with the next administration. “Now is the time to show them we care!” he said. As the speeches ran into each other in my mind, I don't remember many specifics, but I recall being really psyched up to make change. The energy in his speech, and the excitement he ignited in the crowd was so encouraging. As an activist, it's so easy to become negative and cynical. The problems are so big and the challenges so difficult and the solutions so dramatic that they seem impossible. But that's why I so value people like McKibbon. He points out problems, but then inspires people to act.
I think that's the key to being a great communicator – like all of the famous people I met or listened to in my time in DC so far. And that, ultimately, is what I want to be. I want my writing to not only point out problems but lead the way to solutions. To engage people and move them to action. I don't know in what form I will do that, but I look to Bill McKibbon and others for that continuing encouragement that it is possible.
Although the people I've seen have been famous (some more than others), each encounter I had with them was so much more than celebrity-spotting. All of them had an emotional impact on me because of the role they've played in my own life. In the same light, I look forward to my next anticipated spotting – the inauguration. Where I, with an estimated three million other people will welcome Barack Obama, who has inspired many, including myself.
current mood: musical
current music: The video of Running Down a Dream
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| Sunday, January 4th, 2009
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4:20 pm - Adventures in DC, Part II - Writers and Artists
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One of the fascinating things about living in a big city is that there is a plethora of famous people passing through. While living here, I've managed to either see or meet several of them. Bizarrely, contrary to expectation in this city, none of them have been politicians. While most of them I planned on seeing, a couple were completely coincidental!
The first, and one of the most anticipated, was Neil Gaiman. We went to the National Book Festival, a annual event on the Mall established by former librarian Laura Bush. Along with lots of book exhibits, like a life-sized Magic School Bus (which I would have toured if I had time), the festival features talks by some of the most prominent and well-known authors in every genre imaginable. Neil Gaiman was speaking in the Young Adult category, but they also had Salman Rushdie, Brad Meltzer, Laura Bush herself, Daniel Pinkerton, and Jan Brett among the dozens of speakers. Quite a lineup! I had wanted to see Jan Brett speak, but we arrived in the middle of her talk, and the children's area had security galore for Laura Bush's earlier speech. Instead, realizing that I would like to buy Gaiman's Graveyard Book for him to sign – although we had brought 1602 as well – I sprinted to the book tent, near the other end of the Mall. I dodged people and leaped over puddles, attempting to avoid the muddiest patches from the rain earlier that day. Reaching the tent, I grabbed a copy of the Graveyard Book – available there before it was released to stores – as well as Jan Brett's new book for Mom's classroom and got in the long, winding line. Chris caught up to me, and after listening to Brad Meltzer speak, wanted to buy his new book as well. Lots of books! By the time I reached the checkout, it was only two minutes before Neil Gaiman's speech was to begin. So began the sprint all the way back to the Young Adult tent, where I started.
Huffing and puffing, Chris and I reached it just in time to grab a space near the back. I had to stand on my tiptoes at times, but I was able to see the stage for the most part. In his lilting, but softened, British accent (he's lived in America a long time), Gaiman talked about his recent travels to China, his creative process, and how he came up with the idea for the Graveyard Book. The best story he told was about how he was visiting an obscure archaeological site in China, the only tourist there, and there was a vendor selling all sorts of ridiculous junk. Thinking that Gaiman wasn't going to buy the junk, the vendor pulled out a small box. Although he spoke little English, he indicated that this was the most prized and valuable of the goods he was selling. And so he opened it to show Gaiman – a human elbow. It most likely was something he scrounged from the archaeological dig, and was obviously not supposed to have. Of course, Gaiman turned it down, but he wondered, what was the history of that bone? How did the man end up with it, and what would bring you the point where you were selling human remains to tourists? The fact that his work is driven by these sort of questions, and result in such fantastical and yet human answers is why I love his writing. After a bit, he read a chapter from the Graveyard Book, where the main character, Bod, asks his friend (who happens to be a dead poet) for advice. The poet goes on and on, giving absurdly florid, useless advice. It was a very good passage to read, because it didn't require much explanation, didn't give much away, and was very funny. He finished the presentation with a question and answer session. I actually came up with a good question about the difficulties of switching between artistic forms (like novels/comics/movies), but despite my jumping up and down, didn't get called on.
Just as he finished, Chris and I sprinted back to the other end of the Mall to get in line for the signing. We knew that loads of people had probably been in line for at least an hour or so, but so much as I wanted Gaiman's autograph, I wanted to see him read more. As it turned out, we were the last ones in the first signing line. They cut off each line after 200 people, and there ended up being four lines in all! I knew he always makes an effort to sign each and every person's book – like the Manics, one of the reasons I like him so much is his deep appreciation for his fans – so I felt very, very sorry for him. Especially because through his blog, I knew he had broke his thumb only a few days earlier. As we stood, and stood, we (mostly I) talked to the people around us. In front of us were two interesting pairs of people. Two were middle-aged guys, one of whom was getting the book for his daughter, who adored Neil Gaiman. Sadly, he knew nothing about him. The other pair were two college students, one of whom was actually a published fantasy author. They were both huge Gaiman fans and the author one had actually hung out with him at a convention. They were both very nice, but the author guy seemed a little batty. He reminded me a little of Matt Kent, actually. Telling lots of crazy stories, some of which have to be true and others not are, but it's impossible to tell which are which. He said he had gotten absolutely no sleep in the last several days, and wandered away at one point to find a bar. For all of his wild and crazy attitude, one thing really cracked his “cooler than thou” bubble for me. He described how he was going to get soooo drunk for his birthday, and was going to go to Union Jack's in Bethesda. Except I know that bar – a goofy, inaccurate ripoff of a British pub – is incredibly not cool. Behind us, there stood a Book Festival volunteer marking the end of the line. She was around our age, and worked as a contractor for the National Security Administration compiling news documents about potential security threats. Bizarrely, while discussing our jobs, the guy next to us engaged us in a very ranty conversation about how nobody respects the government and public services and everyone thinks we do a crappy job, and how if they knew about young people like us maybe it would change their mind, yadda, yadda, yadda. Playing a bit of devil's advocate, I tried to defend the attitudes of the general public, but eventually gave up and just let him rant. After that weird little interlude, I talked to the volunteer again and found out that she also lived in Parkside! I got her e-mail, and keep meaning to e-mail her. I really am going to, because she was pretty cool.
Finally, after two hours of waiting in line, we got to Neil Gaiman's little booth. Chris and I approached, I with the Graveyard Book, he with 1602, to get signed. In my head, I went over and over what I was going to say to him. I didn't want it to be like when I met John Cleese, and couldn't say anything intelligent at all. He made some comment about my name, and I stuttered an answer and that was it. This time, I was determined to make my five seconds worthwhile. At the table, Gaiman's assistant stuck a sticky note on the book indicating who to make it out to, and then we were talking to Neil himself! He was exactly how I imagined him to be – happy to be talking to us, although a little tired from signing. He said he was happy to meet us, and I told him that I used the scripts in the back of 1602 to teach myself how to write my graphic novel. I figured it was something unique to say, and he would be happy to hear that it benefited other writers. He was, and said he was glad it could be of help. Chris didn't really say anything, unfortunately. As Gaiman talked to us, he sketched in our books – a gravestone in mine, and a very swirly signature in Chris's. We smiled, said thank you again, and stepped out of the way. As it turned out, fantasy author boy returned from the bar in time, and gave Gaiman a copy of his book “for Maddie” (Gaiman's daughter). His cool exterior melted away as soon as he saw Gaiman, and he was thrilled that Gaiman remembered him.
