I can read a book without you

I don’t understand group work. I have never understood group work.

I think this long standing disdain for collaborative practice has informed my current career path in the humanities and my decision to abandon any thoughts of pursuing a career in a lab-based setting. This does not mean that I’ve abandoned any sense of civility in human interaction. I fully support being beyond friendly to assorted departmental colleagues, professional peers, archivists and librarians, and generally anyone I happen to come across that I have not pre-identifed as a complete bobo.

I like to think I project these ideas pretty clearly. Particularly if you’ve peripherally known me for an extended period of time. I like to think I communicate something along the lines of “No, let’s not be friends. That’s too strong and too much of a commitment. Plus, if we were going to be “friends” this would already have taken place. However, as a concession, we can pretend to like one another out in public and not be overtly hostile to one another assuming neither one of us steps out of line. ‘K?”

Imagine my surprise when I was invited to join a, well, scheduled daily library dissertation study group of sorts. And then imagine my surprise when I was invited a second time to join this potential clusterfuck of library interaction. The premise is (if I fully understand it) that we will each select a day of the week during which we affirm to be at said library to function as both a) guardian of the possession of others should they need to run the bathroom, get coffee, stake out a point from which they will shoot a poison blow dart at someone walking by in trackpants and flip flops and b) serve as a motivating source by way of making others feel that they are responsible to show up so that the waiter (one waiting) won’t spend the day working alone. While I see the value of the first point, because packing everything up can be a bitch when you only have mere seconds to load your blow dart tube and find an appropriate hiding space, the value of the second is lost on me.

If I’m going to the library to get work done, work that is clearly of both great quantity and great import if I need to generate a seven day schedule to accomplish it, why would I care that there’s someone in the library waiting for me to arrive? Yes, a friendly face is nice, and yes, dissertating can become a fully isolating activity if one let’s it. And if this point of social isolation had been brought up, perhaps I would have been slightly more sympathetic to the idea. But this notion of “Then you’ll have a study buddy! Or several!” is lost on me. If I need to get work done, I personally find my secluded corner of the world and emerge when it’s done. I’ll see a friendly face after I’ve come up for air from either the bowels of a library or depths of a research archive. Certainly not during. We can  meet up to drink after I’m done writing the several pages I’ve allocated to get through for the day; not check in to see when one another are grabbing coffee during the writing process.

Because I think we all know what’s going to happen: There will be approximately 22 minutes of work, and then something funny/ludicrous/surprising/awful will strike one of us, and then that person will share it with the group and there will be some sort of mini reaction and we’ll get back to work. But by that time it’s too late. The precedent has been set. Then there’s only 13 minutes of work between the next distraction. And then it’s coffee which turns into lunch. And then the day is fucked.

Or worse: there will be that person who’s part of the group who, even if they keep their mouth shut during the day, will want to talk afterwards about what they did during the day. And since I barely care about what I’m working on at this point, I REALLY don’t care what niche topic of the academic record you’ve chosen to carve out for yourself. Broadstrokes: maybe. Elevator pitch: sure. An extended discussion of what new insight you’ve come to after analyzing late 1930s automobile trade magazines: not a chance.

Or even worse: you find out that you’ve been grouped in with a mouth breather. And then they would have to be clubbed to death. And it is my experience that once you bludgeon someone in a library, the library administration frowns upon allowing you future access to their collections. Even if you provide your own cudgel.

Maybe this marks me as hopelessly antisocial. I don’t think so. I think this just makes me someone who likes to read a book and type on his laptop without a support group that I did not request hovering nearby.

Ok, time to pack up.

 

History repeating itself

I was broken up with on New Year’s Eve.

No, not this year. It was a few years back. And technically, I wasn’t broken up with on New Year’s Eve exactly. That event formally took place on January 5. To say that one was broken up with on the fifth day of the year has less impact. Also, if I was paying more attention on the evening of the three hundred and sixty-fifth day of the year, it probably would have saved me feeling like I was blindsided several days later.

Warning (if you haven’t already figured it out): this is going to be one of those mopey postings, that I hope are infrequent enough to not detract future reading, but not anomalous enough that this alone presents a skewed image of your author.

Allow me to fill in some of the gaps:

This was back when I was dating the musician. And by musician, I mean the aspiring musician who really paid bills working in the service industry as a waitperson at an overpriced tapas bar. Possibly a redundant label: both the aspiring musician-waiter, but also the overpriced-tapas term. The AM-W was working at the bar on the 31st, and had originally invited me to come to the bar at around 20 minutes to midnight. This made sense: the AM-W had a job to do, and I, being a poor humanities grad student, could only really afford at most, twenty minutes worth of food (having exhausted all of the gratis service at the pre-Christmas tasting course the AM-W had arranged for us earlier in the month). Then, about 2 hours prior to midnight, I received a call from the AM-W saying that the place and he were both swamped (not unexpected) and that I shouldn’t come. Fair enough. Cue mild disappointment tempered with the appropriately supportive “Oh, right, I totally understand. Um, just give me a call when you get out.” “Sure, definitely, sorry.”

