Tuesday, May 31, 2005
Pocket Change.
A couple of months ago, I started a savings account, the first one I’ve had since I was saving up to live in London between my junior and senior years of college. The time before that, I was saving up to visit London, my senior year of high school. And the time before that, I was hoping to buy a car.
This time, I have no idea what I’m going to use the money for, and it’s scary. Every time I’ve had extra cash sitting around, something unexpected happens. My rear intake manifold valve goes on strike. Or I accidentally bounce seventeen checks in a row (ah, Christmas of 2003, how I adore thee). So I’ve been compiling a list of possible uses for the $80 sitting in my tidy savings account.
I could pack up and move somewhere. That’s what eight of my closer friends are doing (or at least considering). By the end of the summer Ohio’s Brain Drain will result in a mass exodus to Cleveland, North Carolina and New York City. It’s rather ironic, as I was the one who announced in early 2003 that July 1, 2004 would be my "Get The Fuck Out Of Ohio" date. Turns out that others took that more seriously than I did.
I could get off my ass and consider Grad School. That, of course, would require a decision. Sociology, Anthropology or Non-fiction Creative Writing?
I could return to my first love of Photojournalism. Buy a good camera and remember how to shoot with a machine that is not a cell phone.
I could travel. I haven’t been anywhere new in two summers. I’m teetering between a road trip to San Francisco to deliver stuff to Mollie and Scott, and a jaunt to Europe to visit various friends living, working and traveling this summer. Maya?
At any rate, I have to make a decision soon. Otherwise my massive savings will be used on something silly, like new tires or emergency room bills.
I’m taking suggestions, and the voting polls are officially open now.
A couple of months ago, I started a savings account, the first one I’ve had since I was saving up to live in London between my junior and senior years of college. The time before that, I was saving up to visit London, my senior year of high school. And the time before that, I was hoping to buy a car.
This time, I have no idea what I’m going to use the money for, and it’s scary. Every time I’ve had extra cash sitting around, something unexpected happens. My rear intake manifold valve goes on strike. Or I accidentally bounce seventeen checks in a row (ah, Christmas of 2003, how I adore thee). So I’ve been compiling a list of possible uses for the $80 sitting in my tidy savings account.
I could pack up and move somewhere. That’s what eight of my closer friends are doing (or at least considering). By the end of the summer Ohio’s Brain Drain will result in a mass exodus to Cleveland, North Carolina and New York City. It’s rather ironic, as I was the one who announced in early 2003 that July 1, 2004 would be my "Get The Fuck Out Of Ohio" date. Turns out that others took that more seriously than I did.
I could get off my ass and consider Grad School. That, of course, would require a decision. Sociology, Anthropology or Non-fiction Creative Writing?
I could return to my first love of Photojournalism. Buy a good camera and remember how to shoot with a machine that is not a cell phone.
I could travel. I haven’t been anywhere new in two summers. I’m teetering between a road trip to San Francisco to deliver stuff to Mollie and Scott, and a jaunt to Europe to visit various friends living, working and traveling this summer. Maya?
At any rate, I have to make a decision soon. Otherwise my massive savings will be used on something silly, like new tires or emergency room bills.
I’m taking suggestions, and the voting polls are officially open now.
Monday, May 23, 2005
One Line Rant.
What is the point in having health insurance if no doctor will accept you as a patient?
What is the point in having health insurance if no doctor will accept you as a patient?
Thursday, May 12, 2005
Sick.
I caught a cold in between New York and Ohio. It could have been the excessive drinking and very little sleep in the Big Apple. It could have been the climate change between cold, wet New York City and hot, humid Columbus, Ohio. It might have been the 12+ hours sharing breathing space on mass transit on Sunday.
Whatever the reason, I feel like crap. And my self-prescribed medication of Tylenol and cheesecake doesn't seem to be doing the trick.
To answer the "How Was The Wedding / Trip" inquiries:
• Jose and Jessie's ceremony was beautiful. Her grandmother officiated and they weren't the only ones crying.
