Now that our platies have declared a truce among themselves for well over a year and have stopped alternately impregating each other and biting pieces out of each other’s fins, by far our most difficult tank-bound characters are a plecostomus (Mr. Plec), a largish white angel fish (Angel Fish), and a newly blue crayfish (Crawfish). Mr. Plec and Angel Fish were both inherited from my younger brother. Mr. Plec came as the first colonist, leaving the brother's tanks to start ours; Angel Fish was taken in as a refugee when brother and his wife left the country for a few months.
Crawfish was our own idea--we wanted to have a second tank and had both grown up playing with crayfish in various streams and swamps around our homes. We thought we’d have a tank with one crayfish and 5 - 7 small schooling fish. A few casualties later, Crawfish is now the sole inhabitant of a large tank which he regularly tries to escape.
We had first brought over Mr. Plec to start the crayfish/fish combination tank (he’s proven quite good at this), thinking that the morose and anti-social plecostomus would enjoy a less crowded home. It turns out that Mr. Plec and Crawfish liked the same spot under the same rock, which led to fights. Mr. Plec could bat Crawfish back several inches with a spasmodic whip of his body, but Crawfish had claws, and even though he seemed to be taking a regular beating, Mr. Plec quickly got some snips in his fins that worried us.
We transferred Mr. Plec back to the other tank. Eager to demonstrate his gratitude, Mr. Plec instantly changed from a grumpy curmudgeon--hiding in his rock cave and refusing to come out except in the middle of the night to snatch some food--to a pillar of the community, regularly visible and ostentatiously doing his part to clean the algae off the side of the tank. His obvious delight, as well as his sudden assumption of his rightful responsibilities, convinced us that he at least should stay in the original tank.
A couple of weeks later, we transferred our four red-eyed tetras over to the crayfish tank. These silvery little fish generally stay near the top of the tank, so we assumed they’d be safe from Crawfish who--despite his best efforts to get out by inching himself up between the glass and the filter or by climbing the aquarium plant to the top only to have it double over under his weight and slowly deposit him on the ground--remains disconsolately earthbound. Unfortunately, the tetras proved to be more curious about than frightened by their new tankmate, and developed an unhealthy habit of hanging out just in claw reach. A few mornings later, I came down to see an incredibly self-satisfied Crawfish polishing off the last morsels of a tetra. We moved the remaining three tetras back to the other tank.
But now we have a dilemma. Mr. Plec and Angel Fish have been fighting. Earlier in the week, Mr. Plec was chasing Angel Fish. This is fairly common, and we normally restore order by rapping on the tank a few times in the direction of Mr. Plec, who hates any disturbance. However, this morning, Angel Fish was the instigator, and their interchange became wild enough that Angel Fish and Mr. Plec both ricocheted a couple of times off the walls of the tank, making enough noise that Riggs went over to investigate, hoping for (at the least) a mouse to kill. My husband rapped on the tank and spoke sternly to both, while Riggs watched smugly--very aware that it was not he who was being disciplined this time.
The talking-to seems to have held for today, but it’s an open question now of whether one or the other needs to come over to Crawfish’s tank for punishment, to make them grateful by comparison for their lot in life, even if it involves each other.
Sunday, January 30, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
Preachers
Sunday morning in rural southwestern West Virginia has pretty limited radio options: preachers. Based on the churches we drove past on tiny roads encroached by snow, either “free will” or “old regular” Baptists, or miscellaneous baseline protestant, with a possible predilection for snake handling.
A couple of them were pleasant: quiet, slow-speaking voices constructing a reasonable argument within a rigidly secluded universe of pre-assumptions. One of these concluded his careful monotone by singing all the verses of In the Sweet Bye and Bye acapella; at best, he was atonal. Another preacher—exhorting with the rapid fire delivery of a machine gun—spasmodically inserted “praise God” or “Hallelujah” between every second or third word. We could only bear his noise long enough for him to tell us he was going to read a couple verses of 1rst Corinthians; this took a couple minutes. Another preacher wound his congregants up with sing-song, four-beat phrases, the fourth beat always being a sharp intake of breath: 1, 2, 3, hiccup!; 1, 2, 3, hiccup!
The most remarkable thing about the preachers was how identical their messages were: God’s grace offers salvation; the Bible is the infallible and unquestioned word of God; if you elect to be saved, you will go to heaven. A Presbyterian by birth, I am allergic to the last message.
I was more allergic to the boredom of the dichotomy of heaven and hell: heaven is happiness and blue skies; hell is unhappiness and fire. One billboard we drove past depicted a blue smiley face in the clouds if you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, and a red frowny face in flames if you don’t.
Why would we ever decide that heaven is a blue smiley face in the clouds? What if you don’t want to be happy all of the time? What if you prefer the variability of being human and alive? I like blue skies, but I also like fog, blueblack twilight, grey winter sun, and rain—as long as I don’t have to bike too far in it. And what sort of misguided human imagination would want to compress an omnipotent, all encompassing God into a being set on securing something as limpid as human happiness?
Whatever a person believes—or doesn’t—if you believe in a god, you have to believe the he—or she—is an inscrutable, uncontrollable riot. And that "heaven" must be a much more multifaceted experience than a blue smiley face.
A couple of them were pleasant: quiet, slow-speaking voices constructing a reasonable argument within a rigidly secluded universe of pre-assumptions. One of these concluded his careful monotone by singing all the verses of In the Sweet Bye and Bye acapella; at best, he was atonal. Another preacher—exhorting with the rapid fire delivery of a machine gun—spasmodically inserted “praise God” or “Hallelujah” between every second or third word. We could only bear his noise long enough for him to tell us he was going to read a couple verses of 1rst Corinthians; this took a couple minutes. Another preacher wound his congregants up with sing-song, four-beat phrases, the fourth beat always being a sharp intake of breath: 1, 2, 3, hiccup!; 1, 2, 3, hiccup!
The most remarkable thing about the preachers was how identical their messages were: God’s grace offers salvation; the Bible is the infallible and unquestioned word of God; if you elect to be saved, you will go to heaven. A Presbyterian by birth, I am allergic to the last message.
I was more allergic to the boredom of the dichotomy of heaven and hell: heaven is happiness and blue skies; hell is unhappiness and fire. One billboard we drove past depicted a blue smiley face in the clouds if you accept Jesus Christ as your Lord and Savior, and a red frowny face in flames if you don’t.
Why would we ever decide that heaven is a blue smiley face in the clouds? What if you don’t want to be happy all of the time? What if you prefer the variability of being human and alive? I like blue skies, but I also like fog, blueblack twilight, grey winter sun, and rain—as long as I don’t have to bike too far in it. And what sort of misguided human imagination would want to compress an omnipotent, all encompassing God into a being set on securing something as limpid as human happiness?
Whatever a person believes—or doesn’t—if you believe in a god, you have to believe the he—or she—is an inscrutable, uncontrollable riot. And that "heaven" must be a much more multifaceted experience than a blue smiley face.
