A Festivus miracle.

This past Friday was spent as Fridays are meant to be spent: getting stressed out and then having fun in spite of oneself. I attended the celebration of young Robert's passage into his 23rd year. There were rites and feasting... and by "rites and feasting," I mean "tequila and quesadillas" in Cambridge. Spending time with Wheaties is always nice. One Eye (aka Emily) and I almost immediately regressed back into our symbiotic college-era relationship: she nearly made me snarf frozen margarita and I was her interpreter for the evening. A couple of gems: You made me laugh I was crying so hard! and everyone's favorite, I know that the alcohol is working... because I want to touch people. And a conversation between One Eye and I...

Alec: I have the phrase "a Festivus for the rest of us" stuck in my head. Do you know what I mean?
One Eye: "It's a Festivus miracle." "An aluminum pole - I find tinsel distracting." "WE WILL NOW HAVE THE AIRING OF THE GRIEVANCES!" ...[deadpan face] I have no idea what you're talking about.

After dinner, we headed to Good Times (the formal title of which is "Good Time Emporium.") Senior year, we were dropped off at Good Times as our surprise senior outing. And it was a surprise, alright. The picture above was taken during one of the "Ladies Wrestling Nights" (which no one in our party attended... to my knowledge), but I'm just including that to illustrate its unique atmosphere. What can I say - I went for the birthday boy.

I was rereading Josh Ritter's blog this morning. Obviously, the man can write. Poetry. Prose. What have you. It would be amazing if he wrote a book. Yes. Josh Ritter should write a book. I'm sending this persuasive message through the power of the internet: Josh Ritter - write a book. Anyway, I liked this excerpt from his time in San Francisco, in particular:

...I stepped out into the street, where, wonder of wonders, there didn't seem to be any street. My foot caught on some kind of pylon, and as I fell I noticed that I was falling on to the tram tracks. "How cheesy," I thought to myself. "Dead on the tram tracks." After all these songs about trains, to be wiped out by a train's cousin, no matter how iconic a landmark of San Francisco it is, would be a back-handed irony. I waited for just a moment to get my breath and thankfully there was no tram close by. I got up and dusted myself off and started stating the obvious to passerby as people do when they do things like inexplicably fall. "I fell," I say to a group of Japanese tourists as they cross in the cross walk all around me.

I laughed. And not just because of the irony (though it's rather compelling), but rather because everyone has done something like that. We've all inexplicably explained ourselves to a group of Japanese tourists, literally or figuratively speaking.

For better or for worse, one of my most visceral memories from Firenze was slipping off one of their notoriously steep and slickly worn sidewalks on my way to class, and not predictably, falling all the way down and meeting the cobblestones, but rather, swooping towards the earth in a bizarre serpentine fashion, only to swoop right back up again like a stunt plane at a 4th of July air show while no part of me, other than my feet, touched the (questionably clean) streets of Florence, Italy. I was being followed by a group of young Italian men who laughed at me and earth-bound flight. The irony was that these laughing, grown men were all sporting mullets, tight acid-washed jeans and fanny packs, circa 1987.

But as I fell, I expelled one of the weirdest noises I think I've ever made. And this noise could only be described as a yelp.

Every time I think of that incident, it reminds me of Dave Eggers' "They Learned to Yelp" (here in The Guardian) from his collection of short stories, How We Are Hungry. It's one of my favorites from that collection. It's a relatively strong collection of work, and while I'm not a huge fan of short stories as a rule, I recommend it.

I met Dave Eggers very briefly at a book signing at Brown University this past summer. He was promoting his new book, What is the What? with Achak Deng, the Sudanese refugee whose life the story is based on - an "as told to" situation. Mr. Deng was cheerful and beaming as he signed my copy, happy to do so, and slipped it over Mr. Egger's side of the table. I should say that I really enjoy Dave Egger's work. He's one of my favorite contemporary writers, if not my favorite, and his other projects (McSweeney's and 826 National) are wonderful. Grass roots-ilicious. But I hate those 2 second book signings. You want to tell someone what their work means to you, that you hope they get half as much joy in creating it as you do devouring it... but you're there, with your name Sharpie'd on a post-it note so they doesn't even have to ask how to spell it, and you're left feeling like a jackass because all you managed to blurt out was "you're an amazing storyteller..." though I did sound less of an idiot than the girl in front of me, so I'm glad of that. ("You could get your Masters here at Brown!" He could also get a really good piece of pizza down the street, but that's not why he's here, either.) He smiled and thanked me like he hadn't heard that 6,000 times, and I left Brown's ironically hideous art building with a personalized copy of my least favorite Dave Eggers book (my qualms with the text stem from something that perhaps I'll explain at another time.) You just want to say, "I'm cooler than I'm coming across. Let's get a piece of pizza and I'll tell you my 'yelp' story. Complete with near-reenactment."