• The food at the reception was fantastic. I was particularily impressed with the Beef on a Stick. All foods taste better on a stick and I found myself cutting in line more than once to sneak a few extra pieces for myself.
• Maya and I camped out at a tapas bar on Friday night and ended up making friends with a married couple. It all started when they offered their chorizo. We closed the evening playing euchre in their swanky apartment on the upper east side. (We countered the chorizo with some asparagus and ended up splitting two bottles of cava. Talk about Fair Trade.)
• I spent more than an hour looking at the Botanical Gardens in Prospect Park. Basically, the gardens boast plants* and animals that I can see within twenty minutes of my house, if not in my own backyard. But nonetheless, they're always more impressive in a big city.
• Once more, I spent half of my trip asking myself (or explaining to others) why I don't live in New York City. I still don't have a definitive answer, but I do know some things. I like having a backyard, even if my neighbors park their cars and hold bonfires in it. I like knowing that I could quite possibly own my own place at some point. And as selfish as it is, I like knowing that I can make a difference. It's hard to feel that way in a place where one out of every two people is a better designer / writer / photographer / thinker than me. But I do love the food.
*With the exception of the bonsai. But even the stuff in the greenhouses can be seen at Franklin Park Conservatory.
I caught a cold in between New York and Ohio. It could have been the excessive drinking and very little sleep in the Big Apple. It could have been the climate change between cold, wet New York City and hot, humid Columbus, Ohio. It might have been the 12+ hours sharing breathing space on mass transit on Sunday.
Whatever the reason, I feel like crap. And my self-prescribed medication of Tylenol and cheesecake doesn't seem to be doing the trick.
To answer the "How Was The Wedding / Trip" inquiries:
• Jose and Jessie's ceremony was beautiful. Her grandmother officiated and they weren't the only ones crying.
• The food at the reception was fantastic. I was particularily impressed with the Beef on a Stick. All foods taste better on a stick and I found myself cutting in line more than once to sneak a few extra pieces for myself.
• Maya and I camped out at a tapas bar on Friday night and ended up making friends with a married couple. It all started when they offered their chorizo. We closed the evening playing euchre in their swanky apartment on the upper east side. (We countered the chorizo with some asparagus and ended up splitting two bottles of cava. Talk about Fair Trade.)
• I spent more than an hour looking at the Botanical Gardens in Prospect Park. Basically, the gardens boast plants* and animals that I can see within twenty minutes of my house, if not in my own backyard. But nonetheless, they're always more impressive in a big city.
• Once more, I spent half of my trip asking myself (or explaining to others) why I don't live in New York City. I still don't have a definitive answer, but I do know some things. I like having a backyard, even if my neighbors park their cars and hold bonfires in it. I like knowing that I could quite possibly own my own place at some point. And as selfish as it is, I like knowing that I can make a difference. It's hard to feel that way in a place where one out of every two people is a better designer / writer / photographer / thinker than me. But I do love the food.
*With the exception of the bonsai. But even the stuff in the greenhouses can be seen at Franklin Park Conservatory.
Friday, May 06, 2005
New York Free-bie.
I took a train from Long Island to Brooklyn this evening and I saw an entire parking lot filled with ice cream trucks accompanied by a sign that said, "Ice cream trucks for sale."
It makes one think.
I took a train from Long Island to Brooklyn this evening and I saw an entire parking lot filled with ice cream trucks accompanied by a sign that said, "Ice cream trucks for sale."
It makes one think.
Thursday, May 05, 2005
New Shirt.
I admit that my posts (while more frequent) are melancholy these days. So I'll lighten things up with this.
I just saw my friend Allen getting dressed in the Target parking lot.
"Hey," I said, as he buttoned his new stylish shirt over a plain white t-shirt. "Are you getting dressed?"
"Yeah. I had too much to drink last night and I felt like a slob, so I got a new shirt."
"It looks nice."
"Thanks."
"Well. Have a good day."
It was a simple transaction that did not need explanation. None at all.
I admit that my posts (while more frequent) are melancholy these days. So I'll lighten things up with this.
I just saw my friend Allen getting dressed in the Target parking lot.