Our second celebrity encounter was entirely unplanned. At 2 PM on September 30, the Odyssey Day alternative fueled vehicles event, which I planned most of, had just ended. The entire time, from 7 AM until 2 PM, I had been running around like an idiot, trying to keep everything moving and everyone happy. Because I had worked so hard leading up to and on the day (even skipping lunch when everyone else went out!), Linda told me to take the rest of the day off! Then, she told Chris to take me out and “make sure she has a good time.” As I was starving, we went to the closest restaurant we could think of, Vie de France. Over lunch, Chris told me what he had done all day while I was running the show – hanging out at the Smithsonian Museum of Natural History. Lucky bastard. Although he didn't want to go back that day, he thought I might want to see a huge mural outside the museum. Schoolchildren around the world created them, and they were being displayed to celebrate the opening of a new ocean hall. As that sounded cool to me, we took a detour on our way back to the Metro Stop.
Reading the introductory panel for the mural, I realized its significance. The entire thing was Wyland's100th mural! Wyland is an artist, who has dedicated himself to painting giant – often life-size – murals of whales and other marine life. To communicate his conservation message to as large of an audience as possible, he paints them on the sides of large buildings around the world. In my travels around the U.S., I've seen Wyland paintings in Alaska, California, Maine, and Florida. As I've loved marine mammals since I was little, I naturally became a fan. I even have a coffee table book of his paintings. Although there are other artists who do similar work, I always liked his focus on conservation and public education. So when I saw this set of murals was the culmination of his life-long project, it piqued my interest even more.
The mural – actually a set of connected panels – was huge, running down much of the main section of the Mall. Wyland had painted the backgrounds and large creatures on each canvas. Then, the students filled the open water with any fish or marine creature they could imagine. I even saw Spongebob and friends! But there was a sincerity to them that you don't usually see in group projects done by older kids. They very much reminded me of the huge mural of marine life we did at Karigon to decorate the cafeteria. I have this distinct visual memory of sitting at the cafeteria tables that constituted our art room, with the materials up on the stage. Working so hard to get that whale just right. Singing along with the Billy Joel tape River of Dreams with Lynzie and Tom. It's one of my best – and clearest - memories of elementary school, in fact.
Finally, we came to the end of the mural – and made a fantastic discovery. There, standing on a ladder in front of the very last panel, on camera, Wyland was signing his name in the top-left corner of the painting! He mostly looked as I expected him to – like an older, obviously laid-back but still passionate hippie, with paint-splattered coveralls. Of course. What other kind of person would go around painting whales on buildings? From what we could tell, he was finishing the very last piece of the mural on camera for a Smithsonian television/video special. We, along with only a few other people, stood and watched him sign the piece. A few minutes later, he climbed off of the ladder and came to mingle. A little boy had something for him to sign, but there appeared to be few other fans. So I just stepped up to him and said, “Thank you for your work. You've been a great inspiration.” He nodded, said thanks, and then said something that baffled me briefly. I can't recall his words, but I realized he thought I was part of the Smithsonian crew! And at that moment, I deeply wished I was. Despite not having that professional connection, I was very glad to just be able to say thanks. Much like with Neil Gaiman, and last year with the Manic Street Preachers, I found just saying thank you in person to be a very powerful thing. I know they must hear it constantly, but I know if I were them, I would be so happy that my work had a positive impact on someone's life. Because in communication, that's what it's all about. Talking means nothing is nobody listens, or worse still, if they listen and are unaffected. I wanted Wyland to know that he had inspired and influenced me. His paintings reinforced my belief in conservation, and more importantly, they illustrated the importance of art and communication in the environmental movement. Which directly influenced my own career path. I only hope that one day, my writing can have the effect on people that his painting has. He's shown me that you have to think big – really big.
---- Because this post is so long, I'm going to post the second part shortly, so I don't completely clog up people's friends lists.
current mood: calm
current music: Commentary on football on TV
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| Thursday, January 1st, 2009
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11:00 am - A season of festivities...
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Happy New Years everyone!
We had a very relaxed New Years Eve this year, especially compared to last year. Around 8:30, we met Josh, Greg A (and his date, May), Drew, and Dave at Suzie's, a little bar on Lark Street in Albany. We often go there because it's uncrowded, but we were quite surprised when we saw how very uncrowded it was - we were almost the only people there! After several drinks, lots of talking, and one very long game of darts, we moved over to Cafe Hollywood at 11 PM. Despite the fact that Hollywood is always packed, we were able to get a table downstairs. We think the 6 degree weather (with the wind chill significantly lower!) kept people away. I know every time we were outside, I was wondering why the hell we were there in-between body-shaking shivers. At midnight, the bar passed around little cups of champagne, and then gave our table a bottle to finish because there were so few people there. It was awful stuff. Shortly after midnight, Fitchett showed up at the bar. He - amazingly - arrived in Albany Airport at 11:50 and drove to Lark to be with us. Very classy. As we were hungry and nothing was going on at Hollywood, we ate some hot, greasy pizza at Dinos, and headed over to the Gregs' house. After sitting around for a while, watching TV and talking, who should show up but Greg B and Christine? (Greg B does live there, so not that surprising, but happy coincidence.) Then, we headed home. A lovely, laid-back evening in all.
In other holiday news, we had a very good Christmas and a weird Thanksgiving. We went to Aunt Linda and Uncle Rick's house for Thanksgiving, where we always went when I was a kid. But over the years, the attendance has dwindled to the point where it was just my parents, my aunt and uncle, Chris and myself. Then my uncle wouldn't come sit down at the table, because he was watching the National Anthem on TV for some bizarre reason. So all of the food was a little cold. And then their neighbors came over and in the middle of what I thought was a conversation about my job, this exchange occurred:
Me: Well, we will eventually run out of oil, so it is good to have some alternatives on hand.
Neighbor: More oil has been appearing though, so the earth must be producing more of it.
Chris: Sometimes oil seeps from cracks into wells that appear dry, so it looks like there's more oil there, even though more hasn't been produced.
Neighbor: Yes, but we've already pumped out more oil than the earth should have been able to produce over time.
Me: Over the course of millions of years, there's been so much organic matter, that there's been enough to produce that oil, even though it seems like a tremendous amount.
Neighbor: Well, that depends on how old you believe the earth is. And if you believe in carbon dating.
(Chris and I and my parents stare at the neighbors with a befuddled look on our faces.)
Chris: Well - (cut off by my punching him under the table and mouthing 'Shut up!')
Me (with an overly cheery smile): Different people do believe different things. How was your holiday?
It was the most bizarre transition I think I have ever experienced in a conversation. Normally, I would have jumped right in to a lively discussion, but not on Thanksgiving night with my aunt and uncle's neighbors. Mind you, I knew my aunt and uncle (mind-bogglingly) don't believe in evolution but I never expected that conversation to go there.
Christmas was much better though. We had an Italian extravaganza for Christmas Eve dinner at the Sheas', with their friends and my parents. We opened Christmas pajamas there, then went over to my parents, where we slept over. The next morning, we opened presents at my parents' house and then ate delicious cream-cheese stuffed french toast. We then went over to the Sheas', opened presents, and welcomed my parents to join us for the Christmas feast. Lots of food, presents, and holiday cheer. Followed by playing the Wii, as my parents gave it to Chris for Christmas. Sadly, my mom had the lowest Wii Sports "Age" among us - 59. All of us were pretty bad, but watching Mama Shea "box" was truly a site to behold.
This holiday just reminded me how much I love that Chris's and my parents (thank you Jess for correcting me on this - I actually looked back at your comment for the correct grammar!) get along so well. So many people have in-laws that don't like each other or just don't want to share. But we had a fantastic time. And everyone loved their presents.
As I failed to post my traditional Christmas scripture entry, I will instead post a hopeful New Year's link. This is an entry by Slacktivist, one of my favorite bloggers, about something that should be a resolution on everyone's list: http://slacktivist.typepad.com/slacktivist/2008/12/clean-shoes.html.
