In which I remember

Image via WikipediaI slept through the whole thing.

On Tuesdays my first semester of college I only had one class, in the afternoon. I usually slept in.

My suite was pretty much deserted. My roommate was gone. I got up late, flicked on Comedy Central (which did not have any kind of news ticker or break-in), and watched TV before taking my shower.

I got back, only to be locked out of my room. In a towel. My roommate was due back from her class soon, so I figured I just had to wait. Then she opened the door.

"Why didn't you just knock?" she asked me.

"You're not supposed to be done class yet."

"They let us out early."

"Oh." Awkward pause. We didn't really get along. "Did you just finish early or something?"

She was pissed. "You mean you didn't hear?"

That one class was philosophy. The professor told us that he didn't feel like teaching, but we could sit around and talk about what happened if we wanted to. He ended up teaching anyway. I guess you can't escape philosophy.

When I wasn't in class, I called or emailed whomever I could. Yes, I know, Philadelphia was never on anyone's mind the whole day, but still -- it would have been nice to receive one of those calls. Not my lot in life, though.

I went to the service that night. During the moment of silence, a squirrel darted out of the trees and into the crowd. Rumor had it that some girl got bitten, but I beleive that rumor was debunked.

Later, someone pulled the fire alarm. Assholes. We stood around. Some people panicked. "I smell smoke!" a few girls cried. Well, of course they did. Easily 75% of the students in our building had their cigaettes out.

I didn't know anyone. I didn't even know anyone who did. I missed the whole thing and the people I cared about were safe. It didn't touch me. And guilt -- survivor's, liberal's, whatever -- is one of the things that can knock me down.

Ten years.

My life is not much like it was before September 11, 2001... and very few of the changes are due to the attacks. I made friends through a debate about the war, but the club holding those debates would have been formed regardless, I think. I went through a string of boyfriends before finding Chris. I started seeing the school counselor; I now have an official diagnosis. I live in the very city that felt the attacks hardest.

I never saw the towers in real life. The first time I had been to New York was in December of 2001.

I never saw the towers. I slept through the attacks. I never knew anyone involved. As horrible as it is to say it, my life was not directly affected. Sure, it was peripherally; there's no one on the planet who wasn't affected peripherally, and certainly no American.

But I don't understand why I still cry for these strangers, but not for the dear friend and surrogate grandfather I lost a few years later. I don't understand why I mourn an institution I never saw more than the church I was baptised and raised in.

Here's an interesting thought, though. The casualties of September 11, 2001... they've been immortalized.

They had been from the very moment the first plane hit. So the terrorists really fucked up, didn't they?

As tragic as it was, though, it was rare. We're so lucky it's rare. We live in fear that it will happen again, but other people in this world live in *certainty* that it will happen again, to them.

You know, Chris's mother's birthday is September 10, and my father's is September 12. So really, September 11 should be a day of joint celebration of life. I think I'd like that.

In which I vacation by myself (a Personal Ad)

Image via WikipediaI am in favor of the mancation.

Occasionally, Chris's guy friends will want to get away for an overnight or a weekend, usually to Atlantic City.  This is fine with me; I trust Chris, and I have no interest in the activities of the weekend.

It does, however, raise the question, "Why does he get an extravagant weekend away and I don't?"

Well, of course, I can.

I have, actually.  Once, I went to Washington, DC by myself for the weekend.  I took the BoltBus down, stayed in a hotel in Alexandria that was right next to the Metro station, and wore myself out on tourism.  It was nice.

But what else can I do?  Most internet searches for ideas either give me essays on why taking separate vacations is not a red flag for my marriage (which, thanks, I wasn't worried 'til you brought it up!), or lists of incredibly girly ideas for Girls' Weekends (which I dismiss for multiple reasons).


So, I shall write a Personal Ad about it.

What I'm looking for

I don't have a driver's license yet, so anywhere I go would have to be reasonably easy to get to by bus or train from Manhattan, and easy to get around by foot or public transit.

Likewise, wherever I stay would have to be within easy walking distance to public transit.

I wouldn't be able to embark any earlier than 5:30 PM Friday (preferably 6:00), so my destination would either have to be within 3 hours of Manhattan, or have late-night activities that would not require me to drink alone.

That said, I'm happy to drink with others, so if we know each other and your town of residence otherwise fits the bill, I'd love to meet up Friday night!

Once I check out of my hotel on Sunday, I'd either have to carry my stuff around or stash it with the hotel staff and come back for it.  I'd like Sunday to involve more than just traveling, so I'm looking for one or more of the following:

• The hotel to be very close to the bus or train station I'm using to get home.
• Things to do, open on Sunday, that are either very close to the hotel or very close to the bus or train station mentioned above.
• Things to do in between those two places where 
• I wouldn't have to do much walking, since I'll have to carry my bag
• I could safely stash my bag
• I could carry my bag easily, because the place I'm going to allows that none of my weekend's activities would require me to bring much

Speaking of which, activities where I don't need much.  I really don't want to bring more than a change of clothes for each day, maybe a set of pajamas, a jacket, some toiletries, and my purse.  If I bring my Kindle, I won't need to bring my laptop or any extra books.