Wednesday, January 5, 2011
Handles
We recently shattered a glass pitcher. Though already warmed, the pitcher apparently was cooler enough than the hot water poured into it. Unfortunately I missed the event, but I gather it was spectacular: our dog was still leery of the sink twelve hours later.
Some of the resultant pieces were beautiful—much more interesting to look at and think about than the original pitcher. The piece that held the handle—with the handle—remained intact; it was independently elegant. Looking at it, I had some understanding of why people seem to pay so much attention to handles.
When we were trying to figure out how to buy kitchen cabinets to replace the ones we inherited in our house (which had rotten to the point that they could be torn in pieces effortlessly by hand), I was stymied by the variety of handles available. I frequently become nervous trying to differentiate between all the possible toothpastes and select one, but the varieties of toothpaste are nothing to handles.
Places that sell home furnishings frequently have several displays of multiple handles each. You can choose between 10 types of kitchen cabinets, but you can elect to open those cabinets with roughly 35 different handles. There are three types of doors, but you can open that door with hundreds of different knobs.
An organization in the Maryland suburbs that collects and resells recycled building materials has several sections overflowing with items that walk a very fine tightrope between junk and trash, including large collections of handles removed from discarded drawers, doors, and cabinets. Also church pews—sold by the foot—and elderly toilets missing important elements (tank and seat). We picked through the handles at one point, to find doorknobs to replace the ones that a combination of homeless people and hooligans had ripped out of our bedroom door (prior to our moving in, of course), but couldn’t find two knobs that would fit together to make the whole apparatus. So, we went to Home Depot and paid $8 for the cheapest complete, but unrecycled, version.
Shattering the pitcher has another unexpected benefit: we don’t have it anymore. I didn’t object to the pitcher—we used it, but infrequently. However, it is irritating to have something that you can use, but don’t really need, but have to hold onto because someone gave it to you and it would be more wasteful to get rid of it. I tried to invent a use for it as a holder for miscellaneous kitchen utensils: a grater, measuring cups, a set of incremental teaspoons and tablespoons.
But those things didn’t really need to be held; it was a superfluous use.
Some of the resultant pieces were beautiful—much more interesting to look at and think about than the original pitcher. The piece that held the handle—with the handle—remained intact; it was independently elegant. Looking at it, I had some understanding of why people seem to pay so much attention to handles.
When we were trying to figure out how to buy kitchen cabinets to replace the ones we inherited in our house (which had rotten to the point that they could be torn in pieces effortlessly by hand), I was stymied by the variety of handles available. I frequently become nervous trying to differentiate between all the possible toothpastes and select one, but the varieties of toothpaste are nothing to handles.
Places that sell home furnishings frequently have several displays of multiple handles each. You can choose between 10 types of kitchen cabinets, but you can elect to open those cabinets with roughly 35 different handles. There are three types of doors, but you can open that door with hundreds of different knobs.
An organization in the Maryland suburbs that collects and resells recycled building materials has several sections overflowing with items that walk a very fine tightrope between junk and trash, including large collections of handles removed from discarded drawers, doors, and cabinets. Also church pews—sold by the foot—and elderly toilets missing important elements (tank and seat). We picked through the handles at one point, to find doorknobs to replace the ones that a combination of homeless people and hooligans had ripped out of our bedroom door (prior to our moving in, of course), but couldn’t find two knobs that would fit together to make the whole apparatus. So, we went to Home Depot and paid $8 for the cheapest complete, but unrecycled, version.
Shattering the pitcher has another unexpected benefit: we don’t have it anymore. I didn’t object to the pitcher—we used it, but infrequently. However, it is irritating to have something that you can use, but don’t really need, but have to hold onto because someone gave it to you and it would be more wasteful to get rid of it. I tried to invent a use for it as a holder for miscellaneous kitchen utensils: a grater, measuring cups, a set of incremental teaspoons and tablespoons.
But those things didn’t really need to be held; it was a superfluous use.
Saturday, January 1, 2011
The Rainbow
Even though I’m an English major, I just finished reading my first DH Lawrence novel. He was one of those writers that I always felt I should read, just like I’d always felt obliged to like Shakespeare. Moving into our foreclosed reclamation project/house in an area just east of the most eastward “improving” neighborhood, my husband and I were able to unbox and shelve the books that had been languishing in our parents’ homes for the years of dorm rooms and tiny apartments in South Hadley, Richmond, Dublin, NYC, and DC. So this past year I’ve been rediscovering the books I liked, or didn’t, or ignored, for the first two decades of my life.
I’ve realized that Shakespeare actually is the genius that other English majors idolize him for being. His unstruggled grasp of meter and precision on humanness are humbling; most poets resort to triteness, clumsy metric workarounds, and adjectives. And, I’ve realized Milton is just damn lazy. He has some great lines, but he has more where the meter collapses; the words weren’t rethought from the first draft; and he substitutes making his point with banging his readers over the head with it, simply because he’s too careless--or conceited--to put in the work.
I’ve also discovered that DH Lawrence isn’t actually a novelist--despite writing the 400+ pages in The Rainbow--but I’m sorry I’ve missed him for 30 years. He’s an imagist, mostly unconcerned with plot. With words just barely shy of too corpulent, he captures the confused mutability of “love” shared between any two persons. A stolid marriage is shown in its daily instability of mistimings, desires, urgencies, silences, cruelties, affections, and submissions. It is a little tedious to follow several generations of lovers/spouses working out how to negotiate themselves against each other, but I’m impressed that someone wrote it believably.
Even if a bit indulgently.
I’ve realized that Shakespeare actually is the genius that other English majors idolize him for being. His unstruggled grasp of meter and precision on humanness are humbling; most poets resort to triteness, clumsy metric workarounds, and adjectives. And, I’ve realized Milton is just damn lazy. He has some great lines, but he has more where the meter collapses; the words weren’t rethought from the first draft; and he substitutes making his point with banging his readers over the head with it, simply because he’s too careless--or conceited--to put in the work.
I’ve also discovered that DH Lawrence isn’t actually a novelist--despite writing the 400+ pages in The Rainbow--but I’m sorry I’ve missed him for 30 years. He’s an imagist, mostly unconcerned with plot. With words just barely shy of too corpulent, he captures the confused mutability of “love” shared between any two persons. A stolid marriage is shown in its daily instability of mistimings, desires, urgencies, silences, cruelties, affections, and submissions. It is a little tedious to follow several generations of lovers/spouses working out how to negotiate themselves against each other, but I’m impressed that someone wrote it believably.
Even if a bit indulgently.
Sunday, December 26, 2010
Monotony
Distance athletes thrive on monotony, struck by the subtle details that differentiate one run, one mile, one season from the next: how tired or fresh the body is, how a regular tree has turned in a so slightly new light, what color the river has churned that day, or how many cars ignore the crosswalk and fail to see the runner who is shorter than their SUV’s hood.