I hope all of my friends have a great start to 2009!
current mood: content
current music: Silence, besides the typing
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| Wednesday, December 3rd, 2008
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11:05 pm - Adventures in DC Part I - Visitors and Explorations
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Chris and I have lived here for almost six months so far, and found that DC can be pretty exciting. Not day to day, of course. A job is a job, and mine is not edge-of-your-seat adventure. That’s okay. But DC is a big city, and I’d never lived in a big city before this. And big cities do have their advantages.
One of the advantages is that people like to come visit you. Now, I’m sure our parents would still come visit us even if we lived in the middle of nowhere in the Midwest. But I doubt those visits would be as often or nearly as interesting.
The first visit we experienced was from my parents, who came for July 4. As they had never seen our place before – the Sheas helped us move down only a few days earlier – just seeing it was their main motivation. But we did go to the legendary July 4th extravaganza as presented by our nation’s capital. As we knew it was supposed to be crazy-crowded, we travelled into DC early in the afternoon, far before the fireworks. Thankfully, the Smithsonian was holding a huge annual event on the Mall – the Folklore Festival. The Festival is a celebration of different “folk” cultures, although their interpretation of “folk” is pretty broad. This year, it ranged from Bhutan (sure), Texas (um, okay), and NASA (what?). But all three of the exhibits were enjoyable, well-done, and very educational (yeah, I’m a huge nerd, I know).
But so much as we wanted to tour the exhibits, we also wanted to have a spot to keep our blanket. So we switched off, with Chris and I leaving first. We started at the Bhutan exhibit, which featured an actual Bhutanese temple that they bestowed upon the U.S. as a sign of friendship. It had started raining lightly at that point, but we stood in line anyway because it just looked that cool. And it was! It was small - probably the size of a double-wide trailer - but the inside was intricately painted. The walls each told a story, with pictures colored in vivid red, gold, and blue. The style was similar to Indian art, with lots of swirls, elaborate backgrounds, and fantastic-looking gods. There was a monk in the temple there to answer questions, so of course, I asked him what the stories were about. I think he said that one of them was about the founding of Bhutan and all were traditional stories. It was wonderful listening to him in his lilting accent, sharing these sacred texts with me. I don't remember the details now, but do remember the explanation illuminating the paintings. Like the tour guide I would be in another life, I then told Chris about each of the stories, pointing out the progression. As I did so, one of the tourists asked me if I was with the exhibit, and befuddled, I said, "No? I found out from talking to the monk over there." He was so quiet and calm that people just didn't notice him.
Within the Bhutan exhibit, we also saw some beautiful sand mandalas - like the art projects you'd make in elementary school, but incredibly elaborate. In the same craft area, there were some Bhutanese girls demonstrating how they made potpourri out of dried herbs that grow only in their area of the world. The herbs were displayed in bowls, and people gathered around to sniff them. A couple of teenage girls were next to me, probably the same age as the Bhutanese girls. While the Bhutanese girls went about their work in a quiet, almost shy way, the American girls brashly talked about how some of the ingredients smelled "gross." Although I had some contempt for the American girls at the time, I wonder how they'd be if their roles were switched. Perhaps if they were just hanging out, the Bhutanese girls would be just as ridiculous as the American ones.
We went back to the blanket, allowing my parents to walk around a bit. In our next venture out, we walked around the NASA exhibit, which was showcasing a demonstration of a grappling device used on the Mars rover. It didn't seem all that impressive to me for some reason. Much cooler was a student-created prototype of a moon buggy/bicycle, which they later showed off on a rugged test course. A model of a potential living area for other planets was pretty imagination-inspiring as well. It looked related to a bouncy-bounce, but the white blow-up room was actually designed to be living space for two people. Being inside it for a few minutes was fine - especially since it protected from the rain - but I could never imagine living in such a small space! Listening to the guide talk about some of the struggles they've had designing it was pretty enlightening too, especially because he was so passionate.
At some point, we were all back at the blanket, and it started raining much harder. We abandoned our spot, after so much effort to save it, and tried to find food and shelter. Since we had no idea what was near the Mall, we went to the Texas food booth and found a bit of bench space under a tent. Thankfully, the heavy rain slowed while we were eating. Once we were finished gobbling down our food, we walked up to the Capitol to see if there was any chance of getting into the July 4 Concert. No - absolutely not. As the line was ridiculously long, we wandered through a bizarre religious fair - who knew Hare Krishnas were still around, and so well organized? We finally settled with our blanket on a patch of grass far from our original spot, and annoyingly close to a church youth group playing soccer.
After many, many hours, we finally got to see the fireworks. Honestly, I was a little disappointed. First, they were so built up that anything short of knock-you-backwards explosions would be a let-down. Secondly, we were really, really far away. They weren't even that loud where we were. And third, I don't know that they were all that impressive. I think the ones in Albany are probably just as good, and despite the madhouse that is the Empire State Plaza, not nearly so crowded . Of course, I'm spoiled because the ones in Clifton Park used to be awesome for just a town display. (Stupid new development.) But I was glad to see them, and glad that we came. Despite the weather, it was a great day.
The rest of the weekend wasn't nearly as eventful. The first day, we brought my parents to see the monuments. My mom insisted on finding the giant statue of Einstein, which we had happened to see on my very first trip to Washington, when I was in 4th grade. As it turns out, it's right across the street from the Vietnam Memorial, in this little hidden garden. Although the garden was very different from how I remembered it, Einstein was exactly the same. Huge, bronze and friendly-looking. Actually being able to understand the significance of some of the inscriptions – they each related to one of his major theories – made the experience even more fulfilling. The last day of their trip was the least exciting, as we spent most of it shopping for a couch.
The next person to visit was Drew, who has been using our relocations as a guide for his vacation destinations – last time, he visited us in Oxford. Unfortunately, both times I was unable to spend much time with him. Last time, it was right around my exams, and this year, he was here during the week, when I had to work. Conveniently, Chris didn't have a job yet, and he preferred to show Drew around than apply for jobs. They did the Grand Washington Tour of the monuments, the Smithsonian museums, and even the International Spy Museum (which I was very jealous of). One day, I met them for lunch at the Museum of Natural History - yay, dinosaurs! - and then we had dinner together at Bertucci's near George Washington University. Another night we went out to dinner at Union Jack's, a completely ridiculous "British" pub in Bethesda that is so fake it's painful. It made me long for the Turf Tavern and King's Arms. I wish I had more time to spend with Drew when he was here, but it was great to see him. He thinks he might return for the inauguration, bringing along Dave this time. If they do come, it should be particularly interesting, as Melissa and Mama Shea are also visiting then.