Some time this week, being that time of year, I'm sure my dad will hold the annual viewing of John Candy's opus, "Planes Trains and Automobiles." I remember the moment I found out Eryn's dad did the same thing. It was then that I knew we would be friends for a long time.

I did not see "No Country for Old Men," as I have been dying to, but thanks to a loud Starbucks employee this morning, I now know how it ends. I'll still see it, but talk about rubbing it in my face. But I revisited "Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind" this weekend. I somehow always manage to forget exactly how amazing that movie is. I always say it one of my favorites, but it still gets me every time I watch it. It's beautifully shot and directed; the writing is different and new, but not, for lack of a better word, polarizing. Strange and wonderful. My kind of movie.

"I wish I had stayed, too. Now I wish I had stayed. I wish I had done a lot of things. I wish I had... I wish I had stayed. I do."

Have a Happy Planes Trains and Automobiles day and may your babies not come out siiiideways.

Pop-Tarts? Oh no--what do you do with the Pop-Tarts?!

I'm getting over quite a knock-out of a cold, meaning this long weekend is probably going to be spent somewhat conservatively. But one thing I really want to do is go see No Country for Old Men. It now takes movie-going precedence over the new Wes Anderson flick and American Gangster. Superficially, the most disturbing thing about it might be Javier Bardem's hair ("the haircut suggests a lost Beatle from hell"), especially since he is normally a rather god-like Spaniard. But the film itself looks like a great thriller--a stripped down, back-to-basics exercise in good movie-making. And Jeebus knows we could use more of those.

While confined to my room on one of my sick days this week, I realized, a full month later, that The Cake Sale was released. I am pleased. The whole album is streamed here and also available from iTunes. Lisa Hannigan's "Last Leaf", Glen Hansard's "Too Many People," and of course Josh Ritter's "Vapour Trail," are all phenomenal little pieces of aural wonderment. "Last Leaf" is simply gorgeous--really moving and the vocals are surprisingly assertive. After seeing Lisa Hannigan perform live with Damien Rice, I have a lot more respect for her--her voice was just as wonderful live as in-studio--she even nailed the opera vocals from "Eskimo Friend," which you may remember as being pretty epic. While I'm glad that she's branched off to do her own thing, I do hope that her creative relationship with Damien Rice hasn't completely dissolved--they make a good team. "Vapour Trail" (written by a member of Bell X1, hence "vapor" with the excess Brit-born "u"), is a warming, simple tune with a great sing-along-in-an-Irish-pub type chorus. And Glen Hansard (aka the long-lost Irish brother of Rachel's bf Mark), is quickly becoming a favorite musician of mine. I was never super crazy about the Frames (though to be fair, I've had only limited exposure to their stuff), but this solo/Marketa Irglova stuff he's been putting out has been really compelling.

I'm going to really nerd it up and say that "30 Rock" last night was, hands down, one of the best episodes yet. It was only after seeing the entire cast gathered together (along with a Harlem Globetrotter) that you realize that has never really happened before. I wish I could remember an especially hilarious line from last night's show, but they all spilled out of my head while I was convulsively laughing.

To round out this pinpoint of a microcosm of an informal post of contemporary culture, I'm currently reading The History of Love, written by Nicole Krauss, wife of one of my favorite writers, Jonathan Safran-Foer. If you had peeled the cover off, I would have guessed that it was written by JSF himself. Their prose is so similar, it's kind of"creepy," as my mom said. It has the same two-person narrative as Extremely Loud and Incredibly Close--one young, one old. It's riddled with Eastern European culture and Yiddish like Everything is Illuminated and the plot is also bound to a past tragedy. It utilizes the same sort of humor and form that he does... I haven't finished it yet, so I'll wait to see if it really is eerily similar to JSF's writing... But it really is.

Through the windows of midnight, moonfoam and silver.

This photo is Rachel standing on a cliff walk in Ireland, 3 years ago. I wish I were still there.

Yesterday, I got a haircut. The woman caught the comb on my cartilage loop-earring and pulled out the ball bearing. It was lost to the salon floor. I have yet to buy a new one.

The haircut, though desparately needed, is to be considered average.