"Hey," I said, as he buttoned his new stylish shirt over a plain white t-shirt. "Are you getting dressed?"
"Yeah. I had too much to drink last night and I felt like a slob, so I got a new shirt."
"It looks nice."
"Thanks."
"Well. Have a good day."
It was a simple transaction that did not need explanation. None at all.
Wednesday, May 04, 2005
Shallow Waters.
When I was a junior in college, I spent some time hanging out with my Scriptwriting professor. I was in this class that was supposed to be about drawing inspiration from reality and smooshing that into a neat little screenplay. In my mind, I was Woody Allen. I looked for irony and filed it in a folder for a script that would never be written. I didn't learn much about writing for the cinema from Tom, but I did learn how to taste wine, play soccer, stay up all night discussing classical music, and listen to tapes of T.S. Eliot reading his poetry. And I learned that I was an asshole.
It was a bohemian dream. I was so full of myself, so determined that I had an insight to culture and life that none of my peers could possibly understand. It's
no wonder that not one of my five roommates from that year talks to me. I was a pretentious nightmare.
Tom (the professor) would meet with his students individually, and talk to us about our writing, our lives. We wouldn't meet in the classroom; that was dull. We would meet in public places. Bar patios. Coffee shops. Places with real people and life. Perhaps his plan was that we'd draw from the lively world around us, that a bar patio can be more educational than the fluorescent lighting of a classroom.
I thought I was so deep. But I was shallow and superficial. And he called me out on it. He told me not to be a dilettante. After some confusion between the words "dilettante" and "debutante", I brushed aside his comment. I continued to favor "high art" over the experiences that everyone else in college seemed to be having. Keg parties were for the simple-minded. I was perfectly content smoking cigarettes and pretending to understand *The Wastelands* and the differences between Chardonnay and Sancerre.
Now, with a little experience, I can look back and laugh at myself. I was completely alone. And I didn't know anything. I now know the difference between Chardonnay and Sancerre. And I know their similarities, too. For example, both make me chatty and both give me heartburn. And I know that I never did understand *The Wastelands,* that I thought that the tape was boring and the wooden floor that I sat upon while listening to it was very hard.
I write this because I've been hanging out with some college kids, and I see a little bit of me in one of them. He loves wine, but only knows the jug wines. He
loves jazz, but is only familiar with the big names. And I must admit that had a little superior laugh inside, when I realized how misguided he is about the depth of his knowledge. But then I realized that my transparency was just as vibrant to Tom. He didn't stop exposing me - or anyone else - to culture after that conversation. He kept feeding us with knowledge, and encouraging us to be different.
Somewhere between Scrabble games in socialist coffee shops and making signs that advertise a sale on Coca-Cola products, I picked up on humility. And people like humility. Otherwise Woody Allen wouldn't be an *auteur*. And, sadly, fart jokes wouldn't be universally funny.
When I was a junior in college, I spent some time hanging out with my Scriptwriting professor. I was in this class that was supposed to be about drawing inspiration from reality and smooshing that into a neat little screenplay. In my mind, I was Woody Allen. I looked for irony and filed it in a folder for a script that would never be written. I didn't learn much about writing for the cinema from Tom, but I did learn how to taste wine, play soccer, stay up all night discussing classical music, and listen to tapes of T.S. Eliot reading his poetry. And I learned that I was an asshole.
It was a bohemian dream. I was so full of myself, so determined that I had an insight to culture and life that none of my peers could possibly understand. It's
no wonder that not one of my five roommates from that year talks to me. I was a pretentious nightmare.
Tom (the professor) would meet with his students individually, and talk to us about our writing, our lives. We wouldn't meet in the classroom; that was dull. We would meet in public places. Bar patios. Coffee shops. Places with real people and life. Perhaps his plan was that we'd draw from the lively world around us, that a bar patio can be more educational than the fluorescent lighting of a classroom.
I thought I was so deep. But I was shallow and superficial. And he called me out on it. He told me not to be a dilettante. After some confusion between the words "dilettante" and "debutante", I brushed aside his comment. I continued to favor "high art" over the experiences that everyone else in college seemed to be having. Keg parties were for the simple-minded. I was perfectly content smoking cigarettes and pretending to understand *The Wastelands* and the differences between Chardonnay and Sancerre.
