Pencils Down!

The sun is shining today, literally and metaphorically.

I have just returned from my last trip to campus of the year. I dropped off the last of my library books. I picked up some light reading for the plane. I ate some cookies that I assumed were free because they were on a table in the English department. I photocopied some things.

Most importantly, I turned everything in. Every. Last. Page.

A rough calculation of the writing I produced over this finals period came to approximately 20,000 words of content (thus, including substantive footnotes). I was too afraid to add in any word counts of textual notes and paper planning, which generally exceeds the final product  twice over.

When I finished with drafting everything, I felt a little like a black whole inside.
But just now, when I turned it all in, I felt like this:

And also, a little like Bambi here:

I now have less time in the Bronx than I spent on my last draft on Saturday. Ladies and Gentlemen, let's get our Holiday on.

Semester 1: Home Stretch

In a glorious meandering into procrastination, I present a photo post.  

 So: Because I have spent so much of my time locked in my apartment, I've had to force myself to go on walks for sanity's sake. Because the temperature of my apartment would be most appropriate for a nudist colony, I also stick my head out the window into the 30-degree air often.

Right outside my door; done up for Christmas.

My landlords.

Then the snows came.

Snow + Garbage = Strangely idyllic.

My 'hood.

School is a strange mistress. I should be living the high life (and if the world were truly just, I would be doing so with some High Life), but instead I don't sleep, and I arrange ideas on scraps of paper and my computer screen over and over again.

The last first draft, in process.

This project involves a lot of counting. And
Tallying. And frustrating loss-of-counts.

The actual face of paper-writing. I'm not here yet with this last
paper, but you'll note the faint look of terror in the eyes. That's
coming. Soon.

The good news it that for all the isolation and tiredness, the work is getting done, and (if I may flatter myself) it's not half bad.  The end is nigh.

Storm-time.

In an apparent dual act of solidarity, the Bronx has decided to become unseasonably warm and host a monsoon.

This coincides with what I understand to be identical circumstances in Portland yesterday, further reminding me that the only thing actually separating me from being in the Northwest are these final papers and a few days.

It also coincides with the storm of trying to finish everything in time to get out of dodge for the holidays. Somehow, no matter how much preparation one does for completing finals, it still feels like a bomb is ticking away somewhere, and that finding it in time is out of the question.

But, so it goes. And so I go, back to it.

The Way of the World

It was my day off today, and I usually have highly uneventful days off, to make up for the sheer fatigue of many of my days on.  However, uneventful was not in the cards.

For the first time ever I ventured south onto the Lincoln Center Campus,* in order to have a conference with a professor and find my way to this season's production of William Congreve's The Way of the World. I promptly got lost.  This is a feat of epic proportions, as I would come to find out that everything I needed was in the same building, despite my having entered and exited said building several times.

Once I knew where things were, I decided to kill some time by eating dinner.¹  After wandering about for a bit, I chose the diner with the fewest people in it.²  This place, called the Morning Star, was a phenomenal oddity. When I entered, it felt as though I was in the tiniest truck stop in Kansas; the decor was wood panel and exposed light, and a sign made from Sharpie on paper plate announced that they "now HavE GritS!" The sign did not lie.  Also on the menu: a side of sliced tomato. The wide variety of menu choices appealed to the 80 year old in everybody, and may have explained why the only other people dining were elderly folks accompanied only by their hats and newspapers. Personally, it reminded me of Country Bill's, in Portland (where you can buy buttered saltines to go with your exceptionally strong drink), so I too was thrilled.

My waiter was somewhat confused as to what a young whippersnapper like me was doing in the Morning Star, and when he walked up he put his hand on my shoulder and asked if everything was all right with me. He would later drive home his point about my seeming out of place by asking, "you're not from this neighborhood, are you?" as though anyone who was would certainly not have chosen to eat there. I didn't see why this was the case, however, as my food was perfectly fine and was served up in short order, having been expertly made by the chef (who was, incidentally, dressed in a manner reminiscent of Carlos Santana, complete with moustache, fedora, and royal blue blazer--worn over his apron).

This photo, from uk.news.yahoo.com , is not of the man who
cooked my dinner, but I would bet you wouldn't have known
that in a criminal lineup of the two. 

In any case, I left pleased and sated and went to the play. I'll not venture a review of said play here, because I never know what to make of Restoration Comedies (that's not entirely true anymore, after this class). I can now say I've seen TWO of them in my lifetime, though, which is approximately two more than nearly everyone else in the world.

One thing I will say is this: they definitely went for it, and included not only the prologue and epilogue, but a dance number and several between-act dumbshows. 