We watch the differences that are felt and seen. Until it snows, the thud of feet on pavement and hard ground drums, and bike tires hum or crunch, unnoticed.
With snow, the less-sound suddenly is evident, and becomes the next newness to explore.
We watch the differences that are felt and seen. Until it snows, the thud of feet on pavement and hard ground drums, and bike tires hum or crunch, unnoticed.
With snow, the less-sound suddenly is evident, and becomes the next newness to explore.
Wednesday, December 15, 2010
Frozen sand
Before the summer drought, DC had summer floods. For the multi-use trail in Rock Creek Park, this meant the pavement was covered in several inches of thick mud. After a very messy week, the mud was plowed to the side and eventually dried into sand.
(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)
I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.
Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.
I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.
(Multi-use, by the way, means that all non-motorized people—plus, of course, the motorized police—can use the trail. In practice, this means that parents, convinced that their charming offspring are better when unrestrained, let toddlers dash suddenly in front of runners and that pet owners, equally convinced that their precious animals should not be put in anything more restrictive than a retractable leash, let the leash be pulled across the path—invisible to a cyclist, until just too late. And people wonder why I prefer to run when it is really cold or really hot: fewer pet owners, and very few parents.)
I run on the dirt by the asphalt trail as much as possible, both for the health of my knees and to avoid the parents and pet owners. During the summer drought, this meant slogging through tiring sections of deep, loose sand. As the rains came, the sand compacted somewhat, but was still soft and shifting.
Today, it was frozen, and the echoing thud of my feet startled me. This was pure cold.
I have always found something comforting in the elemental. Even if the element itself is unpleasant, as the depth of cold that results in frozen sand is. When you confront something that actually and unarguably is—something which cannot be disputed or ignored or overcome—the solid factness is reassuring. Existing outside ourselves, it cannot be reduced by our own equation.
Monday, December 13, 2010
Rhinestones
It is no surprise that three of the five members of the Ralph Stanley band sport clothing fresh from the bedazzler: rhinestones are an essential component of the country music wardrobe.
Ralph wore his moderate glitter with security: a mere twenty or so stones—small and uncolored—tastefully arranged around the buttons and collar of his burgundy shirt. Paired with a stiff, pressed grey suit, his clothes exuded the perfect combination of classy and Partonesque.
His grandson—a fleshy 18-year old with a square face, lank hair, and a habit of forgetting to hitch up his jaw so he resembled a fish on ice—wore the same burgundy shirt, but covered it with a black velvet jacket, densely crusted with glass bits. Nathan Stanley glinted thickly in the dark as he moved towards the stage. When he leaned into a faster strum, his fingers shifting to the fourth chord he had mastered, the stage lights set off an ecstatic, multicolored sparkle. When he planted himself at the microphone for a sadder song, the rhinestones flickered earnestly.
He did not—accustomed to hearing applause from childhood, he hadn’t yet confronted his mediocrity as a singer or musician, or wondered if he could legitimately tag after his grandfather’s name.
The man on the upright, self-effacing as most bassists, had permitted himself only one piece of glass. The solitary rhinestone in his tie glowed from his belly, tellytubbyesque.
What store sells the subtle rhinestone tie?
Ralph wore his moderate glitter with security: a mere twenty or so stones—small and uncolored—tastefully arranged around the buttons and collar of his burgundy shirt. Paired with a stiff, pressed grey suit, his clothes exuded the perfect combination of classy and Partonesque.
His grandson—a fleshy 18-year old with a square face, lank hair, and a habit of forgetting to hitch up his jaw so he resembled a fish on ice—wore the same burgundy shirt, but covered it with a black velvet jacket, densely crusted with glass bits. Nathan Stanley glinted thickly in the dark as he moved towards the stage. When he leaned into a faster strum, his fingers shifting to the fourth chord he had mastered, the stage lights set off an ecstatic, multicolored sparkle. When he planted himself at the microphone for a sadder song, the rhinestones flickered earnestly.
He did not—accustomed to hearing applause from childhood, he hadn’t yet confronted his mediocrity as a singer or musician, or wondered if he could legitimately tag after his grandfather’s name.
The man on the upright, self-effacing as most bassists, had permitted himself only one piece of glass. The solitary rhinestone in his tie glowed from his belly, tellytubbyesque.
What store sells the subtle rhinestone tie?
Return
I have had a couple of requests to revive this effort, initially abandoned for several reasons. For one, moving from zero mechanical knowledge to professional bicycle mechanic absorbed most of my free brain this past year. Also, it’s been a pretty wild year, and I haven’t had much free brain at all.
So, no promises, but out of respect to the requests, I’ll give it a shot.
So, no promises, but out of respect to the requests, I’ll give it a shot.
Tuesday, December 1, 2009
God Loves Turkeys
I have not generally made a habit of obsessing about church signs. Kitschy, thoughtless, trite—as a genre they do not deserve as much attention as I have been paying them on this blog.
However, the sign on the Colonial Heights Pentecostal church in southern Virginia proclaiming that “God Loves Turkeys” does.
What message is the church trying to convey? It seems precariously close to no message at all, but then why bother to put the letters up on a busy suburban road?
Did the church mean to express general approval of Thanksgiving feasts?
Or to suggest that God would put off his white robe and halo, don a sweater vest and tie, and float down to consume turkey, mashed potatoes, and yam pie with the congregants? Then push off his shoes, unbutton his trousers, and watch the football game with a frosty Bud in one hand?
Or is God a vegetarian, regarding turkeys with a perfect and non-sacrificial love: because God adores turkeys, the congregants should not kill and eat them?
Or was the pastor a horrible punner, pointing out that God loves even the failing, flawed, idiotic—the “turkey”—in all of us, and thinking this was a funny way to kill two birds with one stone (please pardon my pun): 1) obligatory reference to Thanksgiving and 2) sermon on God’s love.
Ha Ha.
Now that is the sort of clever insight that would make me want to go to the church
However, the sign on the Colonial Heights Pentecostal church in southern Virginia proclaiming that “God Loves Turkeys” does.
What message is the church trying to convey? It seems precariously close to no message at all, but then why bother to put the letters up on a busy suburban road?
Did the church mean to express general approval of Thanksgiving feasts?
Or to suggest that God would put off his white robe and halo, don a sweater vest and tie, and float down to consume turkey, mashed potatoes, and yam pie with the congregants? Then push off his shoes, unbutton his trousers, and watch the football game with a frosty Bud in one hand?
Or is God a vegetarian, regarding turkeys with a perfect and non-sacrificial love: because God adores turkeys, the congregants should not kill and eat them?
Or was the pastor a horrible punner, pointing out that God loves even the failing, flawed, idiotic—the “turkey”—in all of us, and thinking this was a funny way to kill two birds with one stone (please pardon my pun): 1) obligatory reference to Thanksgiving and 2) sermon on God’s love.