In fact, our next visitor was Melissa. Unlike Drew, she had visited D.C. a number of times before, visiting her ex-boyfriend who went to Georgetown. Luckily by her visit, I also had a little bit of vacation built up, so I was able to take half of a day off. We met for lunch at this nifty cafe near the National Gallery that Linda showed me when I went out with her to lunch. The cafe itself has okay but pricey gourmet food, but is surrounded by a beautiful sculpture garden. It has a fantastic fountain with benches around it, and these giant, quirky modern-art sculptures. There's an original Parisian art-deco Metro sign, a giant typewriter eraser, a flat optical-illusion house that slowly rotates, and a bunch of hanging metal boxes that reminded me of the golden Mario boxes. From there, we went to the National Gallery, upon my recommendation. Touring the Impressionist gallery reminded me of both the Musee d'Orsay in Paris (Monet, Degas) and the Hudson River Valley (the Hudson River School artists). The first time I was at the National Gallery I learned something I never knew about Degas paintings, that totally changed my view of them. As it turns out, the ballet dancers in his paintings were not well-respected artists. They were merely the "light entertainment" before the opera. As a result, many of them found other "employment," mostly as the companions of the wealthy men who frequented the opera. So much for innocent, cute ballerinas! But my favorite painting in the gallery is a Mary Cassatt painting of a little girl sprawled out on a chair, totally uncaring how she looks, but looking extremely cute. After taking in the Impressionists' smudged, glorious colors, we moved on to a temporary exhibit by a modern artist. Chris and I had been through it previously in our first trip as well, but Melissa wanted to check it out, so in we went. The artist made huge sculptures, mainly out of wood and rope. The first time, the only thing that struck me was that one of the sculptures reminded me of a giant version of the cage at the end of the game Mousetrap. The second time around, I actually think I grasped the meaning of some of the sculptures a bit more, and was less likely to dismiss them as weird for the sake of weirdness. Having the exhibit guide, with the artist's own explanations, helped quite a bit too. I still ended up spending half my time trying to figure out what description lined up with which sculpture. The last exhibit we went to was "Treasures of Afghanistan." As it turns out, near the beginning of the Taliban's reign, Afghan archaeologists hid a huge number of priceless, ancient artifacts. For the first time in decades, they had been brought out to the public and displayed for a short time only. Besides the artifacts themselves, the story - like something out of Indiana Jones - was captivating. Scholars fighting against the forces of ignorance and extremism, protecting ancient secrets and knowledge! The pieces themselves, which told the story of several eras of Afghanistan, were also fascinating, especially as I've seen artifacts from the same time, but different cultures. The most memorable was jewelry dug up from a specific set of excavations. One showed the gold - including that from a dress - laid out in a glass case, as they would have been laid out on the woman herself they excavated. You could imagine her lying there, bedecked in her finest clothes, ready to proceed to the underworld. Another displayed the carved headpiece and coins that accompanied one man to the grave, along with three women who went with him. Although we didn't get much of a chance to see more in the other building of the National Gallery, I do want to return there. While we were walking from there, Melissa actually told us about a piece of original art she received. One of her friends is an artist, and gave her a piece for her birthday. I thought that was incredibly cool.
From there, we went to the National Botanical Garden, a huge greenhouse filled with plants from around the world. The middle houses a convincing jungle, with towering trees and a catwalk. Around the jungle, there are sections representing different biomes and plant types - desert, medicinal, Hawaii, ferns, etc. Outside the garden itself, we walked around the native and local plant garden, offering me the opportunity to talk about my job and cellusoic biofuels. Melissa seemed somewhat interested, but I tried to keep it brief for everyone's sake. As we were walking around, she also noted the fact that whenever she visits D.C., they are always cleaning out the pool outside the Capital, making it look horribly ugly and bare.
That night, Chris made some of the best eggplant Parmesan I have ever had in my life, and I am an eggplant parm connoisseur. I order it at practically every Italian restaurant I eat at. And it wasn't just me - Melissa thought it was crazy-good too. I think Chris's homemade sauce makes a big difference.
The last night Melissa was here, we went to a Nationals baseball game with her college friend Jackie, who now is a teacher in Baltimore. Despite the fact that the Nationals are the worst team in the history of baseball, and I really don't like baseball, it was fun. Walking around the totally new stadium (which the Nationals refuse to pay rent on), we saw a kid singing karaoke to “Mr. Brightside,” people throwing baseballs in throwing booths, lots of bar patrons on their way to being heartily drunk, and giant, squishy versions of George Washington, Thomas Jefferson, Abe Lincoln, and Teddy Roosevelt. The Presidents are the Nationals mascots, and always run a “race” before each game. No matter what, Teddy always loses. That day was free t-shirt day, so we each received shirts that proclaimed “Run, Teddy, Run!” Since Teddy was mobbed, I had Chris take my picture with Giant Abe. It was goofy, but they were so cute! The game itself was fairly uneventful, but the first couple of innings were entertaining. It seems that my attention span lasts about half as long as any one sports event, whether a football or baseball game. Having Melissa and Jackie there made it more fun as well. They were having a grand old time, drinking beer and eating hot dogs.
The last trip was a reprise trip from my parents. As I thought my mom would enjoy both locations, we made another trip to both the Botanical Garden and National Gallery. But the highlight of the trip was the International Spy Museum. After listening to Drew rave about it, I was prepared to either be disappointed or in nerd delight. Even after waiting in line for 20 minutes, I was excited when we stepped out of the elevator. Then, when they told us to memorize our “secret identities,” I thrilled at committing my “new” name, birthplace, destination, and purpose of travel to memory. In the next room, there was a computerized quiz where they asked you for the information, and then asked additional questions that required a bit more thought. For example, if they asked you “How are you travelling?” and you said by rented car, they would ask you where you were renting the car. They gave you choices, but if you waited too long to choose or gave an answer that sounded wrong, the customs person became more suspicious of you! It was really engaging. Then, at the very end of the museum, they asked you slightly different questions about your identity yet again, providing a nice conclusion. I did well on both of them, but mom did miserably on the last one because somehow she managed to skip the first computer quiz. Besides the secret identity, there were loads of other interactive activities. There was an area where you could crawl through an air vent and listen to the people in the room below. If you made too much noise, an alarm went off! (Sadly, the people I was with were super-loud.) Similarly, there were a lot of “spy skill” games based on the computer, such as picking out what person was in disguise and spotting what areas might be drop spots. Despite the focus on play, the museum was surprisingly informative. There was a lot of information, especially about the history of spying. Who knew that Julia Child was part of the agency that preceded the CIA? The founding fathers had a lot of spying going on, and recruited a lot of famous writers to skillfully draw information out of the new country's friends and enemies alike. Interestingly, many of the spies – especially those during the Cold War – were just fed-up bureaucrats who wanted money for their information. One couple were not just double, but actually triple agents! The crazy thing about the museum was that it didn't seem that big, but as soon as you turned a corner or exited a room, there was another exhibit. And another. And another. Not surprisingly, as I read everything in every exhibit, everyone else finished far ahead of me. But I finally caught up to them and we got dinner at the microbrewery across the street.
Although I stress out about it and they don't always come at the most convenient time for me, I do enjoy it greatly when people visit. I love playing tour guide, I love sharing the places I enjoy, I love living somewhere neat enough for people to want to visit, although I know they mostly come to see us. So, if you are friends with me, I invite you to come visit! Just let me know ahead of time – it could be a little awkward otherwise.
current mood:  sleepy
current music: Chris talking to Melissa on the phone
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| Thursday, November 6th, 2008
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11:22 pm - Hope and change and love, all courtesy of public transit
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While coming home from work today, I got on the last car of the subway. I heard people singing, and turning around, I saw three black kids - probably in their late teens or early 20s - at the back of the train getting their groove on. They were rapping, knocking on the window, dancing, and tapping their feet, all in perfect time. And they were melodically singing, "Who'd you vote for? O - O - Obama; I voted for O-O-O-Obama." Then, still using "Obama" as a chant, they'd switch up the tempo and rhythm. It was such a pure expression of joy that all I just smiled and smiled. It was truly awesome.
So when I walked out the door, I said, "Hey, you guys are good!" They smiled and waved, and went back to their freestyling.
Sometimes, I love living in a city.
current mood: cheerful
current music: Daily Show with Jon Stewart
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| Tuesday, November 4th, 2008
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11:08 pm - My new boss has won....and I helped!
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I voted today!
And now, my civic duty (along with all of that canvassing in Virginia - winning by 11% in Prince William's County!) has paid off. I just felt things were going right as I ate my Imagine World Peace free ice cream cone on the way to pollwatching. It is a beautiful, glorious night.
