Oh, hello

I gotta make this quick because I'm under strict instructions from my advisor not to get distracted from working on my dissertation. He had a whole list of things I wasn't supposed to get distracted by, and I think "the internet" was on it, but I wasn't really paying attention because there was something pretty outside the window.

Speaking of writing my dissertation, hey, remember that time I was in college and I was writing my senior thesis and I accidentally listened to so much Bruce Springsteen while I was in my thesis office that I accidentally trained myself to ONLY be able to write my thesis if there was Bruce Springsteen in the background?

Seriously. It started with a 1-week period where I was all "ooh this live album is great! I'll listen to it over and over on giant headphones for a while!" And then I think it was habit, or I didn't have any other CDs in my office, or something. Anyway I kept listening to it for a few more days while I worked.

And then I got bored of Bruce Springsteen so I started listening to something else, but my brain had been Pavlov's-dog-'d into not being able to write my thesis to any soundtrack other than the Boss. I tried, and every time I tried, I didn't get anything accomplished. When I switched back to Live 1975-1985 (Disc 1) I would churn out lots of pages of beautiful ideas about Hildegard von Bingen and her sources of authority.

Man, by the end of that spring, I HATED Bruce Springsteen and his stupid E Street Band. I did graduate though.*

The point of this story is that I might have accidentally trained my brain again to demand only old school Billy Joel. Specifically, mainly, "The Longest Time" and "You May Be Right". I'm trying to branch out but it's hard work, and I'm worried that fooling around with my background music might count as being distracted.

Another thing that might count as being distracted is all the daydreaming/internet browsing I am doing about Bluetooth hearing aids. They are so shiny! If only I had $4,000. You know how I could get $4,000? If I had a real job. You know how I could get a real job? If I finished my stupid dissertation. So, back to that. See you around!



*My thesis advisor also mentioned to me, at one point, that I should try not to "get distracted by shiny things". I don't know why everyone thinks I'm so flaky, I totally know how to finish

It's a tiny town, and everybody knows what you been doin'

Random neighbor dude woke me up in the middle of the night by ringing the doorbell* repeatedly. At 2:30. My truck was parked on the next street over, and the lights were on. He was sorry to wake me, but wanted to let me know so I could turn the lights off and make sure the battery wouldn't be dead in the morning.

To clarify: when I say "random neighbor dude" I mean, I didn't recognize him. We haven't actually ever met, to my knowledge. And yet, he knows which house goes to my truck.

I haven't decided exactly how I feel about this. Famous? Important? Conspicuous? Flattered? Nervous? It's hard to say.

I didn't go turn the lights off because I was too asleep to function. Now the battery is presumably dead. Who wants to come help jump it?



*It makes the lights in my room flash on and off and the bed shakes. That's how.

Death Fight 5000: Gog versus Magog!

So, it seems pretty clear that we're in the End Times and the apocalypse is impending and the Constitution Gods are about to come back and rule over the ruins of the memorials and whatnot. Evidence:

1. The oceans are turning into some non-water substance.


2. Facebook finally turned into the Mark of the Beast. Everyone knows your birthday and your favorite sitcom and how many friends you have, now. Just like the bible said.


3. There are frogs shutting down highways in Greece.

In an effort to keep the populace soothed and nonrioting, the New World Order has put together a crack team of genius PR dudes to spin the story. At least part of the story- no one seems to care very much about the RAINING FROGS IN GREECE.

Meanwhile, back in Constitution City, the weather continues charming and the pool across the street is open. So that's where I'll be until Ghost Abe Lincoln shows up to collect the faithful. See you on the other side of the rainbow!

Negative energy

Alyssa and I started going to Spa World last winter. Warning! The website I just linked to, there, is extremely irritating! It has music and popups and many moving flashing things. It is not a website for the faint of heart, nor the prone to migraines/seizures.

It is, however, a website full of incredible and fantastic prose and information. And the real-life entity to which the website belongs is also chock full of fantastic and incredible, which is why we keep going back even though it is located very far away (30 minutes by car!) in a State.