Ha Ha.
Now that is the sort of clever insight that would make me want to go to the church
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Advertising
My word-dork self occasionally is overcome by advertisement.
No word’s meaning is ever stationary, and I love to trace how meaning gathers and morphs around a particular word. Advertising inverts this—exploiting the meanings that surround words and phrases to invoke associations, related to the product or not, that could create a desire you might act on.
A couple days ago, someone had left an Herbal Essences conditioner in the yoga showers. It was one of those conditioners that’s supposed to keep your hair from splitting. It used the word “break” three times on the front (and verbage really was pretty sparse—it’s a conditioner bottle after all, not a PSA).
1. “Break’s Over”. This apparently is the name of the conditioner. What does this call up? End of lunch break, getting back to work, standing back up after resting, cigarette breaks, chop chop, Labor Day, union negotiations
2. “with an anti-breakage potion and a fusion of coco mango & pearls”. What? Other than not knowing that pearls could be mixed with fruit and “infused” into a bottle with water and oil, what can this possibly mean? But it does sound vaguely romantic, moonlit, and luxurious.
3. “a love potion for bad hair break-ups”. Note the repetition of “potion”. How do we get from “break’s over” to “break-ups” in just 4 inches of violet-blue bottle? What do girlfriend-boyfriend sagas, heartbreak, unaware teenagers, love hocus-pocus, fighting, and relationship drama, broadly defined, have to do with getting back to work, pearls, or hair products?
Does it matter that these three phrases are unequally insane? That the unrelated free associations these phrases are designed to elicit have nothing to do with hair? That the premise of the persuasion is not argument but successful manipulation of our average mental drivel?
Probably not, and certainly Herbal Essences conditioner isn’t the place to start a war on the perversion of advertising. Other propaganda is more harmful.
No word’s meaning is ever stationary, and I love to trace how meaning gathers and morphs around a particular word. Advertising inverts this—exploiting the meanings that surround words and phrases to invoke associations, related to the product or not, that could create a desire you might act on.
A couple days ago, someone had left an Herbal Essences conditioner in the yoga showers. It was one of those conditioners that’s supposed to keep your hair from splitting. It used the word “break” three times on the front (and verbage really was pretty sparse—it’s a conditioner bottle after all, not a PSA).
1. “Break’s Over”. This apparently is the name of the conditioner. What does this call up? End of lunch break, getting back to work, standing back up after resting, cigarette breaks, chop chop, Labor Day, union negotiations
2. “with an anti-breakage potion and a fusion of coco mango & pearls”. What? Other than not knowing that pearls could be mixed with fruit and “infused” into a bottle with water and oil, what can this possibly mean? But it does sound vaguely romantic, moonlit, and luxurious.
3. “a love potion for bad hair break-ups”. Note the repetition of “potion”. How do we get from “break’s over” to “break-ups” in just 4 inches of violet-blue bottle? What do girlfriend-boyfriend sagas, heartbreak, unaware teenagers, love hocus-pocus, fighting, and relationship drama, broadly defined, have to do with getting back to work, pearls, or hair products?
Does it matter that these three phrases are unequally insane? That the unrelated free associations these phrases are designed to elicit have nothing to do with hair? That the premise of the persuasion is not argument but successful manipulation of our average mental drivel?
Probably not, and certainly Herbal Essences conditioner isn’t the place to start a war on the perversion of advertising. Other propaganda is more harmful.
Wednesday, October 28, 2009
Fruitcakes
I have adored Jimmy Buffet’s ludicrous Fruitcakes ever since I first heard it a couple years ago.
Just for the sheer joy of it, I have to share two fruitcakes whom I met in the past couple days.
Fruitcake #1: One of those people that you pray you never have to sit next to on a Greyhound. As near as I can remember, this is a rendering of the 100 yards of sidewalk I shared with her:
God it is a glorious day. Isn’t it a glorious day? These are the kind of days you just live for, you just want to live for them the whole day. Oh your hair is just the color of that tree. It is so beautiful. How did you get hair that color? Oh, it’s yours? Oh my god, that is amazing. Your hair is soaking wet. Why is your hair soaking wet? Oh you do yoga. I have always wanted to do yoga. I used to be a runner and can’t run any more so I thought that maybe I try yoga. My gym that I belong to has yoga classes and I have thought that one day I would take a class there you know. It seems so calming and soulful. What type of yoga do you do? Oh hot yoga. I am not sure that I could do hot yoga. I’m at the stage in my life when I have having hot flashes, you know, and I am hot enough all by myself. I’m just my own little sunball half the time, and if I had an episode in hot yoga I just do not know what I would do. Oh this is your office? I used to work in an office. Well, I guess I’ll be going then. It was so nice talking to you. Just so nice.
Fruitcake #2: An older gentleman, in his mid sixties, riding a bike to work in the rain. He had a full rainsuit; rode an expensive Dutch commuter bike; and wore a helmet, waterproof gloves, and a large messenger bag. His large, blanched feet—completely bare—were pedaling viciously.
The problem with fruitcakes is you don’t have their stories, but they beg you to write them. I’m sure Fruitcake #2 had a good reason for cycling barefoot in chilly rain—perhaps he had an important meeting to go to and didn’t want his new shoes ruined with damp. Perhaps he had given his shoes to a homeless man. Perhaps he was one of those barefoot distance runners and was translating it to biking.
My own appearance at that same intersection also had its irrationality. In a rainsuit, on a bike, with a helmet and messenger bag, I was wearing only one waterproof glove; my right hand was covered in a Richmond Times Dispatch newspaper bag.
The explanation: I had lost my right waterproof glove last week. My grandmother’s good friend, knowing that we have a dog to pick up after and will soon be charged for plastic bags in DC, collects and sends us, via my parents, all her plastic bags. She gets the Richmond Times Dispatch delivered daily, so we have a ton of thin yellow newspaper bags. A newspaper bag fits snuggly over a biker’s hand, impeding brake access only minimally. It was a perfect.
Just for the sheer joy of it, I have to share two fruitcakes whom I met in the past couple days.
Fruitcake #1: One of those people that you pray you never have to sit next to on a Greyhound. As near as I can remember, this is a rendering of the 100 yards of sidewalk I shared with her:
God it is a glorious day. Isn’t it a glorious day? These are the kind of days you just live for, you just want to live for them the whole day. Oh your hair is just the color of that tree. It is so beautiful. How did you get hair that color? Oh, it’s yours? Oh my god, that is amazing. Your hair is soaking wet. Why is your hair soaking wet? Oh you do yoga. I have always wanted to do yoga. I used to be a runner and can’t run any more so I thought that maybe I try yoga. My gym that I belong to has yoga classes and I have thought that one day I would take a class there you know. It seems so calming and soulful. What type of yoga do you do? Oh hot yoga. I am not sure that I could do hot yoga. I’m at the stage in my life when I have having hot flashes, you know, and I am hot enough all by myself. I’m just my own little sunball half the time, and if I had an episode in hot yoga I just do not know what I would do. Oh this is your office? I used to work in an office. Well, I guess I’ll be going then. It was so nice talking to you. Just so nice.