Food!  Cheap, delicious, or both!

What I'm not looking for

I prefer activities not cost an arm and a leg.  The beauty of DC was that I could wander in and out of museums on a whim.  If I  have to pay $35 for admission, then I'm going to see every inch of that museum, and that would likely take up my whole day.  So things should either be cheap enough that I can wander off when I choose, or awesome enough to be my primary activity for the weekend.

Staying in New York is not an option.  Yes, I can do a ton in the city, but the fact is, I won't.  Last time I took this option, I went to the Brooklyn Museum for the First Saturday events, which was fun... but otherwise I sat around and did nothing.  Not an option!

How this might work

One of you could leave a comment here.

I could get feedback on Twitter or Facebook.

I could come across an idea online.

A random magazine or newspaper article could fall into my hands.

Something else I haven't thought of.

My commitment

I will Tweet a link to this post.

I will keep an open mind about suggestions.

I will take lots of pictures.

If you want me to, I will post my pictures from Washington, as well.

I will return the favor!  If you're looking for things to do in New York, or just happen to be there and want to meet for coffee or lunch or a drink*, let me know!

*Offer to meet only valid for people I've met IRL before, but since that's most of you it shouldn't be an issue.  Certain exceptions may be made for longtime internet acquaintances, but I promise nothing.




So, do you have any ideas?

Related articles

• Ten Things to Look For When Planning a Summer Vacation (Thanks to Readers) (thesimpledollar.com)
• Very Personal Ads #85: love letters in miniature (fluentself.com)
• You: Turning Vacations into Adventures: Part I (artofmanliness.com)
• The Geek's Vacation Checklist [Feature] (lifehacker.com)
• Very Personal Ads #87: redundantly sneaky ninja, I guess (fluentself.com)

In which I wonder what you'd like to read

So what kind of posts do you enjoy most?


Lengthy descriptions of this thing or that?

Personal rants about what's going on?

Cute little surveys?


Links and my opnions on what they have to do with anything?


Something else entirely?

Lists and stories of accomplishing things?


Seriously.  Let me know in the comments.

Related articles

• How to Deeply Connect with Your Readers (problogger.net)
• The Two Types of Procrastination (thesimpledollar.com)
• When Am I Ever Gonna Use This? Essays In College English (iamrazorwing.livejournal.com)
• How to Use Storyselling to Boost Sales (problogger.net)

In which I ponder a new project

Image by charmingman via Flickr

So with the Series Finale of Lost fast approaching, I'm planning on going back and re-watching my DVDs of Season 1 and seeing if it all worked out -- does this season answer the Big Questions of Season 1?  Or did it completely pee on the original mythology?

But the big question is, should I blog my progress?  And that's where you come in:

Related articles by Zemanta

• Lost - You Don't Know Jack (televisionwithoutpity.com)
• Twelve Awesome Afternoon Projects for the Extra Day of Your Long Weekend [DIY] (lifehacker.com)
• How to Take an Idea to Launch in 4 Steps (problogger.net)

In which I contemplate the ideal life.

I'm not going to lie.  This feels like an assignment from Freshmen Philosophy class, where we have to read Plato's Republic and ponder how it applies today.

But why not?

So I guess I'm going to start by wishing for more wishes.  That is, to have the ideal life, one needs sufficient money.  How much money that is will obviously vary, but for me, a good rule of thumb is: can we take that amazing trip this summer, and still be in good shape if we're suddenly both unemployed when we get back?

So, let's take what I just said, and break it down: I want sufficient money, and I want to travel.

How do I make this money?

I'd love to be a writer.  I know the first step is to own it and say, "I am a writer," but I haven't felt to urge to write poetry in ages, I never finish my fiction (I'm a repeat-loser in NaNoWriMo), and my essays?  All right, let's be honest: how many of you are actually reading this?  It's a standard confidence issue, and it's one I try to work on.

Question for my fellow bloggers: what do you do when you hit the "publish" button and the question hits: What was the point of that?  Who cares?

Needed for ideal life: confidence.  How to get?

On this point, I am open to suggestions.

What do I hope to get from my travels?

I never got to study abroad in school, and of course all one ever hears about study-abroad is that it "changes your life" and "expands your horizons."  I'm an adult now, and as such, my personality and whatnot are pretty much carved in stone.  But I wouldn't object to some life-changing horizon expansion.

That's tough, though.  For our honeymoon, we spent two weeks in Italy.  It was amazing, but we spent the bulk of the trip running ragged, trying to fit a lifetime's worth of tourism in.  And that was totally worth it, but it doesn't tell me a whole lot about what it's like to be a part of that culture.  Oh, sure, there were bits and pieces -- if you want to eat dinner at 5:00, for example, your best bet is to find a place that serves lunch late -- but I picked up maybe three words of the language, and I'll never develop a taste for tripe.  I didn't even pick up very much inspiration to write (see above), and when you're surrounded by some of the greatest examples of art, culture, religion, and mythology in the world and have nothing to say...

So, in the broadest sense, I want to come away from my travels a better person, and I want to have more, and more important things, to say when I put pen to paper or fingers to keys.