Also, I'm getting a cold. I swear by Zicam products, but they really need to create something that doesn't taste like metal butt.

The clocks have changed and the weather has turned. And much like changing wardrobe accoutrements to withstand winter, my music has taken a turn for the wintry. Sigur Ros, The Stills, Travis (mostly 12 Memories), Keane, Blur, Massive Attack, and Interpol now dominate many of my playlists. But then there's the warm drag of fingers over acoustic strings and the minor chords of a cold piano. Enter: David Gray, Nick Drake, Josh Ritter, Damien Rice, Jeff Buckley.

To illustrate my point, here's the very talented, very bobble-headed David Gray, singing one of my favorites, "Shine." Enjoy.

Ever get... urges?

When Megan and I aren't exchanging stories about spiders after lunch (worst possible time ever for that, by the way), we try to keep it culture-centric. A couple of weeks ago, we were swapping stories about artistic urges... that is to say, the way you feel when you need to do something artistic--whether it's painting, drawing, writing, etc. With her, it's writing poetry, but our experiences are surprisingly similar. There's a distracting sort of little gnawing away at the back of your mind and very abruptly, you start feeling edgy--almost uncomfortable. Your muscles tense up, your heartbeat quickens, there's a rush of adrenaline--"it's almost... sexual," she hesitated to say, but I'm inclined to agree. It's a very primitive emotion for something that is, in essence, very human.

Usually, when I get the urge to paint or draw, I don't have immediate access to the materials that I need, so I end up frustrated and irritated, or sometimes, just downright surly. Very suddenly today, I felt the need to paint. It's almost like your body just grew without warning and your skin's not keeping up--you feel confined and the only thing to break out of that shell is to create. Unfortunately, it takes me about 5 minutes to set up to paint, and in that time so much can go wrong--mostly, you run the risk of losing the clear picture you've created in your mind. I did end up painting--I'm not very happy with what I painted, but at least I did it. There is relief in that.

I've noticed that when I feel compelled to write however, it's much easier. It's probably simply because I always keep a small notepad and pen with me, or I'm close to a computer, so there's a much shorter time between that sensation and the actual act of writing. But something I've noticed with the writing compulsion is that my brow literally jumps up when I get a thought I want to write down. It's just for a moment, but I must look startled and bemused--like I've just heard an elderly woman swear.

May your artistic urges be many, always be requited, and your facial expressions priceless.

Talk amongst ya'selves.

This is amazing. I feel that Zack Hickman would be proud.

And now to add a little bit to a post that Eryn started. Since I'm at work, I'm not going to presently answer the more difficult questions, but I'll get to them soon.

Favorite Store Bought Cookie: You know, it's a tough call between the Oreo and the Mint Milano cookie from Pepperidge Farm. There's a Pepperidge Farm discount store (aka the "we sell expired cookies" store), just over the RI/MA border, so I may have to do some tie-breaking research this weekend. For the moment, I will default to the Oreo--Eryn's favorite--which always seems to be my favorite, as well.

Favorite Smell: I love the smell of beach roses. It rockets me back to summers spent camping on Hermit Island in Maine when I was a child. (It's as deceptively named as Rhode Island, as Hermit Island is actually a peninsula.) The swarms of bees, jumbo-jet mosquitoes, and a scooter wipe-out on a rocky dirt road pale in comparison to my memory of beach roses. The smell of a cool summer night is something of which I'll never get enough. The frantic smells of the day have sunken and the calm night air just lays over the fresh grass like a weightless blanket. It's peaceful, but not too peaceful, for somewhere in the distance is a Portuguese karaoke festival. Fantastico.

Favorite time/day of the week: Before I started this job, I would have said Friday night, but now I'm wiped out by Friday night. So, now I'm going to say Saturday afternoon. The day seems to have such promise after sleeping in (which at this point, is until 8:30 or 9), getting up, making coffee, leisurely getting ready, doing some yoga, then I like to hit the East Side for some (more) coffee or maybe some Thai or Antonio's... yesssss. I'm all for the simple things.

Favorite TV channel: Waaaaay back in the day when I had cable, it was between Travel, Food, and Comedy Central. Yes--three of my favorite things, which I guess means that a hilarious trip involving food would be ideal (Cinque Terre, post-dinner, A-Town giving Rachel a piggie-back ride--an amazing example.) Nowadays, if I actually watch TV, it's usually a PBS travel or science show, or "Father Ted" repeats. You can feel my vibrating waves of dorkiness from here, can't you? I don't care--"Father Ted" is amazing--the "Pete and Pete" of Ireland.