Fruitcake #2: An older gentleman, in his mid sixties, riding a bike to work in the rain. He had a full rainsuit; rode an expensive Dutch commuter bike; and wore a helmet, waterproof gloves, and a large messenger bag. His large, blanched feet—completely bare—were pedaling viciously.
The problem with fruitcakes is you don’t have their stories, but they beg you to write them. I’m sure Fruitcake #2 had a good reason for cycling barefoot in chilly rain—perhaps he had an important meeting to go to and didn’t want his new shoes ruined with damp. Perhaps he had given his shoes to a homeless man. Perhaps he was one of those barefoot distance runners and was translating it to biking.
My own appearance at that same intersection also had its irrationality. In a rainsuit, on a bike, with a helmet and messenger bag, I was wearing only one waterproof glove; my right hand was covered in a Richmond Times Dispatch newspaper bag.
The explanation: I had lost my right waterproof glove last week. My grandmother’s good friend, knowing that we have a dog to pick up after and will soon be charged for plastic bags in DC, collects and sends us, via my parents, all her plastic bags. She gets the Richmond Times Dispatch delivered daily, so we have a ton of thin yellow newspaper bags. A newspaper bag fits snuggly over a biker’s hand, impeding brake access only minimally. It was a perfect.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Isolated Justice
It should not go unnoted on this blog, a dominant theme of which is the DC government’s inability to and disinterestedness in ensuring cyclists’ safety, that yesterday was an aberration.
On my way to work, a DC School Crossing Guard looked me directly in the eyes, decided that a cyclist was immaterial, and called roughly 20 commuters to cross against the light, directly in front of me.
My first thought was to veer and hit the Crossing Guard, but I had no time. My second thought was to run into as many of the commuters as possible, but it wasn’t their fault: ipods in, cell phones on, coffee in hand—these folks were safeguarded from observing anything. I squeezed my brake levers and skidded to a stop, partially into the crosswalk. While the pedestrians passed, my light turned red.
I requested that the Crossing Guard explain his behavior. He replied that he’d “get” me the next time I sped through a red light—an illogical and factually incorrect non sequitur:
1. I stop at red lights. I didn’t use to, but after a painful soul search, I decided that I could not object to cars breaking the law if I did also—even though cyclists generally disobey laws for safety reasons. I now break the law only when it is not safe not to.
2. Even if I were to cross an intersection on a red light, I would not do so when cars would hit me—which is equivalent to what the Crossing Guard did to me.
3. Was he really arguing that two wrongs made a right?
I explained these three points in detail to the Crossing Guard, but he was unimpressed. My light turned green and I rode off in a huff.
When I got to work, I emailed four people within the DC government who were various community liaisons or responsible for programs related to the Crossing Guards.
50% of the people I emailed responded, and supplied me with the correct name of the person who supervises the guard.
The supervisor himself called me, asked some questions to verify my story, and said he would speak to the guard.
My cynicism, bitterness, and cavernous rage were, for the moment, eased.
Monday, October 19, 2009
Writing Prompt
I saw this sign in Meyersdale, Pennsylvania. I have been basking in imaging the sheer range of possible causes for such a public manifesto ever since.
What happened?
Did a deacon embezzle money from the offering plate in order to start a travel agency in an abandoned store on Main Street—a pseudo business which in truth was a front for counterfeiting documents for illegal immigrants?
Did a casual attendant, the editor of the local paper, interpret a sermon as being aimed directly at his personal sins and blast the congregation for narrow-mindedness and bigotry in an op-ed?
Did the pastor sleep with his daughter’s first grade teacher?
Did a group of malcontents, angry at the Education Committee’s selection of Bible School material over the summer, escalate that disagreement into a full-fledged war over Sunday School materials for the fall. Were certain things said that could not be taken back? Did this group depart from the church in a huff, with their families and allies, and join the “other” Methodist church?
Did the church choir fail to bring dishes to a community chorale potluck, thus embarrassing the Methodists in front of the Baptists, Episcopalians, Catholics, Presbyterians, Pentecostals, and Church of the Living Fire?
Did pictures surface on the internet of a prominent member of the congregation drunk and half clothed in a gay bar in Pittsburgh (are there gay bars in Pittsburgh?)?
Did the Methodist youth group graffiti public property?
Does the pastor disapprove, with staunch Methodist fundamentalism, of some of his flock’s theological inclinations, and chose this method of informing them they had strayed? It certainly is calmer way of communicating fire and brimstone.
But that is precisely what pleased me so much about this sign: this church has guts. I would attend it. Somebody in the church obviously has something to say, and doesn’t mind saying it on main street. In small, close-knit towns, that is real courage.
It’s for sure better than the drivel that normally goes on church signs—horribly executed plays on words and bad rhymes that invite you, oh so cutely, to tuck religion into a convenient spot in your well-arranged life.
Sunday, October 18, 2009
Public/private
The AT and C&O are the only extended public corridors I know that offer their travelers free, unregulated lodging.
On the C&O, lodging means a cleared space with a fire ring, picnic table, and a portajohn; on the AT, it means an open shelter, a fire ring, and a walless pit toilet. Rudimentary, but with absolute permission to make this public, federal space your own for a night—or as long as you care to stay.
In the rest of our lives, making a home means you either have to procure (rent/buy) private space or break rules and make space home at your own risk, as the homeless do. The uncontrolled invitation to camp for free is an anachronism in an over-owned country.
The invitation also is complete: when staying in that campsite or shelter, it does become home. Fully public and open—by the main road, available to all who chose to stop at that mileage that night—the spot becomes more confidently yours as the night goes on: your campfire, your tent, your food on your picnic table. Sometimes by morning, it is disquieting to see the early users of the trail speed by while you still are dressing or cooking breakfast, in what you feel has become privacy.
I have accumulated a similar sense of ownership over other public property—most notably parking meters or street signs that have become my regular locking posts. I have even been offended when other cyclists have locked to the street signs in front of my boyfriend's various apartments that I considered my private posts.
Wednesday, October 14, 2009
Bureaucracy
Living and working within several intersecting bureaucracies, I relish its perfect expression: frantic, absorbed futility.
This morning as I biked to an early doctor’s appointment on the other side of town, I passed several DC government employees, armed with leaf blowers and commissioned to blow leaves off the sidewalks eastwards.
Two problems:
Very few leaves have fallen yet—most of DC’s trees are still green or just starting to flame.
A fresh wind blew west, and the few leaves that had fallen—crisp, brown strips like snow pea pods—were rattling efficiently in the opposite direction of the blowers’ push.