Congratulations Future President Obama!
current mood:  tiredly ecstatic
current music: Cheering in on CNN
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| Saturday, November 1st, 2008
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8:52 pm - All of our actions take their hue from the complexion of the heart, as landscapes their variety from
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Washington D.C. is not a very friendly city. It's not quite as bad as New York, but it does share the phenomena that everyone looks like they have somewhere Very Important to be. Certainly More Important Than You. As a result, no one ever seems to be smiling except for the tourists. In fact, the two nicest people I see walking from the Metro stop to my building are the guy handing out Express newspapers (the abbreviated version of the Washington Post) and the homeless minister sitting on a raised bench-thing next to the sidewalk.
The Express guy always says, "Just keep on smiling!" with the rest of the greeting appropriate for the week (for Monday, "You're gonna have a great week!" and for Friday, "Last day till the weekend!"). Even in the rain, when the people handing out the Express at the Grosvenor station are hiding under the station's roof and understandably looking miserable, he's standing outside the Smithsonian station, grinning away. Curiously, the newspapers are also never wet.
In a lot of ways, the homeless minister is similar to many DC homeless guys, but his personality sets him apart. He sits on a mess of newspapers, with a beat-up suitcase next to him, filled with who-knows-what. He always has a mug of hot coffee and a cardboard sign that says "Veteran, please help." But the thing that makes him stand out from the others is that he's relentlessly positive. Most of the homeless people look pathetic - helpless and a little creepy. You're never sure the sort of reaction you are going to get from them. But he is proactive in an incredibly hopeful way. No matter if you give him money or not, he always says, "Good morning! Isn't it a lovely day?" If he's talked to you before, he adds a "Thank you, sister!", "God bless!", or "I'll pray for you!" Once, he handed me this little slip of paper talking about the 15th year of some sort of ministry. I honestly had no idea what it meant, but was glad that it seemed like he had some purpose in life.
With both men, cynics would think their attitudes were put on. That they expressed themselves in that way because they were trying to get something from the streaming crowd of pedestrians. But I can tell that their friendliness is genuine. While insincere friendliness creeps me out, my natural reaction to both of them has always been a smile.
As a result, I've developed a curious, lovely relationship with both them. For the lift they bring to my morning - I am not a morning person - I feel I owe them something in exchange. So in the morning, I always make sure to take a paper from the Express guy and wish him a happy morning back. I'm not sure if he's paid by the number of papers handed out or not, but I figure I can show some appreciation for his efforts. So many people pass by him, seemingly unaffected, that I figure some emotional support is better than nothing. For the homeless guy, I offer to buy him something for breakfast about once a week. At first, I wanted to bring him something for breakfast, and couldn't decide on what would be good. It seems a little weird to just walk up to someone and offer them an apple, you know? Then, I realized that I should just ask him what he wanted. After all, there are two different food carts near my building, and there was certainly something there he would want. And, not surprisingly, he did. So I've bought him sugar-free cookies, diet sodas, and chips at different times. Once, when I was on my way to the farmer's market down the block, I even bought him back a cucumber! In the process, I've found out that he has diabetes and his preferred vegetables are tomatoes and cucumbers. I think it's more than I know about some of my co-workers. He's been gone most days lately - probably because of the cold - and I do miss him a bit.
Each of us has different things that help us get through our day. While most people ignore them, these two men shine a little more light onto my day, and I thank God (and them!) for that small blessing in this sometimes cold city.
current mood: calm
current music: Led Zeppelin - Living Loving Maid (She's Just A Woman)
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| Thursday, August 7th, 2008
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11:00 pm - There's no place like home, there's no place like home...
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So Chris and I are finally, completely moved in. We still don't have a couch, but we've ordered one. Next up is a desk, which Chris is in the process of assembling right now on our living room floor. Then a bedroom set, but that's not an emergency situation. But it took a long time to get to this point.
As I mentioned previously, this whole Washington D.C. job came up very quickly. The Presidential Management Fellowship process took much longer than I would have preferred, but once the Department of Energy had my information, they moved quickly. They called me, did a phone interview, and invited me down to D.C. I was going to Maryland anyway for the Wild Goose Chase Bicycle Ride with my mom (another story in and of itself...), so we planned to be in the area for another night. Although the interview wasn't the walk in the park that I expected - it sounded more like a "let's show you around the office" than "let's ask you loads of questions with two other people in the room" - I did well. At the end of it, they told me that I was their number one candidate. Shortly after, they officially offered me the job, and Chris and I began to plan our move.
We came to DC to look for an apartment the first weekend after Chris left his job. Unfortunately, it was already into June. We planned on looking in three places - Bethesda, MD, Arlington, VA, and Alexandria, VA. We didn't want to look in D.C. because of its bad reputation and our complete and utter lack of knowledge about the city. It would be different if we knew what neighborhoods were safe, or at least knew someone who did. But everyone we knew lived in Virginia or Bethesda. Unfortunately, in doing our research, we also discovered that everything in Arlington that looked half-decent (at least according to the renters on ApartmentRatings.com) was way, way out of our price range. So that idea was ditched. That left us with Bethesda and Alexandria. Bethesda I was only interested in because Karen and Graham (the house-sitting people) knew a real estate agent there. People said it was a nice area - very expensive, but nice - but it didn't intrigue me. Fun, vibrant Old Town Alexandria sounded much more appealing. So we gathered information on a bunch of apartment complexes to visit, made some appointments and were on our way.
Unfortunately, we had to fly down, despite my green guilt. Alas. After arriving, our first apartment was with the Bethesda realtor, Eleanor. Only a few minutes into the appointment, I knew I liked her. She was straight-talking - sometimes a little much, in fact - funny and knew what we wanted. She pointed out the variety of restaurants, yuppie (any ethnic cuisine on the planet) and non-yuppie (the greasy spoon all-night diner) alike. And the very first apartment she showed us was perfect. Mostly, at least.
It was 1000 square feet, one of the most spacious we looked at. It had a completely renovated kitchen - granite countertops, gas stove, the works. Chris was in his element. The bedroom and living room were both very large, and it had a walk-in closet. There was even a balcony! Best of all, it was only $1500 including utilities! (I know that is absurdly expensive, but everything there was. It was actually within our price range, whereas comparable apartments were certainly not.) The only issue was that it was in the Promenade, a rather ritzy high-rise. The lobby looked like an expensive hotel, with stiff upholstered chairs and ornate chandliers. The apartment charged you a move-in deposit of several hundred dollars, just in case you smashed their floor-length mirrors with your furniture. And all of the residents we saw in the lobby appeared to be above the age of 60. But the high-rise lifestyle did have its perks. It included a beautiful gym with indoor pool, an outdoor pool, a convenience store, a travel agent, and a hair salon (!). We decided to look at other apartments as well, but were pretty sure that it couldn't get any better than this.
And, unfortunately, it really didn't. She brought us to a couple more places, but one was nice but much more expensive, and the rest didn't meet our standards. For the most part, the apartments themselves weren't bad, but the kitchens were awful. The Promenade and the next complex we looked at were both built in the 1960s, and it was clear that some of the kitchens hadn't been updated since then. One even had an oven built into the cabinets! Chris said that we'd be lucky if we could fit a chicken in it, much less a Thanksgiving turkey. Obviously, people eat out a lot in DC.
Despite our excellent luck with the first apartment, we didn't want to commit to it before carrying out the rest of our appointments. I still found Bethesda's downtown highrises lacking charm, and hoped that Alexandria had more character. Well, it did, but at a price. That morning, we had an appointment with another real estate agent who was not nearly as enthusiastic or helpful as Eleanor. In fact, he told us that he wasn't doing this to help us, but as a favor to the condo owners. He even went so far as to strongly suggest that we make this speedy if we weren't serious, because he wasn't getting paid much for this! Thanks a lot, sir. The stuff he showed us was pretty underwhelming anyway. There was a decent-looking garden-style condo, but it was the same price without utilities as the beautiful Promenade apartment. And his big pitch on that one was that it was near a strip mall with "everything a small town would have in it." But, you know, still a strip mall.