Spa World is basically a hybrid between a Korean bathhouse and an episode of Star Trek. You go in and trade your shoes for a little orange outfit, and then head to the baths. The baths include

1) BASHER WALL: adding 3D to typical pool, it provides the place to relax within the pool, and inside of water curtain has different atmosphere

which is okay, but I don't really care about different atmospheres or 3D. I like

2) DREAM BATH: bath that analyzed the lying position, it massages the tension in muscle by using high pressured water stream from JET nozzle on sole, calf, femoral region, waist, shoulder. (5 minute at a time)

the very best, along with the steam sauna.

After a few hours of that, it's time to dry off and put on your orange outfit and head for the Poultice Rooms and the food. The restaurant serves gigantic portions of delicious Korean food, and the juice bar serves tea, terrible fruit-free all-synthetic smoothies, and ice cream sandwiches that are shaped like fish.

The Poultice Rooms and the food area are arranged around a large general area, which is full of mats and plastic pillows and people in shorts outfits stretching and sleeping and chatting and reading and typing. It is also full of large television monitors which are showing various news and sporting events. There is free wi-fi and a number of big leather chairs. This is the part that is like Star Trek. Everyone is wearing identical clothing, sprawled out on mats on the floor, and using technology. That's what Star Trek is like, right?

Anyway, the Poultice Rooms are big fancy saunas that emit things to heal you. For example,

When using oak wood charcoal poultice room, one feels better, refreshed, and quickly recovers from poor health. One view of sickness and malaise is a lack of electrons in the body. When the body is warmed via heated charcoal, it emits infrared rays and warms the body for a long time, which improves blood circulation and relaxes muscles fatigue. [my emphasis]

This is absolutely my favorite view of sickness and malaise. A lack of electrons! Do you see what this means? It means that all of my sicknesses and malaises are caused by having too much positive energy in my body. I need more NEGATIVE energy, and then I will be cured!

So: anyone who would like to join me on the back steps for bourbon and complaining, please inform. It's good for me, it's good for you, everybody wins.

What?

So, here's a story for you:

When my brother Will was 2, he liked to pretend he was a puppy. He'd crawl around and bark, and my mom made him a headband with dog ears and fed him cereal out of a bowl on the kitchen floor. One day, my mom asked my brother (in dog character) what his name was:

Mom: what's your name, little dog?
Will: Today's Potato Soup Blaster

No one knows where this idea came from, but it stuck around. From that day forth, whenever Will was being a puppy, his name was Today's Potato Soup Blaster.

Then, three years later, we got a puppy.

We all talked about what to name the puppy. No one really cared, except Will, who was now five. Will insisted that "Today's Potato Soup Blaster" was the only name right-thinking people would name a puppy. The rest of us grumbled, but acquiesced.

Except, my other brother, Matt, who was four, had some trouble remembering this name. So when Will was off at kindergarden every day, Matt would spend his mornings playing with the puppy and asking my mother what the puppy's name was. Over and over again.

My mother grew weary of this game with predictable speed, and to amuse herself, turned to sarcasm.

Matt (for the 10th time in an hour): What's the puppy's name?
Mom: (fondly, exasperatedly, and totally expecting to be ignored): Oh, just call him WHAT!

To those who have met any of the people involved, what ensued is not surprising.

Matt, who at the time had the attention span of something-with-a-very-short-attention-span, somehow glommed on to the new name, and proceeded to go into the front yard to play with the puppy.

Informational Aside: My mom hated our next door neighbors at the time. They had lots of vicious Rottweilers and were rude and annoying. But they did like dogs, and we all maintained a veneer of polite acquaintanceship.

The neighbor lady was in her front yard. Matt and the puppy were in our front yard. My mom was in the kitchen, spying observing.

Neighbor: Hi sweetie! What's the puppy's name?
Matt: What!
Neighbor (louder): What's the puppy's name, honey?
Matt: His name is What!
Neighbor: No, what's his name?
Matt: Yeah! What's his name!
Mom: (silent hysterical laughter)

This conversation went on for a long, long time. Matt didn't get bored, and just got very slightly frustrated and annoyed. He was such a charming, well-meaning child. The neighbor lady was annoyed and frustrated, but since she was talking to a four-year-old, she didn't think anything of it. My mom laughed harder than she had any right to, and didn't ever intervene.

Neighbor: is that your new puppy?
Matt: yeah!
Neighbor: does he have a name?
Matt: yeah!
Neighbor: what is his name?
Matt: yeah! his name is What!