Undeterred, the faithful DC government workers ran their blowers, staunchly spewing air into a near leafless headwind.
It was an accurate synopsis of my preceding 24 hours, in which the water to our house had been turned off, because WASA had not processed the paperwork to open an account for our house, because in their records our house was still owned in foreclosure by Countrywide, because they had not processed the paperwork to open an account for our house.
This morning as I biked to an early doctor’s appointment on the other side of town, I passed several DC government employees, armed with leaf blowers and commissioned to blow leaves off the sidewalks eastwards.
Two problems:
Very few leaves have fallen yet—most of DC’s trees are still green or just starting to flame.
A fresh wind blew west, and the few leaves that had fallen—crisp, brown strips like snow pea pods—were rattling efficiently in the opposite direction of the blowers’ push.
Undeterred, the faithful DC government workers ran their blowers, staunchly spewing air into a near leafless headwind.
It was an accurate synopsis of my preceding 24 hours, in which the water to our house had been turned off, because WASA had not processed the paperwork to open an account for our house, because in their records our house was still owned in foreclosure by Countrywide, because they had not processed the paperwork to open an account for our house.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Great Allegheny Passage
This post is meant to be purely informational: my husband and I struggled to find information on the Great Allegheny Passage—the bike trail that goes from Pittsburgh, Pennsylvania to Cumberland, Maryland, connecting with the C&O which takes you from Cumberland to DC.
The most useful information we found was on another cyclist’s blog, so I am going to return the favor and (hopefully) help other cyclists trying to figure out what to pack and how to prepare. Feel free to contact me through this blog if you want further information.
First, let’s start with the GAP website: www.atatrail.org. Don’t bother emailing these guys to ask for information—they won’t answer. However, if you call their number, weave through the automated phone maze, and leave a message with your name and address, they will mail you “trail information”. This information includes the free map you can pick up anywhere along the GAP or C&O and a bunch of promotional material advertising the general area of Pennsylania through which the GAP trail runs. The promotional material actually is fairly useful—the advertisements tell you what businesses are where. The free map is plenty sufficient.
Second, the trail doesn’t go from Pittsburgh to Cumberland. The part from Pittsburgh to McKeesport, scheduled to be completed in 2006, has not yet been completed. This critical tidbit of information is surprisingly difficult to confirm. The trail really wants you to believe that it has been completed.
Third, until they have fully completed the trail to Pittsburgh, don’t start in McKeesport; start 3 miles down the trail in Boston. I don’t have anything against McKeesport as a town, but the trail in it really hasn’t been completed. Getting from McKeesport to Boston involves some terrible hills on narrow, bumpy pavement and a harrowing crossing of a busy 55 mph two-lane highway, with blind curves each way. It’s not a pleasant beginning: until the trail is fully done, do yourself the favor of starting in Boston.
Fourth, don’t worry about water. My husband and I did this trip in a very chilly week in October. We carried roughly 6 liters of water (3 liter water bottles and a three-liter camelback strapped in a dry bag on a bike). We never needed to dip into the camelback—we were able to cross a town, or a water pump, or something to replenish our bottles. I would still recommend carrying about 2 – 3 per person, but we never worried about not being able to make it before the next place with available water. I also wouldn’t recommend bringing a water pump. You’re along a river all the way, but the banks are almost always steep and, with knees stiff from many miles of biking, getting down the cliff to the water would be unpleasant. Also, there really weren’t many places where, once down, you could perch safely to pump. 
Fifth, don’t worry about camping. There are lots of campgrounds right on the trail, and even more if you want to go a mile or so off. The campgrounds were mostly primitive, but very nice: running water, clean pit toilets, etc. Here is some more detail:• Cedar Creak Park: there are individual sites right after the group Boy Scout camping. They’re nice, but this campground is pretty damp so be prepared for that. There are both pit and flush toilets; water is available and tastes good—we assumed that it was town water of some sort because it didn’t taste strongly of minerals or dirt.
• Roundbottom Campground: primitive sites, nice looking
• Ohiopyle Campground: we saw this, but don’t remember in too much detail.
• Confluence: there’s a commercial campground right off the trail (Outflow Campground). It costs $5 per person in the hiker/biker section. Flush toilets, but no hot water (my husband says there is hot water in the showers in the men’s bathroom; there wasn’t in the women’s). Water at this campground tastes mildly of dirt—either put up with it, mix with Gatorade, buy water in town, or ask a restaurant to fill your bottles for you.
• Rockwood: the campground is just past the town, but the registration seems to be in town. I can’t recommend the town, but the campground is amazing. Primarily because each site had covered wood, protected from the rain. My husband and I would have paid almost anything for dry wood on this trail: we were freezing, and much of the available wood was wet. Note: the 17 or so miles from Confluence to Rockwood are longer and harder than you’d expect—the grade gets much steeper from Confluence to the Divide, so if you’re planning on getting in another 20 miles before bed, take this into account.
• Frostburg: we didn’t check out this campground—we were high with the thrill of flying downhill at 25 mph. However, we’ve been to the town before and really like it: it’s more successfully revitalized than many of the economically depressed towns along the GAP and C&O.
• Cumberland: that is a YMCA campground about 1 mile out of town. Ask at the bike shop at the start of the C&O for directions. In fact, ask the man that owns that bike shop anything: he is the single most informative man in the planet, and one of the kindest. The tourist information in Cumberland, despite many signs and lots of promotions, is really short on information; the bike shop man makes up for it. This campground is pretty expensive: $10 per person.
Sixth: food. As with the C&O, you need to bring about half your necessary calories with you: nutrition bars, oatmeal, anything else that is easy to carry or cook. However, there are consistent food options. A caveat before this section: My husband and I are vegetarian, so the food report is prejudiced. I’m sure carnivores can find many more options. We didn’t stop in every town, but here are the highlights:
• Hometown Diner in Connellsville. Food is great, the place is packed, and the music selection is much better than decent. It’s a little difficult to find, because Connellsville is in the process of rebuilding the part where the trail connects to the town, but the diner is right across the river, in a rundown shopping center on the right. The bathroom has heated water to wash your hands (as cold as we were, this is important), and a generous supply of soap (also crucial). My only criticism of the Hometown Diner is that the waitresses are not quite as eager to refill your coffee mug as they should be. There is an independent pharmacy right next to the Hometown Diner where you can pick up anything you need. If you get to Connellsville later in the day, the downtown looked like it had several great local bars; you can get $1.50 draft beers during Steelers’ games.
• Ohiopyle: had several restaurants that were very biker and vegetarian friendly. We weren’t yet hungry, so we just got coffee to try to warm up. But I definitely think you can count on Ohiopyle for food; however, according to the coffee shop owner, many of the businesses in Ohiopyle are seasonal, so don’t count on them in February.