Needed for ideal life: self-improvement

That's a goal unto itself, isn't it?  I want to be a better person, which means I have to figure out exactly what that means.  And I think that is a blog post for another day.

Needed for ideal life: inspiration

But one can't sit around waiting for inspiration to strike, can one?  After all, this whole post was based on a prompt I found somewhere (I couldn't tell you where) and set for myself.

On the other hand, this whole post is so much navel-gazing, which is far less interesting than the history and patronage of the Borgias and Medicis.  So there's that.

Conclusions

 Well, there's certainly more I can think of that would contribute to an ideal life, but this is a good start, especially since both elements come down to the same two goals:

Write more and improve yourself

And I suspect that, given who I am, each of those will encourage the other.

I am open to advice or stories.

Related articles by Zemanta

• You: Man Knowledge: The Greek Philosophers (artofmanliness.com)
• Weekly Video: Beware of the Expensive-Gym-Membership Effect. (happiness-project.com)
• NaNoWriMo: Prep (lauraprocrastinates.blogspot.com)
• In which I need help with NaNoWriMo (linboring.blogspot.com)
• In which I get ready for another year (linboring.blogspot.com)
• The Best Writing Advice. Ever. (problogger.net)
• In which I write a second personal ad (linboring.blogspot.com)
• Where to Publish Your Travel Stories (wisebread.com)
• How to Book a Cheap Flight with the Best Tools for the Job (lifehacker.com)
• Eight Simple Tactics for Achieving Your Big Goal (thesimpledollar.com)
• Live Abroad for Less (Also at Home) (wisebread.com)
• 7 Tips to Keep Your Family On-Board for Your Blogging Journey (problogger.net)
• Planning for Summer Vacation (thesimpledollar.com)

In which I get ready for another year

Image via WikipediaJolie at Jolie Guillebeau: Paintings and Musings apparently mentioned to Havi at The Fluent Self a ritual in which one makes a list on one's birthday of x items one wants to do in the next year, with x equaling one's age on the birthday.
On Monday, I turn 27.  Here are some things I'd like to do by the time I'm 28.

1. Learn to ride a bike.
2. Get my driver's license 
3. Get my own domain and move my blogs there.
4. Obtain at least one new pen-pal
   
5. See one of the American sites on my list of Things to Do Before I Die
6. Go somewhere I've never been before (the above does not count)
7. Read one of the books on the same list.
8. Watch one movie from the AFI 100
9. Watch a second movie from the AFI 100
10. Watch a third movie from the AFI 100
11. Come up with an idea for an ebook.  Not necessarily write the thing, but come up with the idea.
12. Actually win NaNoWriMo
13. Read a book off my reading list (Not counting #7)
14. Read a second book off my reading list
15. Read a third book off my reading list
16. Read a fourth book off my reading list
17. Read a fifth book off my reading list
18. Read a sixth book off my reading list
19. Read a seventh book off my reading list
20. Read an eighth book off my reading list
21. Read a ninth book off my reading list
22. Read a tenth book off my reading list
23. Submit a piece of writing for publication
    
24. Buy an outfit that makes me look amazing, and not freak out about the price
    
25. Attend a Flyers home game.
    
26. See the Pacific
    
27. Join something: a club, organization, or team
    
28. Attend a cherry blossom festival
    

Related articles by Zemanta

• In which I write personal ads. (linboring.blogspot.com)
• Happy birthday to you (livingoprah.com)
• Seeking PenPals... (lauraprocrastinates.blogspot.com)
• How to get unstuck in life (penelopetrunk.com)
• In which I contemplate the ideal life. (linboring.blogspot.com)
• In which I get back to the list (linboring.blogspot.com)
• Want to Feel Happier? Read Something for Fun. (happiness-project.com)

In which I consider the year ahead: a personal ad.

Yes, we're well into 2010.  That doesn't mean I shouldn't think about what I still want from the year.

So:

What I want:

Meaningful work.  It doesn't have to be a full-time job (multiple part-time jobs or plentiful one-shot work is just fine with me).  But it has to effect people who don't live in the same apartment as me, and it has to be in at least in a neutral way, preferably in an ideal way.

It ought to involve writing, at least tangentially.  Editing is fine, too. If I can make some money off my blog, that would be awesome, but I don't expect that to be a major source of income this year, at least.

As a sub-request, I need the focus to keep my blogs updated more frequently, and to apply to positions I come across online

How this might work:

My current opportunities could prove fruitful.
You, my dear readers, could take advantage of my talents.
Friends whom I've helped in the past can spread the word.
I could fall in love with something I find online.
Something else I haven't thought of, and I'm open to suggestions.

My commitment:

I will work hard with my current opportunities.
I will stay current with invoices.
I will mention that I am available for hire in public fora (hint hint!).
I will apply to jobs I find online.
I will make blogging a priority, instead of viewing it as a selfish luxury that has to wait until everything, ever, is finished.