Leaving him and his thorough lack of enthusiasm, we drove to downtown Alexandria, upon which I laid all my hopes for a metropolitian lifestyle. After grabbing a quick bite to eat and a smoothie to ward off the oppressive heat, we visited a complex for which I had high hopes. After all, it was in Old Town Alexandria and it was actually affordable! What could be better? We were greeted by a little old lady, who was terribly nice. She showed us a good sized apartment, that was pretty decent except for one thing - of course, the kitchen. It wasn't that old, but it was tiny. There was nowhere to move, much less actual counterspace. And the entire complex was a little worn-out looking, honestly. So, sadly, I bid goodbye to that option. Next up was my last Alexandria possibility, advertised as a brownstone walkup. At least from the outside, it looked like it had character. The inside had character, but no space. The kitchen somehow was even smaller than the last one, and the living room was teeny. I don't think you could fit both a couch and another chair in it, much less a desk. The bedroom appeared to be a good size, but it was hard to tell with it cluttered with the current resident's huge bed and mess of clothes. It might have been good for the current just-out-of-school bachelor, but it wasn't suitable for us at all.
So, disappointed with the city's offerings, we walked down its main street before our last appointment, back in Bethesda. And I finally understood what people meant when they compared Old Town Alexandria to downtown Saratoga. Driving around Old Town, we couldn't get a good sense of it. The buildings were historic, either brownstones or old colonial (really colonial) buildings, but a lot of them weren't in great shape. It wasn't automatically charming like I thought it would be. But the main shopping street, King Street, piled on the charm. Lots of local restaurants, little boutiquey shops, and a shockingly expensive movie theater. After walking up and down the street, I convinced Chris to pop into A Thousand Villages, a shop that specializes in selling fair-trade goods.
But just as we just about to walk back to the car, it started pouring. And when I say pouring, I mean the sky was falling from its lovely place above us straight onto our heads in the form of rain. We could hardly see across the street. As we were standing in the doorway, befuddled, the helpful shopgirl said, "There's the bus, you can take that!" Enthused at the idea of avoiding the crazy baseball-sized raindrops, we sprinted to the bus. Just crossing the sidewalk, we still managed to get quite wet. After fussing with our dollar bills, we sat down. A minute or two passed. And then we realized that the bus had long since passed our car. Shit. That seems to be a common word in our travel vocabulary, quite honestly. Thinking about the issue, we realized that the bus probably stopped at the Metro station. So we asked the couple in front of us if the bus made a loop, and turned around at the Metro station. They said yes. Feeling fairly confident, we figured that if we just stayed on the bus for a few more minutes, we would end up passing the car again. At that point, we certainly didn't want to get out any earlier than necessary. The thunder and lightning had joined in on the party in the sky. A bolt of lightning even hit a transformer as we drove by, causing it to burst into a shower of sparks. The bus pulled into the Metro station, stopped, pulled around the parking lot - and continued to go in the same direction. Shit! That word again. That's when we really started to get desperate. We had no idea what to do. Panicking slightly, I suggested that we get off at the next stop, and wait for a bus to take us the opposite direction. Partly because I was getting wild-eyed and partly because he didn't have any other ideas, Chris agreed, and we got out. We had absolutely no idea where we were, other than knowing that we were very far away from our car.
Looking at the bus station sign, we realized the next bus wasn't for another 40 minutes. Really getting wacko now, out of a combination of frustration and desperation, I insisted that we just start walking. The rain is done now, right? What harm could it do? We could just catch the bus at another bus stop further down, right? Chris attempted to talk some sense into me, but it was useless. I was walking, whether he was or not. Anything to regain a sense of control, anything to do something. So we walked. And walked. And walked. And then it started raining again. And thundering again. And we had no idea what to do, except yell at each other. And we had no idea where the hell we were other than lost, lost, lost.
Then, our guardian angel appeared. We have truly benefitted from the kindness of strangers more times than I thought was ever possible. But last time we had been picked up in Ireland, land of the friendly and ridiculously hospitable. Alexandria, VA would be last place I would expect it. But here was a car pulling over, with the driver waving, inviting our wet, sorry selves into his dry, warm car. He was a young/middle-aged, professional-type. It was clear that he had young children, as there was a car seat next to me and toys scattered all over the backset. But what struck me most was something I try to hold myself above noticing - his race. He was black. I wondered what would have happened if the situation was reversed - if it was a white guy, would he have picked up 2 arguing black kids? And of course, we were in Virginia. What about 40 or even 30 years ago? Would a black man have been too scared to pick up two white kids, afraid they might attack him? Even today, race is still a huge issue, as cable news never ceases to remind us in their presidential race coverage. The whole thing just reminded me about how far we've come, and yet how much further we have to go, knowing that we probably would have been prejudiced against or scared him if the circumstances were different. Regardless of the past or present, we were both terribly, terribly grateful for his simple act of kindness.
After thanking him profusely, we ran from our guardian angel's car to our own. It was raining again, and we had a moment of heart-stopping panic when we tried to open the door and it didn't work. Quickly, we realized it wasn't our car. Of course. Finally finding the rental car, I called the people we were supposed to meet for our last appointment. It was 3:58 and our appointment was at 4:00. It was about an hour's drive away. Thankfully, she accepted my explanation that we were lost - really lost - and would be there in about an hour.
Arriving there after some frustrating driving (all driving in the DC area is frustrating), we found the place and nearly sprinted to the front door. Trying to look respectable and pleasant, we met the wife of the couple who owned the condo. She led us up a flight and a half of stairs, and showed us around. It was a nice enough place, a good price with utilities included, and best of all, was only a short walk to the Metro. We smiled, asked our questions, and ended our quest.
That night, we called Eleanor and told her that we had actually decided on the very first appointment. She checked with the owner....and there was just one problem. Another couple had also expressed interest. But they hadn't yet turned in their paperwork. So the next morning, we met with Eleanor in that extravagant lobby and hurriedly signed all of the paperwork, confident in our decision. But just in case, we called that very last apartment we visited in Bethesda, having it fresh in our mind. We wanted to have a backup, after all. Unfortunately, the owner there told us that she too had another person interested in it, so we had to make up our minds quickly.
Shortly after, our minds were made up for us. As we killed time walking around Washington DC, Eleanor reported back to us. The other interested couple had not only turned in their paperwork and security deposit, but had even back-paid two weeks worth of rent! Over $700, just to get the apartment. We knew that we couldn't top that. Besides, even if we did, who was to say that it wouldn't just become a very expensive game of chicken? So, slightly resigned, we called the last owner back to tell them that we were going to take their apartment. We promised to get all of the paperwork and the security deposit to them as soon as we got home.
So that's how we ended up with our apartment. Although I was whiny about losing the other one for several days afterwards, we really like this one. It's a nice size, has a pretty good kitchen (gas stove!), and a good shape. We're right next to the pool, and our street is beautifully tree-lined. Also, the fact that I can walk to the Metro is a really fabulous thing. I think I would have gotten sick of waiting for the shuttle very quickly. My walk is even through a (very tiny) nature preserve. And we're down the street from a bicycle trail that I'm now taking once a week to work.
I don't know what our life would have been like in the Promenade, but there's no doubt it would be different. Whether it would be worst or better? I really don't know. But what I do know is that we're happy here. And now, as soon as Chris finishes gluing and nailing the many, many, many pieces of our "requires assembly" desk together, we'll have our first piece of new furniture.