• Confluence: there are several restaurants in Confluence, but they all close at unaccountable times (perhaps some of this was attributable to the fact that we arrived at the Grand Finale of the local Pumpkin Festival, featuring a parade with all the firetrucks from the towns in the surrounding 100 mile radius and square dancing tractors). However, I would highly recommend ignoring all the other restaurants and heading straight for the Lucky Dog Café. This estimable restaurant has it all: wonderfully conceived and executed food, coffee/tea, beer, Gatorade, and a limited but complete bar. The couple that owns it also turns their old grease into biodiesel fuel which they use in their car and to heat their home. They make their own veggie burgers, and they are easily among the best we have ever had. Their carnivore options also looked really good. Note: the town of Confluence has several bridges over the Youghiogheny. The trail goes over the second bridge; this is not immediately obvious. The first bridge makes you bike around a difficult to navigate rotary of flowers—let this be a sign to you that you are going over the wrong bridge.
• Rockwood: we ate here but I would not recommend doing so. Unless you want baked goods, the food available at the only place to eat in town (the Mill Shoppes), is terrible. However, we were hungry enough not to notice how terrible the food was until we were almost finished, so if you’re desperate, Rockwood is there. There also is a bike shop that has snacks, but they are open only occasionally. If you want them to be open when you are there, you can call the posted numbers. We didn’t this to verify it worked.
• Meyersdale: if you can make it to Meyersdale before you eat, do it. The food options here are great, and the town is much less depressing (they’d even gotten some stimulus money to rebuild roads and sidewalks: sign of some civic initiative). You can leave your bike safely at the train station/visitor center at the top of town.
• Frostburg: again, we didn’t stop here, but the town has lots of options
• Cumberland: we ate a pile of food at El Canelo—it has a ton of vegetarian options. There also is a Chinese place. Carnivore options are unlimited in Cumberland.
Seventh, ignore the ridiculous claim on all the literature that the GAP trail grade is never above 1.5%. It is. The part from Confluence to the Eastern Continental Divide is particularly tiring. I am small, a long-distance runner, and (as a cyclist) a hill climber; my husband is larger and (as a cyclist) a sprinter. We represent the available range of cyclists, and the hill was rough on both of us. There is never a break where you can rest your legs. I enjoyed the challenge, but heavily loaded it was still exhausting. Be prepared for this, or adjust to fewer miles a day (we did about 60 a day). Going from the Divide to Cumberland is a blast; I would not recommend going from Cumberland to the Divide if you’re heavily loaded. Not burdened with sleeping bags, tent, winter clothes, and food for a week, it would be a fun training run.
I’m not going to continue with the C&O. There is plenty of information about this trail. I would only recommend that, if you plan on biking on the C&O during Fall, you take into account what the season’s name implies. Be prepared for treacherous collections of walnuts, at a minimum. If you have a 24 hour windstorm, like we did, the trail becomes hazardous and stressful.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Vermeer and His Critics
Last night I remembered why I hated being an English major.
We watched a special on Vermeer, easily my favorite painter. Instead of showing the paintings or describing the painter’s techniques, the special focused on interviewing art critics.
The art critics focused on hypothesizing absurd, multi-syllabic theories on What Vermeer Really Meant to Say in His Paintings, including detailed explanations of the metaphoric potential lurking beneath the strong light and meticulous fabrics.
Like translators, critics must be paid by the word: nothing else excuses this sort of drivel. Why labor so intensely to ascribe metaphor and allegory to paintings whose genius is to capture the preciousness of what simply is?
Only two of Vermeer’s paintings rely on metaphor for their full meaning. One failed because it was over-contrived (http://www.1st-art-gallery.com/thumbnail/117231/1/Allegory-Of-The-Faith.jpg); the other is one of the loveliest of Vermeer’s portfolio (http://www.fineartprintsondemand.com/artists/vermeer/woman_holding_a_balance-400.jpg). Woman Holding a Balance is perfect because the metaphor is lucid—a delicate linking, as with a spider’s thread, between the pregnant woman holding an empty balance in preparation for her household chores and the painting behind her of the Final Judgment. If the metaphor were as complex as art critics like to think, the painting would feel overwrought. It would tell the viewer what to think, not invite him to muse on the intersection between judgment and Judgment, unborn life and incomplete death, hope and dread in the face of the unknown.
Only one of Vermeer’s paintings is even mysterious—and not because it is laden with layers of meaning, but because it has none. Girl with a Pearl Earring is just a face, contextless (http://static.squidoo.com/resize/squidoo_images/-1/draft_lens2291239module12619353photo_1226772823parel.jpg).
It is a beautiful and interesting face. But the viewer can only appreciate it, not invest it with meanings it does not contain.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Jumping Jacks
My run today went through a perfect end-of-summer day: warm, motionless, and bright. Even the water of Rock Creek appeared clear and still, and the poor fish swimming in their sewage-enhanced river content.
I had accustomed myself to dreading the end of summer and lightless winter days, flinching as it became colder and darker. I do not admire discontent, and so have fought this emotion hard, last year and this. So far this year I have been more successful. Finally figuring out the right clothes for winter biking has helped—a careful miscellany of little boys’ hunting clothes from Walmart and super-de-dooper mittens from REI.
The other trail users today—runners, bikers, and a half-naked man pushing a backpack in a small baby stroller—also seemed to share my happy passivity.
Except for two bizarre gentlemen on bikes, who three times passed me with inefficient flurry, stopped, threw their bikes on the ground, and started doing jumping jacks.
I did not know that people still did jumping jacks. The last time I have been in the presence of jumping jacks was when I was given a coverage of 6th grade boys gym. As a petite 22 year old woman in 4 inch heels, I anticipated this coverage with a certain amount of dread. However, I took it on the authority of my own male students that the gym teacher always made them do “exercises” before starting “class”. The exercises consisted of 30 jumping jacks, 30 crunches, and 10 push ups. So the last time I have come in contact with a jumping jack was leading 60, 11 – 15 year old boys through them.
I was very exacting about jumping jack execution. I got through fully half of that coverage simply by inventing, and requiring my class to meet, a completely fictitious concept of The Ideal Jumping Jack.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
The Opera
On Saturday night, my husband, friend, and I went to the baseball stadium to see a simulcast of the Washington National Opera’s production of The Barber of Seville.
The opera was irritating—plot and character development were vintage Hallmark: reliant on stereotype and cheap humor, and sludged in sentiment. Cheap humor of course is timeless; when delivered in arias, it feels endless.
The plot climax was uniquely infuriating. The highest moment of tension: the heroine was furious because she suspected her lover had deceived her. The moment of joyful resolution: the heroine discovered that her lover in fact had deceived her.
Nevertheless, watching simulcast opera on a baseball stadium scoreboard, surrounded by the glaring paraphernalia of corporate sponsors, was surprisingly lovely.