Now, with a little experience, I can look back and laugh at myself. I was completely alone. And I didn't know anything. I now know the difference between Chardonnay and Sancerre. And I know their similarities, too. For example, both make me chatty and both give me heartburn. And I know that I never did understand *The Wastelands,* that I thought that the tape was boring and the wooden floor that I sat upon while listening to it was very hard.
I write this because I've been hanging out with some college kids, and I see a little bit of me in one of them. He loves wine, but only knows the jug wines. He
loves jazz, but is only familiar with the big names. And I must admit that had a little superior laugh inside, when I realized how misguided he is about the depth of his knowledge. But then I realized that my transparency was just as vibrant to Tom. He didn't stop exposing me - or anyone else - to culture after that conversation. He kept feeding us with knowledge, and encouraging us to be different.
Somewhere between Scrabble games in socialist coffee shops and making signs that advertise a sale on Coca-Cola products, I picked up on humility. And people like humility. Otherwise Woody Allen wouldn't be an *auteur*. And, sadly, fart jokes wouldn't be universally funny.
Tuesday, May 03, 2005
The Tightrope.
So I'm headed to New York for a wedding this weekend. I suppose that the timing is perfect; a weekend out of town should get my mind off of things around here. Work isn't thrilling as of late, I'm failing miserably at getting young folk to the Library and, well, of course there are the issues with The Boy. I can't think of a better time or way to run away from my problems.
Yeah, there's nothing I look forward to more than spending eleven hours in transit (I bought the cheap tickets) by myself each way. I probably won't even remember that the empty seat next to me in all four flights was supposed to be filled by The Boy. And watching the wedding vows of friends will be lovely. It most likely won't even cross my mind that The Boy was the only person who has (soberly) mentioned the M word to me without flinching.
There's a fine line between self-pity with a side of binge drinking and self-assurance with a side of faith.
I'm going to have to forget about both sides of the line, I'm afraid, as I will be preoccupied with pulling a story for Rated Rookie out of my ass somewhere between Columbus, Ohio and Brooklyn, New York. This is going to be some fine writing. Pulitzer quality. For sure.
So I'm headed to New York for a wedding this weekend. I suppose that the timing is perfect; a weekend out of town should get my mind off of things around here. Work isn't thrilling as of late, I'm failing miserably at getting young folk to the Library and, well, of course there are the issues with The Boy. I can't think of a better time or way to run away from my problems.
Yeah, there's nothing I look forward to more than spending eleven hours in transit (I bought the cheap tickets) by myself each way. I probably won't even remember that the empty seat next to me in all four flights was supposed to be filled by The Boy. And watching the wedding vows of friends will be lovely. It most likely won't even cross my mind that The Boy was the only person who has (soberly) mentioned the M word to me without flinching.
There's a fine line between self-pity with a side of binge drinking and self-assurance with a side of faith.
I'm going to have to forget about both sides of the line, I'm afraid, as I will be preoccupied with pulling a story for Rated Rookie out of my ass somewhere between Columbus, Ohio and Brooklyn, New York. This is going to be some fine writing. Pulitzer quality. For sure.
Monday, May 02, 2005
It's Only Life, After All.
I generally choose to date men that fall in the "unattainable" category, and I mean "unattainable" in the physical sense of the word. Yes, many of the men that I date are emotionally closed off, but that's not my driving force. I find myself enamoured with suitors who live too far away and who are in a completely different age range. I choose men that I will never take home to meet my parents.
It's a defense mechanism, a way to elude love and the pain that comes with it. The reason it "didn't work out" was written before I entered into the relationship. Safety net.
The Boy and I broke up yesterday, and it had nothing to do with circumstances. I can't blame distance in miles or age. I can't blame difference in lifestyle or mindset. He's my age. We both live in Columbus. We went to the same high school. Our parents' kitchens are decorated with country-themed motifs. Ducks and stuff. We've met one another's parents. My dad affectionately calls him "Guy." (As in, "Hey Guy, how's it going? I'm going to punch you lightly on the shoulder now because hugging you would be too weird, but that's what I really want to do, because now we know for sure that Jill's not a lesbian. Maybe in the future we'll play golf together.")