Related articles by Zemanta

• How Do You Overcome Bloggers Block? (problogger.net)
• Yes! A Great Book for Bloggers (problogger.net)
• Use it or lose it! 5 Tips on How to Keep Your Blogging Regular (problogger.net)
• Do You Have Any Blogging New Years Resolutions? (problogger.net)
• How to find Readers for a Business Blog (problogger.net)

In which I evaluate the past week.

I recently read this article at Marc and Angel Hack Life about the end-of-week review.  I figured I'd give it a try, and if it works, great -- maybe I can use it to increase my blogging production!

So:

What did I learn last week?

At a certain point, it ceases to be sangria and becomes marinated fruit salad.  This, in itself, is not a bad thing.

What was my greatest accomplishment over the past week

After eating at one of our favorite restaurants, Chris mentioned to me that it would be great if we found a similar recipe.  I found such a recipe provided by that restaurant!

Which moment from last week was the most memorable and why?

Going to the gym when it was crowded and having to stand around "hot" while waiting my turn to cool down.  I ended up just walking home the long way, and it really annoyed me.  I won't be going at that particular time again.

What’s the #1 thing I need to accomplish this week?

 Emailing our videographer with our music selection.  I've been putting it off for way too long.

What can I do right now to make the week less stressful?  

I'm doing it!  That is, I'm working on my blog so it's one less thing to worry about.  I always feel like it's a luxury I have no right to work on, because other things are more important... but then the blogging doesn't get done at all.
 

What have I struggled with in the past that might also affect the upcoming week?

 
That's private.  Suffice to say I'm keeping it in mind.

What was last week’s biggest time sink?

The new TV! I've already been avoiding it.  

Am I carrying any excess baggage into the week that can be dropped?

Sure -- there's a bookcase needs building that I should have put together last week.  When it's done, we'll have one fewer box and a heck of a lot fewer piles. 

What have I been avoiding that needs to get done?

Noted and on my to-do list.  I've mentioned two already.  

What opportunities are still on the table?

I've bookmarked several interesting jobs.  I should apply to at least one this week. 

Is there anyone I’ve been meaning to talk to?

Yeah, but I suck at it.  How can you hold an interesting conversation with an old friend when the two of you no loner have a shared frame of reference? 

Is there anyone that deserves a big ‘Thank You’?

Chris, for working so hard. 

How can I help someone else this coming week?

It's a surprise. 

What are my top 3 goals for the next 3 years?

Do work that is meaningful and/or enjoyable, cultivate a social life, and travel more. 

Have any of my recent actions moved me closer to my goals?

Not especially, and in at least one case, not for want of trying.

What’s the next step for each goal?>

Keep applying for jobs, attend local events, save money. 

What am I looking forward to during the upcoming week? The Lost premier!  OK, it's not really related to my goals, but I'm really looking forward to it!

What are my fears?

 Nothing I'm going to share publicly at this point.  Well, heights and clowns, but you know...  

What am I most grateful for?

Loved ones, health, and written language. 

If I knew I only had one week to live, who would I spend my time with?

Chris, my family, and as many of my friends as I could squeeze in,


So... would you be interested in seeing more of this?  Are you willing to do your own?

Related articles by Zemanta

• Review: Unclutter Your Life in One Week (thesimpledollar.com)
• Create a Minimalist "Undesktop" for Distraction-Free Productivity (lifehacker.com)
• Elevator Pitch (lauraprocrastinates.blogspot.com)
• Rule #13: Improve Yourself Every Chance You Get. (thesimpledollar.com)
• A Fixed Income Is a Sucker Bet (stevepavlina.com)
• How To Stop Procrastinating and Start Your Blog (problogger.net)

In which I help find Don.

Image by wallyg via Flickr

On September 11, 2001, blogger Sarah Bunting had a business meeting in Manhattan.  As she sought safety and made her way toward home, she became "disaster buddies" with a man named Don. To this day, she wants to buy him a beer and thank him for helping her keep it together -- but he is nowhere to be found.

From her site:

What Don Looks/Looked Like
Don is an African-American man. I would estimate his age at between 25 and 35 on that day — probably not younger than that; possibly older, but not much. That means he's 30-ish to 40 now.

Don is between 5'9" and 6' tall, and probably weighed 160-180 pounds. (I suck at estimating men's weights.) In any case, at that time Don had a fit build — not pudgy, not skinny, well put-together.

Don had short hair and a goatee at that time. I do not recall any jewelry; he may have worn a watch, I don't remember. No glasses.

Don had on a grey windowpane-plaid suit and was carrying a black soft-sided briefcase.

Don didn't really resemble anyone famous, except Blair Underwood around the eyes a little bit.

Other Possibly Relevant Facts
Don and I met in the lobby of the Bank of New York building, located roughly at Wall Street and Broadway. We left the bank together at approximately 11 that morning.

Don lived at that time in Jersey City, or thereabouts — he took the ferry to Jersey City to get home, from a slip somewhere around Hester Street on the west side.