So. At the end of this momentous day, everyone came home from work and school and my mama told us the story (she cried a little bit, from laughing, while retelling it) (I cry a little bit from laughing when I retell it too).

And from that day forth, the dog was called What.





postscript: when people yelled to each other ("MOOOOOM!" "WHAT!?!?") the dog always came running. "No, not YOU."

And it was pretty fun to stand at the back door yelling What! WHAAAT! What! at night.

Notoriety

I'm very into spreading joy and happiness wherever I go, so I usually let people borrow my truck if they ask me nicely.

So, so far this summer, there've been a lot of opportunities for truck-borrowing. Besides the normal opportunities of a chore that requires a truck (like needing to take your motorcycle to the mechanic, or needing to pick up a couch in Baltimore), or just laziness and whimsy, I've also gone away for a number of extended periods and left the truck to the tender care of others. First I went to Africa, then I went to Minnesota, then I went to Connecticut, and then last week I was babysitting for friends in Maryland all week. Soon I'm going to New York, and then Montana, so opportunities continue. Send in your application now!

My favorite part about lending out my truck is that I inevitably get a lot of emails and text messages, regarding its whereabouts, from people who have seen it around town in places they did not expect me to be. "Hey Cecily! Are you back from Rwanda? I saw your truck on 13th and Florida yesterday!" and "hey I thought you were out of town but I just saw your truck parked on 14th, do you want to get a beer tonight?"

Last weekend, while I was asleep, exhausted by a bunch of cranky children, I got a series of text messages from Sean. He was walking along and he saw my truck! It was parked near a house with an obvious party! I must be there! He went inside to see what I was up to! But he couldn't find me! Okay he was giving up and going home!

A different friend had borrowed the truck and someone on their block had a party that night. I like the idea that I am encouraging new social connections, and that people are wandering in to parties off the street cause they think I'm in there somewhere, wandering in and wandering around and meeting lots of fun new friends. Plus also this proves that my truck can never be successfully stolen: I would get hourly reports about its location and be able to track it down in no time.

On the other hand, as Alyssa pointed out, it also means I can never have any secret affair or shady business dealings. That's probably okay though because I really am not subtle enough for that kind of thing anyway.

Form over function!

with a capital T that rhymes with D that stands for Dante

I have not had any exciting or entertaining adventures for quite a while, mostly because I've been all bedridden and behind in my scholarly duties for what seems like years.

So, I will beguile you with tales from long ago, when I was young and reckless and had adventures worth beguiling people with. (What's that? You don't like my sentence constructions? Well too bad for you. You're in time out!)

Here is something that happened to me in high school: I got in Trouble. It was the first day of my senior year. Before class had even started I was in In-School Suspension.

The reason I got in trouble was: me and Abe hung a banner over the front entrance of the school, with secret signalling accessory-to-the-crime participation from Melissa and Vanessa and Trisha about whether or not the banner was even and if it was draping in an aesthetically pleasing way.

The banner was made out of sheets, and it had words painted on it.

The words said "Abandon all hope, ye who enter here."

This was a Hilarious Joke, because do you know what the name of my high school was? I will give you three guesses. (Don't really guess please because that ruins the banter.) Do you give up?

The name of my high school was Hellgate. Hellgate High School.

Isn't that a funny joke?

Well, the Janitor did not think so and he got out his walkie talkie and radioed to the other janitors and the Vice Principal and they all chased us down. Abe went one way and I went another way but there were too many grim old men with walkie talkies for the likes of us and we were captured. And taken into separate rooms and made to write out confessions about what we had done. And our Parents were Called at Home.

The thing was, was that Abe's parents weren't home. (Actually Abe's dad was at City Hall because Abe's dad was the mayor. No fooling.) So the Vice Principal left a message on the machine (this was back in the days of land lines and answering machines) and Abe erased it later when he got home.

(Abe's parents, do you read this website? Did you know this story already? Hi!)

The other thing was, when they called my mom, they also didn't get the reaction they wanted. Because my mom had helped us make the banner. Because she thought it was a Hilarious Joke.

So she yelled at the Vice Principal for wasting his time on such literate and well-intentioned young people as me and Abe, and by the way did he get her letter complaining about the armed security guards? She yelled at him about that too. My mom's a spitfire.