Following the play, after conversing with some friends, I realized (or rather, they told me) that I was on campus, technically, and rather than needing to take public transportation home, I could take the Ram Van. In college, we often made a big deal about resenting NYU students for having a trolley that got them around without major expense or the subway.³  I jumped for joy at the prospect of waiting a mere 20 minutes (with no walking) and not having to take a train to Grand Central for the Metro North.

My enthusiasm should have waned when I entered the van and noticed the smell. I didn't identify that smell until too late, however--it had the bitter and rank twang of sweat, fear, and pheremone that one might smell on a passenger flight as it hurtled towards the ground. It turns out that the Ram Van is driven by students. In New York City. I have driven in New York a grand total of once, and I was a full fledged human being when I did so.  These youths, so far as I could make out, could not yet successfully grow beards.

What I'm getting at here is that driving in the city, particularly driving a van filled with people whose lives are in your hands, takes a lot of (a) maturity, skill, and calm, or (b) fearless batshit insanity.  Guess which one the 20 year old male behind the wheel had.

The ride quickly escalated to a threat level of terrifying, and the whole van fell silent. I hit the ceiling no fewer than 12 times from 59th street to 190th. That's not an exaggeration. I was counting, because it helped distract me from the fear that I was soon going to meet my end.

But the well trained young man got us home safely. I am home safe, and ready for the weekend, which will not actually have any other days off in it. Such is the way of the world.


Notes:
* I have been to Lincoln Center itself several times, because the Metropolitan Opera House is there, and a Music Library.
¹ It is perhaps indicative of some flaw in my character that I designate the human needs of sustenance and nutrition to a mere whiling away of moments in between important things, and makes me wonder how far up Maslow's Pyramid I'm ever going to climb if I neglect physiological necessity. Self-Actualization? Never!
² And this tendency, it now seems, might have a causal relationship with the frequency of food poisoning in my life. I might be well advised, as a person of delicate constitution, to frequent well-established joints with a large clientele.
³ I actually think we resented them for other things, too, like having multiple food-service carriers, dorms without rats, and a real library, but that's beside the point at hand.

Confidence-by-Proxy

As a graduate student, I am rather often assailed by self doubt and utter confusion.  This is a documented* affliction: called "Impostor Syndrome", it happens when accomplished people in any field have the inability to accept their accomplishments or competency as legitimate. Basically, it's that little gnome in the back of the grad-student brain that reminds a person to feel like a fake, and that at any moment, they'll be found out as such.

Now, normally I accept these feelings of inadequacy and roll with it. I sublimate the impulses to run away, and try not to be the student who overcompensates via attempts at one-upmanship.°  Sometimes it doesn't work.

Today, I was feeling pretty accomplished, and sent a text message to G-face to announce this fact; I did not initially notice the current in the text that undermined my own accomplishment. Her response was both typically apropo, and typically wonderful:

Growing up, my dad had a photocopied poster in his plant. It was a frog in a bird's mouth. You couldn't see most of the frog; just its legs were dangling out the side of the birds mouth and it had its hands around the neck of the bird. The bird looked out from the poster perplexed at the frog's tenacity. Underneath, the caption read, Never Give Up.

The moral of this story is that self-doubt ain't nothin' when you got friends like mine.


Notes:
* Though according to everyone's favorite ill-advised sourcebook, Wikipedia, it's not part of the DSM-IV.
° Also known, in some circles, as "the douchebag."

Operation Wall Street.

Last night, Jess L. and I donned semi-professional looking clothing and went to Wall Street for an adventure.
To prep ourselves, we went to a restaurant on St. Marks that offered culinary masterpieces like "Spicy & Tingly Lamb Face,"  "Spicy Pig Blood Salad," "Lamb Spine," and "Lamb Treasure Soup."*

Lest you think I am at all joking.

The food was stunningly delicious, though (to be fair) we weren't bold enough to try the Lamb Face or the Pig Blood.

The goal, then, was to infiltrate a Wall Street bar or two at Happy Hour on a Friday, and see what all the people whose jobs earn them money do on a Friday night.  The first place we visited, Jeremy's, had 22 different beers on tap (a welcome change from the 3 beers usually offered in the Bronx), and served said beers in 32 ounce Styrofoam cups.
The class of this joint was unparalleled. Horse Racing and Hockey were on all the flat screens, and very wealthy men were inexplicably playing Keno. All of the acoustic ceiling tiles were decorated, most in two ways: first, with sharpie-scrawls immortalizing drunkenness, and second, with bras. There were no fewer than 100 bras stapled to the ceiling.
It was a remarkable display of new wave feminism: instead of burning the marks of the oppressor, these pioneering women offered their protest by removing and displaying the symbols of the yoke of gender-roles in public. The entire scene was quite moving, and I'm certain none of the brave souls who rid themselves of their bondage had any regrets (or headaches) the next morning.
Jess and I decided to keep all of our clothes with us, because we figured there was enough solidarity tacked overhead already. I guess we're bad feminists.