Don had come into the city that morning via the PATH train, and had gotten off at the World Trade Center stop. He had come into the city for work, but I don't remember whether his business that day was actually at the WTC complex; I don't believe it was. If he had gotten separated from any work colleagues, he didn't mention it. I don't know what he did for a living, and I don't know if his job was based in Jersey City or in lower Manhattan, but I got the impression that he was in the city for an errand or meeting, and that he didn't regularly commute in

As I said, I don't recall a wedding ring; Don did not mention a wife or any other family at that time as far as I can remember.

Don's birthday is September 11. No idea what year, but based on my estimate of his age it's probably in the late sixties or seventies.

Do you know anything about Don?  I would say let me know (it would be awesome to be the person who found him!), but Operation Find Don is Sarah's baby, so let her know if you have any leads or suggestions -- but be sure to read the comments, because she's looked under a lot of rocks already.

Read more:
At That Time (2010)
Operation Find Don (2009)
OFD goes global (2009) -- Sarah is interviewed on BBC Americana (you may not be able to listen anymore).
OFD on WNYC (2009) -- Sarah is interviewed on The Takeaway.
Angels in America (2008)
Beliefs (2007)
An American Tune (2006)
All Is Not Lost (2005)
Still Here (2004)
Scents Memory (2003)
The Fastest Year (2002)
For Thou Art With Us (2001)
Dispatches (2001)
Stay the Same (2001)

Related articles by Zemanta

• 9/11: Flashbacks from behaving poorly at the World Trade Center (penelopetrunk.com)
• Quickie Round-Up: Depressing Books edition (reviewingwhatever.blogspot.com)

In which I write personal ads.

Image by Getty Images via Daylife

Havi at The Fluent Self has a weekly ritual in which she posts personal ads for the things and people she wants and needs in her life. I love the idea, so I am heretofore going to rip her off.

Prolific communicator with endless opinions seeks same for pen-pal relationship. Let's keep the centuries-old tradition alive and count among the last great correspondents.

Topics unlimited. I am not easily offended, but be sure you are likewise and can take what you give. Sample topics might include books recently read, life lessons learned from daily tasks, updates on major milestones, progress towards goals, and explorations on topics not discussed in polite society.

Regular correspondence is a must, although "regular" may be defined as anything from a short note once a week to an encyclopedic missive twice a year. I tend toward the latter but am flexible. Ideally, holiday and birthday greetings would be included in the correspondence (but would not count toward the "twice a year missive").

The ideal candidate already has my home address, as I do not give it out online. I begin all replies immediately after receiving a letter; long responses will take longer to finish.

No dabblers, please. Apply by post; I have sent letters that have received no response, and would like to weed out such candidates.

Related articles by Zemanta

• The Art of Letter Writing: Stationery (artofmanliness.com)

In which I go to the parade

Image by Getty Images via Daylife In 2005, I attended the Village Halloween Parade as a class assignment. This is not the official article I turned in.


We were packed a little too close for comfort – or chastity, for that matter. Darkness and masks kept things fairly anonymous.

This was to be expected at the Village Halloween Parade.

“Excuse me!” screamed a man as he shoved his way through the crowd, muttering under his breath when the people around him would not give way. Police officers – some real, other perhaps not – used their authority to cut across the street.

At 5 foot 2, I knew the only way I would be able to see anything would be to wear the highest heels I own. That’s exactly what I did, but a life in sneakers left my ankles a little weaker than is ideal for the boots I had chosen. Between that and the jostling of the crowd, I managed to lose my balance.

The man who caught me was very nice, setting me upright and asking if I was all ok. I responded honestly with a smile and a thank you.

Nearby, two girls were talking. “I would have grabbed his balls if I were you!” one instructed the other, her voice taking on an angry edge. Some pervert had rubbed up against her, I figured.

The crowd pressed in, and the helpful man was pushed against me. I was poked from one side; the woman to my right had a handbag that was pressing against me.The woman left soon, and then so did the group to my left. The crowd shifted to account for the change in available space. The man behind me did not take advantage of the space next to him. I wondered if he noticed, and wished I had access to it. I was blocked off.

I felt another poke. The woman with the handbag was long gone by now, so I half-concluded, half-hoped that it was the man’s hip. I shifted away when I could, and he shifted right after me. Everyone was filling in what little space was available, so I accepted it, even when I realized it was not, in fact, his hip. A straight man pressing against a woman sometimes has certain reactions. I reasoned that it was natural, and probably very embarrassing for him. Accidental gropings are a fact of tight crowds. I was annoyed, but perhaps a
little amused. This would make for quite a story when I went to the bar later that night, I decided.

Even so, I tried to inch away. The man in front of me noticed that I was a bit uncomfortable. “Are you all right?” he asked, looking mildly concerned. Once again I smiled and said thank you.

The man behind me began moving. At first I thought it was more crowd-related shifting. Then, I noticed a rhythm that accompanied the poking. I decided to ask the man in front of me for help, planning to simply say that the man behind me was making me uncomfortable, and could we maybe switch spots? But before I could say anything, the man left.

“Are you ok?” the man behind me asked.

“Yeah,” I snapped, turning around to see if I could recognize any identifying features. All I caught was a racial description and a hat. I tried to slip into the spot the other man had just vacated, but I was followed.