Abe and I were suspended for two days. We had to sit in rooms and be quiet instead of going to classes.

Then we got out of our punishment with a new found Respect for Authority and we have been living on the Right Side of the Law ever since.

The End.


(hey. I noticed that I got a little carried away with the Meaningfully Capitalized Noun Phrases, there, in that story. I think it's from reading Mary Poppins. I'm not really sorry, though. I'm sure you'll get through it somehow.)

Update: Meaningful Capitalization of Noun Phrases is apparently a Genetically Inherited Trait. My dad, on the President's Recent Visit to Rwanda:

If I recall from planning for The Big Conference last June, there are 580 rooms in Kigali, but that includes some Decidedly Local hotels, which would not be suitable for Travelling Official People. There might be 250 or so that would work. The German President was visiting, and most of the advance team couldn't come until after he and his posse were gone.

For more evidence, see also my sister's comment below. And also her Guest Blog Post from a couple years ago.

vines

For a while, in Minnesota, I lived with a bunch of landscapers. It had its ups and downs, like everything. The downs for this situation all involved mud and lines for the shower. The ups were the winners by far: people who knew about digging, and got free plants, and were sent home from work if it was too rainy so we could all go to the bar down the street together.

So, I was in charge of the houseplants, but my role in the yard was restricted to admiring things and eating the results.

Then all the landscapers moved away, and I was left to my own devices. Which in this case meant that for a year and a half no one touched anything in the garden, and then I suddenly decided it was time to Deal With The Yard, so I dug it all up. But didn't plant anything else; the main result of that was that I had a lot of cuts from thorny things and Trisha was irritated with me for leaving piles of debris scattered about the yard.

But one thing I did follow through with, and it was the planting and training of vines. I built an arch out of branches that were knocked down during thunderstorms, and planted morning glories and sweet peas all around them, and wove it into a beautiful green flowery gateway to our nice back yard.

When I moved away from St. Paul, I was forced to leave all my house plants AND all my vines behind, much to my dismay. But, finally, this summer I planted some more vines around the tiny "front yard" area of my house in DC and now all those vines are creeping greenly up things. So I have to spend a good 30 minutes per day now leaning against the fence, murmuring encouraging thoughts to the vines and making sure the little twisty ends are pointed in an acceptable direction.

Vines are smart! In a kind of a scary way. They don't totally seem like plants, or at least they seem very slightly more animate than they really should. I don't understand what kind of math is programmed into their DNA to make them twirl around until they find something, and then stick their little viney feet to it and crawl forwards, but it makes me nervous. So to stay on their good side I whisper sweet nothings and water them with plant food.

I imagine that as a result of this, when they make it all the way up my building and into my window, they will just sort of pat me gently on the head as they pass through, rather than trying to stick their fingers in my nose or knock over my paintbrushes or something.

breakfast vs. laziness

My roommates and some other friends have started a Breakfast Club. Every Friday morning at 7:30, a potluck breakfast occurs at someone's house. Occasionally, some or all of the club members gather the night before for pre-breakfast merriment in the form of beer and a slumber party.

Like any organization, Breakfast Club has come in for its share of controversy. For example, there was a lot of uproar about coffee one time. A nasty rumor was started (by me) accusing Trim Zander* of not being able to make coffee at his house in the morning. A spate of increasingly vitriolic responses followed.

I would like to propose, as cofounder and acting chief financial officer of Breakfast Club Inc., that the minimal coffee-making capacity for a Breakfast Club host be defined as 4 cups per 15 minutes (in other words, 16 cups per hour), and those who cannot provide this capacity must either apply for Club funds or add capacity out of their own pocket (or make other suitable arrangements, perhaps through borrowing of equipment), or forfeit the right to host Breakfast Club. Unfortunately the application for funds does not exist, and as every single member of the Club is delinquent on dues, the treasury contains no money, so at the present time every member must provide his/her own coffee capacity. Also, no decaf. Any objections?

Trim* was quick to defend his ability to provide coffee, and out of desperation he wildly proposed that instant coffee be provided as a failsafe.