The loveliest part was the number of bicycles parked around the stadium. Every one of the 250 bike racks that surround the stadium was full. I had to lock to a sapling. Most of the bikes didn’t belong to the usual suspects—they weren’t high end racing bikes or carefully abused fixies. Families had biked in—with trailers or kid bike carriers, little kid bikes. Well-used hybrids and mountain bikes mingled with beaters, steel fixies, road bikes, and (of course) the requisite fendered Schwinn.
The was the first time in the United States that I have felt that bicycles were an accepted form of transportation—not just the mode of choice for the few and the proud. Obama’s inauguration in January gave some faint forecast of this—but Americans only took to their bikes in droves that day (over 2000 bikes were parked in WABA’s bike valets!) because other transportation methods were blocked.
I was irritated that we had to listen to a member of the Washington National Orchestra play the Star Spangled Banner before the opera began. I grudgingly put up with this ritual before sports games, understanding that patriotism, nationalism, and physical competition are psychologically synonymous enough to warrant it. Why were we forced to be patriotic for an Italian opera?
However, as I left the stadium and saw the gorged bike racks and the droves of people leaving by metro, I was proud of my city.
The opera was irritating—plot and character development were vintage Hallmark: reliant on stereotype and cheap humor, and sludged in sentiment. Cheap humor of course is timeless; when delivered in arias, it feels endless.
The plot climax was uniquely infuriating. The highest moment of tension: the heroine was furious because she suspected her lover had deceived her. The moment of joyful resolution: the heroine discovered that her lover in fact had deceived her.
Nevertheless, watching simulcast opera on a baseball stadium scoreboard, surrounded by the glaring paraphernalia of corporate sponsors, was surprisingly lovely.
The loveliest part was the number of bicycles parked around the stadium. Every one of the 250 bike racks that surround the stadium was full. I had to lock to a sapling. Most of the bikes didn’t belong to the usual suspects—they weren’t high end racing bikes or carefully abused fixies. Families had biked in—with trailers or kid bike carriers, little kid bikes. Well-used hybrids and mountain bikes mingled with beaters, steel fixies, road bikes, and (of course) the requisite fendered Schwinn.
The was the first time in the United States that I have felt that bicycles were an accepted form of transportation—not just the mode of choice for the few and the proud. Obama’s inauguration in January gave some faint forecast of this—but Americans only took to their bikes in droves that day (over 2000 bikes were parked in WABA’s bike valets!) because other transportation methods were blocked.
I was irritated that we had to listen to a member of the Washington National Orchestra play the Star Spangled Banner before the opera began. I grudgingly put up with this ritual before sports games, understanding that patriotism, nationalism, and physical competition are psychologically synonymous enough to warrant it. Why were we forced to be patriotic for an Italian opera?
However, as I left the stadium and saw the gorged bike racks and the droves of people leaving by metro, I was proud of my city.
Friday, September 11, 2009
The Noodle
The long rotini noodle is still sitting outside the elevators on the eighth floor of my office building.
It has been there since Tuesday.
It is about half a foot long, wheat, cooked, sauceless. It first appeared in the corner next to the door to the inter-building walkway. It has inched its way to a central location between the first and second elevators.
I am obsessed with this noodle, and not only because of its preposterous size (where do you buy a rotini noodle that long?).
I am obsessed with the fascination of watching the easy hypocrisy of my workplace. I work at an enormous international development nonprofit. We espouse civic morals all day long. We want businessmen in Moldova to take action against corruption, fisherman in Sri Lanka to work towards civic peace, and kids in Jordan to get involved in NGOs. Hell, I oversee a program in Darfur where we try to get kids to pick up trash!
Yet, no one at my organization, for 4 days, has removed this noodle from the floor.
I haven’t either: I am too interested in the sociological experiment. When will the noodle go? Will I get to watch it progress from a clean, cooked, firm brown noodle to a decaying squish? Will the perpetrator admit that he littered a lunch noodle and pick it up surreptitiously, when no one sees him? Will one of the many employees of my organization who love to slather their self-righteousness onto the rest of us try to create a stink about the noodle over email, preaching about cleanliness and indecency and who knows what else? Will the cause then get picked up by the unctuous senior VPs of my organization, whose capacity for slathering self-righteousness in peculiarly nasty syntax knows no bounds? Or will one of the janitors, noticing the noodle now that it has moved to a more prominent location, simply sweep the offending pasta into the trash?
Someone with statistical training should research whether community values break down more in settings in which those values are professionally espoused. I have never seen a place in which fewer people refused to do their dishes in the kitchen, more people stole other people’s food from the communal refrigerator, or more people in general refused to take any responsibility for shared space as in my current non-profit, which promotes civic participation, action, and responsibility.
I also would like to point out that, in said nonprofit, my bicycle yesterday was thrown to the ground in the secure bike cage, resulting in a broken left brake handle and stretched right brake cable. I have sent a company-wide email asking for the bike-thrower to help pay for fixing my brakes. I am waiting to see if the guilty person has any moral fiber; my bet is no.
It has been there since Tuesday.
It is about half a foot long, wheat, cooked, sauceless. It first appeared in the corner next to the door to the inter-building walkway. It has inched its way to a central location between the first and second elevators.
I am obsessed with this noodle, and not only because of its preposterous size (where do you buy a rotini noodle that long?).
I am obsessed with the fascination of watching the easy hypocrisy of my workplace. I work at an enormous international development nonprofit. We espouse civic morals all day long. We want businessmen in Moldova to take action against corruption, fisherman in Sri Lanka to work towards civic peace, and kids in Jordan to get involved in NGOs. Hell, I oversee a program in Darfur where we try to get kids to pick up trash!
Yet, no one at my organization, for 4 days, has removed this noodle from the floor.
I haven’t either: I am too interested in the sociological experiment. When will the noodle go? Will I get to watch it progress from a clean, cooked, firm brown noodle to a decaying squish? Will the perpetrator admit that he littered a lunch noodle and pick it up surreptitiously, when no one sees him? Will one of the many employees of my organization who love to slather their self-righteousness onto the rest of us try to create a stink about the noodle over email, preaching about cleanliness and indecency and who knows what else? Will the cause then get picked up by the unctuous senior VPs of my organization, whose capacity for slathering self-righteousness in peculiarly nasty syntax knows no bounds? Or will one of the janitors, noticing the noodle now that it has moved to a more prominent location, simply sweep the offending pasta into the trash?
Someone with statistical training should research whether community values break down more in settings in which those values are professionally espoused. I have never seen a place in which fewer people refused to do their dishes in the kitchen, more people stole other people’s food from the communal refrigerator, or more people in general refused to take any responsibility for shared space as in my current non-profit, which promotes civic participation, action, and responsibility.
I also would like to point out that, in said nonprofit, my bicycle yesterday was thrown to the ground in the secure bike cage, resulting in a broken left brake handle and stretched right brake cable. I have sent a company-wide email asking for the bike-thrower to help pay for fixing my brakes. I am waiting to see if the guilty person has any moral fiber; my bet is no.
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