There were hands on me. First my hips, then my waist. Again, in a crowd, accidental gropings happen. I glanced behind me again, but got no more information. The police, about ten officers a few yards away, could not see me, and I knew if I made a fuss, they would not hear me, either. I would have been more likely to anger the man behind me. Also, I was still not entirely convinced that anything was actually happening; If I don’t believe it, I reasoned, How can I expect the police to?

I steeled myself to endure it until I got an out. Every few minutes, groups were sent across the street, so I resolved to join one.

The hands were moving, and they definitely belonged to the man behind me. I tried to make myself trip again, hoping that maybe I would fall and in the process push him away. It did not work.

His hands slipped under the jacket of my suit, touching skin.

I grabbed the hem of the suit and tugged down, snatching the fabric out of his hands and allowing no space between it and my body.

I then turned.

I have no idea how I pushed out of the crowd, but I did. I briefly considered walking a few blocks to another corner, now that I was away, but before I could reach a conclusion, someone bumped into me. Pressure, on my back, right where the man had been rubbing against me. I turned around, frightened, expecting to see him.

It was someone else. Different race, no hat, very confused-looking. I choked back the tears that had just started and ran as quickly as I could on a crowded sidewalk while wearing those damned boots.

My instinct was not to call my mother or my boyfriend. All I could think was, Damn it! I don’t have enough information for a story. That, and, So I fail. There’s no way I’m going back.

The good

Well, in the end my professor told me that the above was well written -- that it made him very uncomfortable, which was a sign of talent. If it made you uncomfortable, I'm very sorry -- it could have been much worse, and for far too many women, and men, it is.

In which I visit the Tribute WTC Visitor Center

Image via Wikipedia

A scale model of the World Trade Center greets visitors.  Playing on a television screen on the wall, and projected onto the white plastic scale-model buildings stretching overhead, is a video about the culture and community of the World Trade Center: two people in Twin Towers costumes dance for children a la Mickey Mouse at Disney World; happy couples dine at Windows on the World; shoppers head underground to buy everything but groceries; parents bring their children to work, so that they can enjoy concerts festivals, and puppet shows; office workers hear live music through their windows.

The World Trade Center is referred to as both a city unto itself and a second home.

A panel keeps the pleasant nostaliga seperate.

This panel tells the tale of the 1993 bombing in the underground garage of the north Tower, which killed six people, including a pregnant woman, and injured over a thousand.

The back wall of the center is a bright sky blue, broken up by pictures of "Missing" flyers, first one, then a few, until the wall is more black-and-white that blue and the flyers overlap.  An older woman calls, "Here he is!" and her companions gather around one man's picture.

Across from this wall is another, exhibiting artificats of Septermber 11, 2001: a piece of airplane, parts of a building, cell phones and wallets, a souvenir stuffed lamb and guns.  Between the two walls, more panels feture quotes from survivors and audio or rescue calls.  One firefighter's mangled coat and helmet stand in a display case next to a television screen playing the story of the rescue and recovery efforts.

There are two memorial lists around the corner.  One is an alphabetical list of those killed in the 1993 and 2001 attacks.  The other is a projection, listing the same people and their ages, organized by affiliation: firehouse, business, police station, airplane.  The walls around these lists are actually display cases full of photographs and mementoes donated by family members. Visitors choke back tears, or give up and cry openly.  The Tribute Center is prepared for this: on every bench sits at least one box of tissues, and volunteers rush to offer tissues to weeping visitors in other parts of the Center.

Visitors go down a flight of stairs to the final gallery, a white room ringed with images and quotes of the world offering its sympathy and good wishes.  Stories told by survivors and family members play through earphones, and slips of paper decorate the walls in what becomes a mural-like guest book, offering visitors' names and hometowns as well as their thoughts and prayers.  Many of the displayed sheets show not paragraphs, but pictures drawn by young children, who label them, "I miss you, Daddy."

The good

You know, this really is a phenomenal museum and memorial.  I only hope the official memorial center they're building will be jsut as nice -- and I'm sure it will be.

In which I visit the Laundromat

Image via WikipediaAt first, the room looks blue.

 

The walls aren't blue.  They're white, with green tile trim.  The sporadically cracked tile on the floor isn't blue, either, but rather the pink-brown of fake sandstone.  A bright bank of gumball machines stands guard at the front door, and deep green potted plants and bright framed posters of flowers and line the walls.  But the heavy curtains blocking out the bright mid-afternoon sun are the same dirty-robin's-egg as the veneer of the washing machines, and the bluish shadows color the whole room.

 

The wall of blue is crenelated with alternating washing machines: double loader, triple loader.  The detergent wells do not all snap shut completely, so detergent bottles and watering cans sit on top of them, keeping sudsy water from escaping.  A tall potted plant sits on top of a washer.  Its upper branches splay against the mostly-white ceiling, which is marred by water stains, and bulges worryingly behind the ceiling fan.  A big-screen TV perched above the the machines, silent and dark, surveys the room.  Nearby, a scale stands under a yellow sign announcing, "Drop off service 1/2 LB to 10 LB Minimum $5."  a pile of neatly folded white blankets waits nearby on a wooden table, next to bulging duffel, laundry, and garbage bags.