I would like to add a correction to previous statements regarding the
coffee-making capacity of this week's selected Breakfast Club location, herein referred to as 321 Cherry Tree Lane NW. It should be noted that although previous statements were made stating that coffee-making capacities were absent from 321 Cherry Tree Lane, these statements have proven to be false. A coffee maker does indeed exist at 321 Cherry Tree Lane, it was just in the corner and dusty from lack of use. Coffee filters and fresh coffee need to be purchased, and these transactions will be completed by this week's host, herein referred to as Mr. Trim Zander*, before the scheduled meeting of the Breakfast Club. In the possible event that the coffee maker does not function properly, instant coffee will be provided on-site by Mr. Zander* as an alternative.

I hope these amendments assuage the fears proposed by Ms. Whitworth
and Mr. Popkin, and will result in an approval to continue this week's
Breakfast Club at 321 Cherry Tree Lane NW.

Trim's* claims were accepted on a temporary basis, but his misguided backup plan was rejected out of hand.

I propose that Trim Zander* be granted provisional hosting status, until such time as his coffee-making capacity can be fairly and objectively assessed, without bias, by those members of Breakfast Club who have proven themselves to be experts in the field of coffee assessment. The record will show that will include, at the very least, every current member of this house (123 Main Street #2). Upon satisfaction of these members' criteria, Mr. Zander* may apply for official hosting status.

Also for the record, potential member Cecily Whitworth has expressed to me that instant coffee is not an acceptable alternative to real coffee.

I provided a helpful visual aid to further demonstrate my feelings about coffee:

At this point, the quality of the debate deteriorated rapidly, at one point reaching the low of

you guys are such babies.

Eventually, however, a consensus was reached (no instant coffee was produced) and everyone was greatly relieved. The group moved on to less stressful issues, such as the arrangements for the slumber parties:

Phew- I am so glad the great coffee controversy of 2007 was settled. That was nearly a deal breaker. I believe the most important question that was posed to the group was if we could handle a slumber party and getting up in the morning. I for one guarantee many shenanigans during the slumber party. But fridays are essentially throw away days for me, so I can afford a night with less then ideal sleep. I respectfully propose a shenanigan room and shenanigan-free room to accommodate for all levels of desire to participate in shenanigans.

This zoning of shenanigans was duly implemented, and things settled down for a few weeks, in what was probably an unrealistic "honeymoon period" of the Club's history. This week, a vicious power struggle occurred, complete with bribery and graft.

As a charter member of both Breakfast Club and 123 Main Street #2, I feel I am in a strong, perhaps even unparalleled, position to confirm that said house will be hosting both this week's Breakfast Club and an optional pre-breakfast sleepover, commencing at 9:30, for those who wish to avoid an unpleasantly early rise from slumber, or who need a few extra shenanigans in their lives.

Accomodations are, as usual, a hodgepodge of floor space, couch space on our inadequate 2-seat couches for those of you who are short or don't mind sleeping like an accordion, and space in beds of those house residents who are willing to accomodate you. Those seeking an early respite from the night's activities are encouraged to speak with Cecily.

This rampant abuse of power by Gabe was quickly challenged by me, and I did not fail to attempt to use the situation for my own benefit.

Gabe did you just invite the entire Breakfast Club membership to sleep in my bed? I don't know if your charter membership authority extends that far.

Anyone who thinks they want to sleep in my bed better start trying to buy my affection now. I like ice cream and sparkly things.

My objection was overruled, and I was chastised by Trim* for having a bad attitude (this is not an unfamiliar situation for me).

In closing, I would like to correct Ms. Whitworth. Mr. Popkin is in his full authority to invite whomever he wishes to sleep in your bed. The priorites and needs of the Breakfast Club override those of each individual member. There are rules for a reason.

I was unrepentant, however, and my demands for bribes became even more blatant.

Be that as it may, I still expect presents, compliments, and the pretense that my jokes are funny. My bed has rules too, you know. The rules of bringing me presents and saying compliments to me and laughing uproariously at my jokes. These are demanding rules, it is true, arduous even, but then again, my bed is a very comfortable bed.

My favorite kind of ice cream is strawberry, but I like anything as long as there are no cherries in it. Also I like caramel topping.

This controversy was eventually settled by the fact that it was raining very hard last night so there was no sleepover after all. I had my comfortable bed to myself, but I had to buy my own ice cream.