After our Big Gulps of beer were empty, we moved on to a sharper place called The Pearl.

Near Williams Street.

At this establishment, all the doors were opened for us and our cocktails had fancy names, fancy ingredients, and very fancy pricetags. We sat, acting as though there was nothing odd about a pair like us sitting in a place like that, drinking our pretentiously named, 3/4 sized drinks. The ruse worked, and our demeanors and dress actually caused the man behind the bar to think we wanted (read: could afford) more than one drink.

I always assume that my presence in expensive places will be viewed as suspect, a la Pretty Woman, and that I will be snubbed or denied service because I look, well, poor and out of place (both of which I invariably am in such places). The first time this truly happened, I was sixteen and in San Francisco. The Best Friend and I had walked into what, for us, was a high end establishment (I believe is was a Bebe). Perhaps it was our age, perhaps it was the fact that her hair was blue and mine orange, but we were heartily disdained. I believe we vowed never to shop in a Bebe ever again. I have held to that vow, if only because I still cannot afford it.

But last night, there were no such assumptions made. We fooled the entire Wall Street area. And we learned that brokers and businessmen are no more interesting than the rest of us. They just wear nicer suits to drink out of Styrofoam and play Keno.







Notes:
* There were a few moments of deliberation regarding what part of the Lamb qualified as treasure. We decided that, as there were children present, we probably shouldn't deliberate too much.

Radiate. Or...

It's day three of radiator living, and as far as I can tell, the temperature outside has not significantly changed. My home's response to that temperature, on the other hand, is a whole different bucket of fish.

Yesterday was Thursday, which means that in the absence of pressing needs or impending insanity, I mostly stay home and do work. I did excellently with this endeavor and even managed to watch some internet TV in the meantime. But my apartment, she was cold. I bundled up, and she was cold. I got out the fleece blanket I've had since freshman year of college.* All this did was cocoon me in warmth, which led to an inordinately long nap with my face planted on the pages of "Primitive Marriage."¹

Now, when I am cold I am perpetually hungry.² This was thus a dual threat to my productivity. I decided to throw down my gage and enter the fray by baking the worlds most failed apple crisp. By this, I mean that I sliced up an apple, put in in a dish with some butter and some cinnamon, and sprinkled granola on the top. It turned out to be pretty delicious, and turning on the oven somehow reminded the radiator by the stove of its job.

It kicked on, and started whistling away. At first, though, I didn't know that's what was happening, as the whistling from the bedroom radiator was more of a hiss-and-sputter, and this sounded like maybe there was a litter of mice in the oven. I started to panic, because even though I've seen no evidence of mice since operation-peppermint-oil, I once read that they like to live in ovens.  I did not want baked mice babies in my life.

There were no mice in the oven, and the radiator promptly gave up its efforts, leaving me with my hot apple food and a cold apartment.


This morning (and again, I would like to note that the temperature seems not to have changed outside), both radiators were on when I got up, and the pipes that run in the corners of my living room and bathroom were both hot to the touch. My apartment is 79 degrees³ and balmy. And both radiators are still going (I can hear the comforting hiss).

Now, if my apartment is going to remain at this temperature all winter, I will be able to happily continue my day-to-day. I like a warm apartment. In fact, it could be said that I like a prohibitively hot apartment, if you ask the right person. Mostly, this is because I find sweaters uncomfortable, and I only like socks if they add to the interest of my ensemble.  However, if I'm going to be living in a polarized° environment, on the days when it's cold in here my landlords risk hobo-fires.ª

For now, I'm going to flee to work early, because the sweater I have on in order to deal with the outside world is too much for me here in the tropics of my home.




Notes:
* Because I'm the sort of person that remembers these things, I distinctly recall going to Bed Bath and Beyond with my parents to buy "essentials" during my first week in New York. At the time, it seemed very far away (it, after all, was 4 numbered blocks and half an avenue block away from the dorm). I still have most of the things I got that day; I still use that same fold-up hair dryer, for example. I gave away the towels long ago to the High School Sweetheart, because he really liked them (to be fair, they were amazing towels), but everything else I still have.
¹ Fortuitously, I did not drool on the printout.
² An interesting scenario, given that if I eat a hearty meal I always get cold right after.
³ This is not an estimate. I have an electric meat thermometer (which I also sometimes use to determine whether or not I have a fever, because I am classy like that) that always knows what temperature it is.
° Get it? Because the two temperatures are opposite, and one is reminiscent of the poles? No? Fine.
ª Hobo-fire: n. -- Fires built in found objects, such as Oil Barrels, Trash Cans, etc. Typically positioned under overpasses, with a collective of cheerful wanderers huddled around for warmth. Can be used to cook beans while still in their tins.