 

 A matching table stands between banks of dryers.  It is surrounded by chairs: green and white metal folding chairs, and a white molded-plastic chair.  The tables are made of a yellow-brown wood that clashes with the dingy dryers and the pinkish floor tiles.

 

Near this table, laundry carts sit.  Black-brown rust peeks through their dingy, flaking paint.

 

Is dingy a color?  The dryers and carts might have been white once, or perhaps cream or pale yellow.  It's impossible to tell, though.  Now, they're just dingy, faded, aged.

 

A yellow sign reads:

We Are Not Responsible

Of Your Property

Watch Your Own

Property

 

In the back, fenced-off area, a sign warns, "No Admittance."  Behind the fence, garment bags hang from hangers on a rack, and laundry detergent -- $.50 a load -- lines a shelf.

 

At 3:00 the Laundromat is nearly empty, and the air is filled with the mixed scents of mildew and fabric softener.  By 4:00, a handful of customers sit, stare at their spinning clothes, and chat.  Sweet scents leak out of nearby bakeries and into the Laundromat.  Neighbors wander in an out, calling through the open door in English, Spanish, Yiddish.

 

The good

This was another assignment that I've never done anything with.  Not only am I pleased with the result, so was my professor.  This isn't quite the kind of thing you can pitch, though, is it? 

 

I hope you enjoyed it.

In which I go to the museum

Image by Swamibu via Flickr

“Man is nothing more than what he makes of himself” – Sartre.

The exhibit entrance is hushed. The Franklin Institute proper has closed for the evening, and the night crowd hasn’t turned out just yet. A maze designed to control long lines is walked by lone visitors who hand their tickets over to a bored-looking worker and turn off their cell phones at his request.

A ramp goes up to the exhibit space of Gunther von Hagens’ Body Worlds. Factoids about the human body – your heart stops when you sneeze – decorate the walls. A turnstile is the final obstacle.

The walls of the room are black, decorated with red cloth hangings, some plain, others featuring quotes – Kant, Psalm 8 – or pictures. Spotlights illuminate each specimen. Small fake trees in pots and white rock gardens offer a sense of not-quite-life to contrast with the not-quite-death of the specimens.

A standard, bones-only skeleton stands by the entrance. It is familiar; similar skeletons reside in biology classrooms around the country.

The gallery is still fairly empty, but the first small crowd is gathered around “Ligament Body,” a second skeleton. This one is much like the first skeleton, but its bones are connected not with wires but with cartilage, ligaments, and even some muscles. This skeleton won’t be found in your typical high school.

“Look at the expression on his face!” a woman remarks at “The Smoker,” a third skeleton. This one features still more muscles, plus a pair of blackened lungs. The Smoker’s bony fingers clutch a final cigarette. His eyes are wide. He has fingernails.

It is easy to dismiss a bare skeleton as a thing. It may have been a part of a person, once, but it is not a person. The Smoker is a person.

Von Hagens' process, called plastination, replaces or reinforces natural tissue with polymers to prevent disintegration. Some bodies are sliced into slides; other are harvested for individual organs; still more are cut and posed into the statue-like specimens for which von Hagens and BodyWorlds are famous. There are four official BodyWorlds exhibits on tour, plus various imitators; von Hagens is currently a professor at New York University, where he is developing an anatomy curriculum for the school of dentistry, where, according to the school’s public relations office, the students enjoy having lifelike specimens without having to dissect cadavers.

Von Hagens has been surrounded by controversy since he invented the process in the 1970s, as people question the source of the bodies (voluntary donations) and the appropriateness of making entertainment and profit off the dead.

Couples, preteen to mature, embrace as they stare, at first in marvel, then, gradually, for support. A man points out the muscle groups in “The Basketball Player,” who is playing with an autographed 76ers ball.

“The Teacher,” his nervous system visible, seems to read from a guide to this very exhibit. A few women decide to learn what he is teaching. They quiz one another in anatomy. Their voices, like the voices of most of the visitors, are hushed. The primary sound is that of the museum’s air conditioning.

Visitors peer into display cases of organs until they approach the “Blood Vessel Family.” A man, a woman, and a little child perched on the man’s shoulders. Visitors stare, intrigued, at the two adults, whose red, lacy bodies are made up of their plastinated arteries, with no other organs obstructing the view. None can look at the child for more than a few seconds before turning towards one of the adults, or the caption.

This caption explains the process. The bodies’ arteries were filled with plastic, then the bodies were treated over a long period until all but the plastic was dissolved away.

The child offers two thumbs up to the visitor who looks long enough to notice.


Visitors then leave this gallery for the next. The wall hangings here are green.

A literal deathmask rotates in a glass case. The face is covered in gold foil, but the features are distinct. Even so, a caption notes, the process leaves features unidentifiable. The plastination process, then, changes faces but not organs. A man, watching it turn, scratches his nose. Another man points out the face’s dental work, visible from the back.

The face has its original eyelashes.

A smoker’s lung is on display. Two men stare. “You have a cigarette?” one asks the other. Thanks to The Smoker, it is easy to identify each body’s lifetime tobacco habits. Most visible lungs are dark.