Also, for the sake of honesty, I should admit to you that although the club has met twice at my own house, I have yet to actually participate in a Breakfast Club meeting. Really, what kind of crazy person voluntarily gets out of bed at 7:30?

*Not his real name, although a relay operator apparently thought it was a reasonable guess

prizes

I like it when people do a good job and get a reward. Especially if it's me getting the reward. Especially if the reward is an ice cream cone. Or something sparkly.

That is TOTALLY beside the point though. Here's what I'm talking about: rewards that don't match their ... whatever is the word that means "why someone got the reward".

One example is one time in college when I was driving way too fast in Montana. It was back when the speed limit in Montana was "reasonable and prudent" so it really wasn't my fault. It seemed reasonable to me! Anyway I got a speeding ticket, so I paid the nice highway patrol man my $20 and was about to be on my merry, prudent way when Mr. Highway Patrol noticed that I was oh-so-prudently wearing my safety belt. So as a reward for this he gave me a coupon for a free Happy Meal or Big Mac (my choice) at my nearest participating McDonald's. Of course! What all safe seatbelt wearers have earned!

Another example is something I just read at the BBC website about a very great man in New York who leapt into the tracks of the subway to rescue a kid who had a seizure and fell in there. They dramatically rolled under an oncoming train and escaped to tell their story. I'm always impressed by people who leap under oncoming trains to save other people, and I firmly believe that they deserve all the rewards they can get. This guy, though, got an especially entertaining combination of rewards: New York's highest award for civic achievement, $10,000 from Donald Trump, a trip to Disney World and a year's free subway travel. I like the money. Disney World, though, strikes me as pretty random. I like it all the more for that. And the subway travel is a nice touch, plus if anybody else falls in there we're all set.

All of this is making me think about what kinds of prizes I will be handing out for the winners tomorrow night. I foresee multiple minor skirmishes between Good and Evil, and knowing me, there is bound to be some kind of large scoreboard with tally marks for the points everybody earns. If no skirmishes ensue I will probably have to provoke them, if only so I can award points and prizes.

One of the prizes will probably be something very sparkly. I hope I win it.

What time is it? No time to look back!

Last night my excellent roommates and I watched "True Stories" the David Byrne movie from 1986. It's my favorite, I always forget about it for years on end and then suddenly have an urgent need to look at it again, right now! I highly recommend it to anyone who has an hour an a half they just can't figure out what to do with.

Meanwhile, I'm not doing very great on the "nose to the grindstone" front. I have a lot of school-and-work-related things I am supposed to be hard at work on, but instead I somehow keep spending all of my time building shelves out of cardboard and papier-mache and looking at 5th century bible fragments. Damn this city and all of its free public museums!

The bible fragments (and some whole entire bibles) were at the Sackler, where there is an exhibit of Bibles Before 1000. It was okay, but not as great as I'd hoped. Partly because of all the annoying other people who wanted to look at MY exhibit. But mostly because I wanted to know more about the individual scrolls and codices and scribes and whatnot, and instead there was just a lot of sort of vague, general information about the early spread of Christianity. Which is all very well but I already knew about that. I just wanted to know about the books!

On a marginally related note, and tying this whole entry back to my evening last night: Before we put the movie in, me and the old roommates were sitting around the living room drinking beer and looking up things in the Bible. Why, you ask? Well, why not? Really it was because we became involved in a heated dispute related to our upcoming Good v. Evil party (see below). I said that we should have apples and pomegranates as "evil" food and Gabe said there are no apples in the Bible.

He is right, of course, but there was some disagreement about if there were any other fruits mentioned in the whole Eden thing. As it turns out, not. There are fig leaves, but no figs. Alyssa suggested that we hand out fig leaves to partygoers as they enter and then direct them to a changing area. That would be quite the party. Don't worry, we decided against it. Although feel free to come wearing your own fig leaves, if you so desire.

The apple/fig conundrum having been got out of the way, we kept looking up other things that we thought of. Cruden's Complete Concordance is my best friend. Eventually and I don't remember how, we came upon this, which is practically the eleventh commandment as far as I can tell:

"This is what the LORD Almighty, the God of Israel says:
'Drink, get drunk and vomit, and fall to rise no more.'" (Jeremiah 25:24)

On that note, I think the wine downstairs is getting lonely.