Favorite mode of transportation: Dublin light-rail. Absolutely. You're surrounded by people with charming accents who love to extemporaneously speak on nearly any subject, and all the stops are announced in English and Gaelic. A recording of a woman with a beautiful, futuristic voice says, "Smithfield... Nakherakrushnah..." Mmmmmmotherland! My Irish senses are tingling.

Favorite animal: Canines, in general, but wolves are such beautiful animals. Who can't embrace a creature that's the subject of quality airbrushed van art the world over? Polar bears, elephants, and gorillas round out the top 4 of my favorite animals.

Favorite childhood memory: Oh jeez. This is going to have to wait.

Favorite post-adolescent/adult memory: As is this.

In the meantime (and not that I give a hoot), but... how about them Sox?

'EY! MANNY!

Like we are all half crazy and all at least half alright.

I got my tickets to the JR benefit gig, December 11th in Cambridge, a smidge more than two months after seeing him a couple stops down on the Red Line in Somerville. It's a tiny place and he's playing a ("mostly") solo acoustic show for the benefit of a friend with cancer. Good music and a good cause--during the season of giving? What more can you ask for? Should be amazing.

Obama was in Boston today for a rally, but I skipped it so I could get home before 9. Sorry Barack--but you don't need to preach to the choir. You got my vote, and frankly, a Democrat speaking in Massachusetts is like the Pope speaking in Brazil... you're surrounded by your biggest fans. But I guess it's a good ego-boost (especially with Hillary schooling him in the polls lately.) Whatever--his universal healthcare plan is by far the most solid. Go Barack.

But who am I kidding--I'll vote for whatever blue person is on the ballot.

Fin.

Of yoga, art, forums, and Finns.

Oh you know... just listening to some Dusty Springfield, hanging outside, enjoying some té bianca. Cause that's how I roll on a Sunday. Went out for a late brunch on Wickenden this afternoon with Joj, cause you know, sometimes a girl just has to have some blueberry pancakes. It was nice enough to eat outside–-sunny and warm–-the last bastion of summer... perhaps.

I've been a pretty good A-Town lately. Made the switch to skim moo juice, and I'm not really sure why it took me so long. I've also started up a daily yoga routine after little Erin gave me a talking-to ("you have to find the time!"), and I'm glad that she did. I took it senior year and did it off-and-on for a while, but now I'm back with avengence--it's actually become something that I look forward to post-work. It's a great way to chill out and rid oneself of a long commute. And it's easier to keep up than running or biking since it isn't weather or equipment-dependent. We may have found a winner.

As if I really even need to say so, NPR is amazing. They've posted the recent Josh Ritter concert from DC on iTunes–-for free. And, immediately following the concert, there's an interview. The guy conducting it is a bit of a tool who apparently loves the sound of his own voice, but whatever... JR's rad. NPR's website also posted an acoustic in-studio of "To The Dogs or Whoever". It's a great time to be a Mr. Ritter fan or to become one (hint hint Eryn.)

I've been in a major lull for art work lately, but I've been writing more. They seem to balance each other out, but it's still frustrating to want to draw or paint, but find oneself with a blank page and a mind equally barren of inspiration. Tips as to beating the blank canvas syndrome are welcome.

Alright, it's getting chilly and dark, so I'm moving inside.

I had a classic lunchtime phone call from A-Town this week, and among other things, we spoke of where he and Eryn were going to be staying while in Rome--as far as I know, it's still up in the air. I've been trying to remember where we stayed as a class in Rome... not that I'm advocating that as a honeymoon destination. But it was very close to the Theatre of Pompey where Caesar was stabbed, and relatively close to the "Typewriter" in Piazza Venezia. It seems that you can't really go wrong in terms of what is surrounding you in Rome.

"This is where Augustus stubbed his toe and uttered, 'stupid Jesus sandals' ...truly curious, as Jesus was not active or alive during that time."


But I just want to advocate the NY Times travel section (here is their section on Rome.) It has everything. It breaks themes and topics down to manageable chunks. When looking at a place that you're not familiar with (say, Barcelona), it's almost a little overwhelming, but don't be alarmed. For the relatively OCD traveler such as myself, it's amazing.

One last item, Kimi Raikkonen, taciturn Finnish F1 driver extraordinaire, has (finally) won his first World Championship. Yeah, Kimi! It was beginning to feel like rooting for the Sox, pre-2004. As for you, Mr. Hamilton--maybe next year. You've still got quite a career ahead of you, so... don't blow it.