A woman gazes into another display case with her companion. “There’s your stomach lining,” she notes. “Well, not yours.”

Another doorway, and “The Blocking Goalkeeper” stretches out his arms, trying to catch a soccer ball in one hand and his organs in the other. This is the last specimen before the midpoint.


Up a ramp, past the SkyBike, a carefully counterweighted bicycle suspended high above the museum’s lobby. Visitors familiar with the Franklin Institute are greeted with some normalcy, some familiarity. A glance over the ramp’s railing reveals the ticket booth, the gift shop, the snack bar, the line for the Imax theater.

Off to one side, curtains hide storage. Two of the exhibit’s more famous bodies, “The Swimmer” and “Rearing Horse with Rider,” are packed away, replaced by more recent creations.

Visitors whip out cell phones or chat among themselves, taking advantage of the excuse to raise their voices. The intermission is welcome; the tension lifts palpably.

At the top of the ramp is the next gallery. The cream and gold walls give the exhibit a classical feel, rather than the ethereal one of previous galleries. Pink and purple banners hang down. Three visitors talk loudly as they approach, but their voices drop immediately.

Lines of viewers, headsets pressed to their ears, listen to the official audiotour, available at $6 a piece. The crowds, which build up as the evening progresses, are at their peak around exhibits that correspond to the tour.

“3D Slice Plastinate” could probably be recognized by his loved ones, were they to see him in the museum. His many tattoos are all visible on his sliced skin; a handful of teenaged girls admire them. They then examine his rear and giggle. The tattoos, and the man’s pubic hair, remind the viewers: this was a person.

Off to one side, cordoned off by black curtains, is a section on fetal development. This is the only section of the exhibit that tells the story of the people behind the specimens.

The pregnant woman shown had been ill, a caption explains at the entrance. She donated her body to the program after becoming pregnant. She died in her eighth month of pregnancy, and her child could not be saved. Mother and fetus were displayed at the main focal point of this secluded room. Her existence was apparently not controversial enough; she is displayed in a classic “cheesecake” pose, propped up on her right arm, her left arm bent behind her head. The fetus is visible in her open womb.

She is surrounded by small display cases on either side, and a row of jars in the middle of the room. The embryos and fetuses shown, the caption assures the visitors, came from historical collections, some dating back more than 80 years. As far as anyone knows, the caption continues, all died in accidents or of natural causes. The unspoken conclusion is that abortion is being kept off the table.

The fetuses are draped in soft black cloth, as if they are resting in blankets. Some are healthy-looking; others have obviously fatal defects. A young man explains the different birth defects to a young woman.

A woman explains pregnancy to a little girl. “How did you know how tiny I was?” the girl asks. She is captivated by the colorless embryos, which she compares to a cheese puff.

Another doorway, into a room with wooden paneling and floors. A desk is set up with forms so that visitors can send away for information on donating their own bodies. The bodies here span the process, some years old, others brand new. It is easy to see how the plastination process developed. Early specimens were basic, standing or sitting, as in “Winged Man,” who merely stands, his musculature open wide, a white hat perched on his head. Pieces dated 2006 are more complex: a pair of figure skaters are caught mid-dance; a male gymnast hangs from rings as a female gymnast arches over a balance beam. Faces, their skin otherwise removed, have maintained their eyebrows, lips, and the skin around their nostrils. Some visitors compare what they see to pages in their anatomy textbooks.

Visitors do not express any horror, but their bodies betray discomfort. They cross their arms over their chests, or clutch their necklaces. Their hands are clenched or else stuffed into pockets.

Two women make sure the little girl with them is all right. The girl is fine. She only has one concern: “Where’s Pop-pop?”

The good

This is something I wrote for a project and never did anything with. I finally have an excuse. I hope you enjoy it.

As an update: an imitator, Bodies: The Exhibition, was recently found to have received its specimens from a suspect source. If you saw this show -- not Body Worlds -- in the US, you may be entitled to a refund.

Related articles

• Our Disembodied Selves and the Decline of Empathy (artofmanliness.com)
• Why Going to the Gym Is a Waste of Money, Time, and Resources (wisebread.com)

In which I am scarred for life by a PSA

Image via Wikipedia

Image via WikipediaWhen I was in fourth grade, we had to watch D.A.R.E. videos. In one, a girl got into drugs, dropped out of school, got a job as a waitress, and was fired for her partying ways. Pretty standard stuff. At the end of the video, she had locked herself in the ladies room and the audio played loud sniffing. I, being disgustingly naive, assumed she was just crying. Everyone else knew that this meant she was snorting something elicit.

Since then, I've always been afraid to cry in a public bathroom. If I could mistake snorting for sniffling, someone else might mistake my sniffling for snorting.

The Good

It's hardly a bad thing to learn to be discrete, whether it's crying or just ordinary nose-blowing. Even if they don't assume you're on something, people don't want to hear that.

Related articles by Zemanta

• TF: Morality and sex and all of that (slacktivist.typepad.com)
• Melrose Place - Party's Over (televisionwithoutpity.com)