The Boy was attainable. Which was the scariest part. Vulnerability.
And, save not really wanting to eat, I'm not devastated right now. I'm not mimicking my other mourning practices. I'm not rocking back and forth in the fetal position, listening to the Indigo Girls, like I did when I was 18. I'm not at a bar, cursing
his existence and wishing bad things upon him like I did with the last relationship. (One so short and shallow that it didn't even make its way on to the almighty Blog.) I'm not even drinking mimosas with the girlfriends and analyzing all of the bad ways that he treated me, building my confidence with "good" vs. "bad" lists about his personality traits.
Basically, our break-up can be summed up in the cliché, "If you love someone, set them free."
I've never been able to do that in the past. I've clung on until it's unbearable. Until my disappointment turns to hate. By daring to have a romantic relationship that wasn't doomed from the start, I learned about sacrificial love. I now know how parents feel, and I understand what the protagonist in war movies feels before he dies for his country/beliefs/woman. I know why Pa gave the last piece of bread to Laura and Mary and the girls instead of saving it for himself during that blizzard. I know what motivates Mel Gibson's character when he screams "Freedom" before getting murderized at the end of *Braveheart.*
Yeah. I'm okay. Not ecstatic, but not slitting my wrists, either. It's not as bad as I feared it would be for all those years. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't mind one of those nights with mimosas and the Indigo Girls. But I can live without "good" vs. "bad" lists.
I generally choose to date men that fall in the "unattainable" category, and I mean "unattainable" in the physical sense of the word. Yes, many of the men that I date are emotionally closed off, but that's not my driving force. I find myself enamoured with suitors who live too far away and who are in a completely different age range. I choose men that I will never take home to meet my parents.
It's a defense mechanism, a way to elude love and the pain that comes with it. The reason it "didn't work out" was written before I entered into the relationship. Safety net.
The Boy and I broke up yesterday, and it had nothing to do with circumstances. I can't blame distance in miles or age. I can't blame difference in lifestyle or mindset. He's my age. We both live in Columbus. We went to the same high school. Our parents' kitchens are decorated with country-themed motifs. Ducks and stuff. We've met one another's parents. My dad affectionately calls him "Guy." (As in, "Hey Guy, how's it going? I'm going to punch you lightly on the shoulder now because hugging you would be too weird, but that's what I really want to do, because now we know for sure that Jill's not a lesbian. Maybe in the future we'll play golf together.")
The Boy was attainable. Which was the scariest part. Vulnerability.
And, save not really wanting to eat, I'm not devastated right now. I'm not mimicking my other mourning practices. I'm not rocking back and forth in the fetal position, listening to the Indigo Girls, like I did when I was 18. I'm not at a bar, cursing
his existence and wishing bad things upon him like I did with the last relationship. (One so short and shallow that it didn't even make its way on to the almighty Blog.) I'm not even drinking mimosas with the girlfriends and analyzing all of the bad ways that he treated me, building my confidence with "good" vs. "bad" lists about his personality traits.
Basically, our break-up can be summed up in the cliché, "If you love someone, set them free."
I've never been able to do that in the past. I've clung on until it's unbearable. Until my disappointment turns to hate. By daring to have a romantic relationship that wasn't doomed from the start, I learned about sacrificial love. I now know how parents feel, and I understand what the protagonist in war movies feels before he dies for his country/beliefs/woman. I know why Pa gave the last piece of bread to Laura and Mary and the girls instead of saving it for himself during that blizzard. I know what motivates Mel Gibson's character when he screams "Freedom" before getting murderized at the end of *Braveheart.*
Yeah. I'm okay. Not ecstatic, but not slitting my wrists, either. It's not as bad as I feared it would be for all those years. And to be perfectly honest, I wouldn't mind one of those nights with mimosas and the Indigo Girls. But I can live without "good" vs. "bad" lists.