In the meantime, ( here are some photos of our apartment, pre-desk... )
current music: Chris grunting as he's putting together the desk and REM
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| Friday, June 27th, 2008
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1:31 am - "Many men do not understand that the need for fellowship is really as deep as the need for food."
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Being appreciated is wonderful. I’ve felt appreciated a lot lately.
About a week and a half ago, I had my last day at the DEC. They had a lovely picnic at the Corning Preserve as a going-away party. Although they generally have some kind of Division summer gathering each year, the idea that they were at least partially doing it for me was heart-warming. Especially because people brought such good food. And few things show love as well as good, homemade food. (Chris’ eggplant salad was a big hit in particular.) Then, a great deal of the party consisted of people telling me how much they enjoyed working with me and would miss me. To top it all off, my editor Dave gave a funny, complimentary speech comparing him and myself. (“Shannon and I have many things in common … much to her dismay. As I’m sure you all know, we share an alma mater. Shannon graduated summa cum laude. I … graduated. Shannon really likes to drink tea. I really like to … drink. Shannon went to graduate school at Oxford. I was born in Oxford, Ohio. Extraordinary, isn’t it?” Etc. etc.) He then presented me with a pile of presents – a box of vanilla tea (I was always wandering by his desk with it), and several books. Perfect, perfect, perfect. It made me almost want to cry in gratefulness for having the opportunity to work with these people.
Since then, Chris and I have spent much of our time packing. Now, Chris is not great at packing. He tends to lack the focus needed for such an ambitious project. But he sees what I do and does truly appreciate it. He’s been telling me it that for the past two weeks straight. Even when I get frustrated with him for his lack of focus, his admiration and gratitude for my hard work makes me smile.
Similarly, I spoke to Magnano on the phone a few days ago. He’s been suffering the agonies of a long-distance relationship, which I certainly empathize with. At the end of the conversation, he said that just talking to me helped him feel better.
Then, tonight, I attended a meeting for the Albany Bicycle Coalition. I’m writing an article for Metroland on bicycle commuting and so attended the local advocacy group’s monthly gathering. And like many meetings I attend, I stuck around afterwards talking to people. One of the member’s husband’s finally came to meet her there, and she introduced me to him. After several minutes of conversation between him and myself, she said to him and me, “Isn’t she wonderful? You’re so much fun to talk to!” Just that one comment made me feel so good that I smiled the whole way home, despite not having eaten dinner and having the person at Friendly’s spill an ice cream sundae on my foot.
I think I’ve been so deeply affected by these comments because I tend to internalize them more than other people. I also tend to take negative comments to heart more than other people. I wouldn’t say I’m that “sensitive” – I tend to be confused by typical “girl” behavior – but I take personal comments very seriously. I have since I was a little kid. As a kid, the unfortunate thing was that reacting to negative comments just attracted more negativity, since bullies love making fun of kids who are visibly hurt.
Somewhere along the way, I internalized that negativity. I came to interpret light teasing or even neutral comments as judgmental and purposefully hurtful. It’s to the point where I even tend to defend my actions to imaginary critics.
In addition, another element further complicated this issue. Most of the positive comments about me revolved around my intellect. These two strange factors interacted to make me nervous about appearing dumb in some way, and yet resentful that people only know me for my studious habits. (That wasn’t imagining things – I was elected “Most Studious” senior year of high school, even if it wasn’t necessarily true.)
As a result, when someone appreciates me for all of me – not just my smarts or work ethic – and tells me that, I find it incredibly satisfying. I know that my family and friends love me, but it’s simple to let that fact get away from me. Especially because it’s shockingly easy to convince myself that they just love me because they have to, or that they’re somehow strangely prejudiced.
So to receive compliments on all sides – from work, Chris, Magnano, and nearly a complete stranger – has really bolstered my confidence in the past few days. It’s funny, because I didn’t even realize it until now. Looking back on all of these makes me think that perhaps God has opened my eyes to these for a specific reason. I think He’s drawn my attention to events that I find easy to dismiss because I need this strength right now. Preparing for the move to Washington D.C. was initially nerve wracking. I was really stressed-out at first – it all seemed to happen so quickly. But the last two weeks, I’ve been surprisingly calm. Things have just fallen into place mentally and emotionally. It’s still tough to leave our friends and start over once again, but I do believe that Chris and I are supposed to be down there for some reason or another. So I think my receptiveness to this emotional outpouring will give me the confidence and strength I need to approach this new challenge with a sense of adventure, rather than fear. And that's something I definitely appreciate.
current mood: calm
current music: Chris watching TV in the background
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| Saturday, May 17th, 2008
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5:13 pm - "Good takes the gold. Evil gets the silver at the most." - Websnark
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Or... Expectations, Characterizations, Icons and Superheroes.
As a full-blown nerd, I spend a lot of time thinking about things that other people never think about in their entire lives. This is especially true of comics. As I am writing a comic and read a lot of webcomics, I think pretty in-depth about their construction and storytelling. But usually, I think very little about superheroes, as I tend not to read those books (Watchmen and Dark Knight Returns nonwithstanding). However, after watching Iron Man a few weekends ago, I had a rather impassioned argument with Drew about superhero comics and their advantages or lack thereof. Unfortunately, it was 3 AM and so the conversation degenerated into us yelling the same sentences at each other over and over again by the end.
The next morning, I actually had a clear head and was able to think much more logically about the conversation. I realized that we were both making very different points, which didn't necessarily contradict each other. The problem was that we were using the same vocabulary to describe our two different points and so misunderstanding the other person's argument. Considering both of the sides, I came up with a thesis about storytelling in comic books that I think deftly summarizes both of our points: Superhero comic books create wonderful icons, but poor characters. The problem that arose in our argument was that we were conflating those two very different ideas.
To me, icons are simpler than characters. Icons represent something that can be summarized in only a few words or phrases, whether it is responsibility (Spiderman), vengence (Batman, Punisher), overcoming prejudice (X-Men), or pure good (Superman). They have only a few defining characteristics, but those are always constants. Peter Parker will always be a sarcastic nerd. Superman will never kill someone in cold blood. Wolverine is angry and impulsive. As a result of this combination of representation and simple characteristics, it is easy to identify with an icon. Everyone understands the things they stand for, even if we will never have our parents killed or be a mutant. Weirdly, icons' universal appeal also means that everyone can then cast their own aspirations and dreams on them. As a result, icons become something bigger than a character alone. They become embedded in people's own perceptions of themselves and society's perception of itself. Icons are inherantly immortal - even if the character dies off, they will live on in people's memories. And icons don't even have to be fictional for this to be true. After all, Uncle Sam was a real person, and the idea of Uncle Sam certainly didn't disappear with his death.
However, icons simply lack the one thing that defines a character: a complex "inner life." Characters, like real people, have their personality and choices influenced by everything that has ever happened to them. They have fears, dreams, and conflicts, even when those are not explicitly expressed. As a result, their life history is essential to their being. If that background is changed - or they find out it is different than they believed - their entire character changes. This is why amnesia is so frightening to people - losing your memories erases who you are. (Similarly, it is why the slow discovery of Cloud's true history in FFXII is so affecting. Cloud definitely changes when he finds out he's not who he thought he was.) You become someone else without your history. Correspondingly, characters evolve and progress as a story does. Everything that occurs in a story influences how they act later. That is why sometimes writers say that their characters are the ones writing the story, not them. I've definitely had times when I've written something and then gone back and changed it because "Tabitha wouldn't do that!" It is also why stories usually suck that have flat, overly-simplistic characters. Because of this complexity and mortality, death deeply affects characters. Even in the rare circumstances where there is a chance of them coming back from death, it irrevokably affects them. They become someone else through near-dying or death. Although extreme, Gandalf's appearance after dying is a perfect example of this. Oddly, Gandalf actually becomes more of an icon after resurrection. All of his quirks are gone, replaced by the Unquestionable Good. (Also, Tolkein really liked icons and iconography.)
Drew actually reinforced this contrast in my head with an e-mail he sent me shortly after our conversation. In it, he compared superheroes to sports teams. Specifically, he said, "Over time though, much as there are new and old Packer fans, there are new and old Spider-man fans. And that is where the emotional connection with the character exists. ... Much as you associate your favorite teams with other events in your life, you do the same with your favorite heroes. And when the team is doing poorly, you hope that it gets better. That said, you always want to see what happens next, good and bad. Overhauls don't always work out. ... But it's how the character (team) stays relevant and viable." What really struck me was how much he saw a superhero as a symbol, rather than a person. That's a perspective that I would never have never previously thought of when thinking about a character in a novel or movie. I do associate certain books and movies with periods in my life, but mainly because of the deep emotional connection I felt with that character. I felt that book spoke something to me, at that time and place. That character mattered to be because of Who They Were. I cared about that character at an almost spiritual level, as if I was having a relationship with a real person. (Not that people don't do that with superheroes, but not in the context that Drew is talking about). Rather, Drew is seeing them as an entire football team. Football teams don't have inner lives, even if the people within them do. They have storylines, certainly, but their motivations are simplistic and easy-to-grasp (namely, to win), not complex in the same way as an individual's would be. And to a fan, the inner lives' of the players don't matter, because that's not the point of the football team. I'm sure Packers fans hope that Brent Favre has a nice life, but do they really care about his inner struggles? Not particularly. (Unless they result in entertaining behavior, but that's more about the spectacle of athletes than the fan's relationship with a team.) It's just a totally different perspective - not necessarily better or worse.
Now, if you like characters more than icons, the inherant structure of the superhero comic book industry means that they can never have good characterization. For one, the most popular comic books have been going on for 60 years. I think it is near impossible, if not actually impossible, to have a character grow and evolve in a way that makes both emotional and narrative sense for 60 years. Much less at the rapid pacing that superhero comic books have. If you actually followed a character in real-time, year by year, maybe it could work. It could show their entire life, from their childhood into retirement. But right now, years worth of events happen each real-time year and our good heroes aren't even pushing 40! (Or in the case of Spiderman, were recently reverted back to the ripe old age of 19!) As a result, superheroes keep going over the same ground and same dilemmas, and same conflicts over and over and over again. It is true that people often deal with the same problems year in and year out, but never exactly in the same way. Whereas it seems like superheros problems have never changed over time or really resolved themselves. There's no moving forward emotionally, no apparent change in "inner life."
This problem is further compounded by the number of writers and artists that work on each series. If too many cooks spoil the broth, too many writers make for bad characters. Again, having multiple writers might have the potential to be okay if they knew the previous work inside-out, or collaborated with the previous writers to guarantee some consistency. This I think is why television shows with multiple writers can work, such as The Wire. There's no question that whoever wrote the season one finale (which is excellent, by the way), even though it was his first episode, consulted the creator of the characters. You can tell from the dialogue that he had an innate sense of the tone and the feel and inner life of those characters. Plus, on TV, there are actors that make a character's expressions and tone of voice consistent, even when the writing may not be. However, most writers of superhero comics have the direct opposite approach when they write. They are not interested in continuing the creator or another person's version of the character. Instead, they want to make their individual mark on the character, make them who they want them to be, no matter what has come before. Which is understandable. I know with my characters, I hear their voices in my head, express their emotions on my face, and make their gestures with my hands as I write them. But when many, many, many different people have different views of the exact same character, it actually results in many different characters who all just happen to share a name and look. In the end, it's impossible to make any emotional sense of what has happened. So for a new writer, why not just make them do things out of character as long as they don't violate that core principle that they symbolize?
And that's not even speaking of retcons, which stands for retroactive continuity. For those of you who aren't comic book nerds, this is when a writer completely changes something in the characters' past to whatever they want. (There is an excellent essay on the varied kinds of retconning and their effectiveness or lack thereof at Websnark.) In some cases, it (almost) makes sense. For example, in the Ironman movie, they changed that Tony Stark was captured in Afghanistan rather than Vietnam. Okay. Since the movie was set in the current time period, this makes perfect sense. Besides, they are telling the story from the beginning in movies, so they can build upon that background from now on. In contrast, most of the time retconning in comic books is being done to a character's current backstory, changing something that already happened to them. What I hate, hate, hate about this is that a character's backstory and history is everything they have. Everything that has happened to them affects who they are and shapes their world and mental/emotional landscape in a specific way. By changing that backstory, it should change the emotional landscape of the individual. Sometimes providing a new perspective on an existing backstory can work - it can make a character whose actions didn't make sense or wasn't sympathetic, now make more sense or be more sympathetic. But most of the time, it's a major change that's done strictly because the writer wants to bring back an old girlfriend (he really was still in love!), didn't like that their favorite character had been killed off three years earlier (they were really being held in cryogenisis), or whatever illogical, poorly-thought-out plot wankiness they wish to engage in. For example, in the aforementioned retcon with Spiderman, the writer decided that Peter Parker and Mary Jane's marriage never occurred and that Spiderman was going to be 19 again - because he wanted him to be a swinging single! What?!? (Again, Websnark takes the cake for having an excellent discussion of this storyline. Interestingly, one of the commenters makes the same superhero/sports team analogy.)
Now, you might ask why this creative laziness makes me so angry. It's just comics, right? But as a writer, I believe that characters and readers deserve better. Even though my characters really only exist in my head (and other people's once they read my comic), they deserve to be able to act out their lives in the ways that make sense to who they are. As a result, they have an emotional weight to them, which is what readers deserve for the time put into their reading of the book. (As for the 'it's just comics' argument....it's an art form, not just a genre, thankyouverymuch.) And this is why I simply can't read superhero comics continually. Sure, I read individual storylines or individual books. I believe characterization can and does occur in individual chunks. For example, Batman in Frank Miller's The Dark Knight Returns is unquestionably a character who changes and evolves throughout the story. Neil Gaiman's versions of the Marvel characters in 1602are also characters. And both are very good stories. But in the long run, the characterization is just too all-over-the-place for me to really engage with a superhero over the course of many, many issues and years. When I read, I need to feel that relational connection, that in-your-head feeling that you just can't get with an icon.
Fortunately, this is just my personal quirk. Because icons are important, and perhaps even essential, in our society. There's a reason superheros are so incredibly popular, and not just because they beat up bad guys. We need mythical heroes. We always have. The Greek gods are the prime example of mythical heroes - they each stood for something, had a simplicity to them that most of the people in the stories didn't. Later on, in American history, came George Washington and Davy Crocket. Real people, yes, but people whose actual inner lives and doubts get lost in childhood stories and simplistic historical retellings. And this is where I initially didn't get what Drew was talking about. I didn't understand why he was insistent on saying, "You cannot kill Superman! You just can't!" I thought he meant that the comic book industry would fall without superheroes, which seemed silly to me. But in reality, that part of it was only part of the much bigger point he was making. He was saying that these characters matter in our society. They are our heroes and our villans and the stuff that culture is made of. They are what generations bond over. As he said, a Dad may pass on a Spiderman comic book to his son, regardless of what has happened to the character in the past. They have a role that connects real-life people together, that we can look to as a barometer of culture, and that allows us some kind of strange common language.
Thankfully, these days I have the luxury of interacting with these superheroes, as both icons and sometimes characters, without having to follow them forever and ever. They have become so entrenched in our society that you don't have to read them monthly to know about them, to be familiar with their adventures and exploits. I'll stick with my characters and storytelling in the long run, but it's nice to know those icons are there. And I'll continue to welcome their superpowered presence on my bookshelf when good writers choose to tell their characters' tales.
current mood: academic
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