I then reconsidered my evening. It was too late to show up to any of the parties I had turned down. Showing up an hour before midnight, without a guest, to then spend the next hour explaining several times to different groups why I was alone only to then spend midnight itself awkwardly staring at others seemed less than exciting. So I waited. I caught up on just what Anderson Cooper, Ryan Seacrest, Carson Daily, and whatever MTV VJ de l’annee thought I wanted the soundtrack of my New Year’s Eve to be. 12:00 came. 12:00 went. Then came the awkward realization that I was now waiting by a phone for the absentee former New Year’s date to call. 12:15. 12:30. 1:00. 1:30. The AM-W finally called at 1:50. Not terrible by normal standards. Kind of terrible in that elementary school kid watching the clock to see when 3:15 will happen and realizing that it’s just barely 2:00. I’d like to say that the AM-W was appropriately apologetic. There was an apology, but this was quickly replaced with how tired the AM-W was, how many people had been there, how the restaurant was a mess, and how the staff didn’t know when they would be getting out. The fact that music and the sounds of a Long Island phoneme-filled  bacchanale seemed to be raging in the background went unacknowledged. So I ignored and responded I thought appropriately supportively:

“Right, no, I completely understand. If you want you can just crash here rather than driving all the way back to your place.” (Insert for clarity: my place was 10 minutes from the tapas bar, as opposed to the AM-W’s which was about 40 minutes away). “Nah, I’m just going make the drive and pass out when I get home. I’ll call you tomorrow or the next day, depending on when I wake up.” “Ha, ok, right, that makes sense. Um, well, Happy New Year!” “What? Oh yeah. You too. Um, I’ve got to go. Later.”

In recalling the conversation now, and situating it relative to what came after, I should have realized what was happening. What did follow? A trio of missed calls between the evening of the 1st and evening of the 2nd; an awkward sushi and movie combo on the 3rd where neither one of us mentioned NYE and the AM-W spent most of the meal staring around the room; the AM-W by my office on the 5th to say things weren’t working out so it’s better to end things now than hate one another. This is a sentiment that I still haven’t worked out the true meaning of. Then again, the AM-W followed this up with “I just feel that we’re too similar. And I don’t really ever see us getting married because of that.” (insert for clarity: um, marriage? I don’t believe that was on either of our radars at that point, and if it was on AM-W, it was never verbalized). I should have realized that being blown off on NYE was if not the exact end point, it was clearly the beginning of a rapidly disintegrating relationship.

So why mention this now (aside from the calendar relevance)?

I made a promise to myself that evening that I would not ever spend New Year’s Eve waiting for a phone call. Also, if I was seriously seeing someone, I would be spending it with that person. Short of overseas deployment or incarceration (the latter already being a dealbreaker) there was no reason for me to spend a NYE alone if I was in a relationship. And jump forward to the past two years with the PO.

Last year the PO was still on the fence about introducing their circle of friends to me. I figured I could sort of understand that since the PO’s plans involved an all night party at a friend’s house. House party associations notwithstanding, I was mildly disappointed, but legitimately understood given the relative newness of the PO and I. (insert for clarity: relative re-back together newness, having broken up in May, gotten back together in August, broken up in October, and back together in December… it’s an ongoing thing that I chose to treat as adorably spontaneous rather than mind-numbingly awful and psychically destructive). But the PO did call 10 minutes before midnight, profusely apologized, saw the error of their ways, and stayed on the phone with me until 10 minutes after midnight. It was sweet. And I would be lying if it didn’t give me some slight joy knowing that the PO had become “that” person at a party: the one in the corner on their phone all night long who everyone looks disapprovingly at and wonders why they invited them in the first place. At the end of the call, and in the follow up conversations, the PO declared that we would never do this again, and would spend next year together (the PO doesn’t plan short-term and has verbalized the “M” word many a time).

Jump to the 2011-2012 changeover. On the 27, the PO and I had a fight. Not a knock down, drag out (a phrase I hate) fight where we both say the most hurtful things we can possibly say to one another (see the reference to May and October above; also include the end of January and August of this past year in that as well… again, it’s adorable). Things had been good, and the fight was more of both of us venting frustrations over several uncertainties that both of us would have to face in the coming months (jobs, apartment leases, etc.). And then the PO disappeared. No calls. No texts, save for one on the 30th stating “Not dead. At work.” I’d like to say I responded to this rationally and even keeled and didn’t just start hitting redial when the third day without a call came. The PO and I had discussed the AM-W and had recently discussed last year’s shenanigans. I knew where the PO was: same friend’s house, same all night party, same everything. Down to me in my living room realizing that I had once again been cast to the side. The difference was that this year, there was no phone call. Nothing came at 10 minutes to midnight.

I wasn’t expecting it, given the radio silence that preceded it. I had reconciled myself to an evening of takeout and David Sedaris audiobooks. I decided I didn’t care about the fanfare that was going on 40 blocks north of me (take that millions of people crowding an already overcrowded cross-walk). One of the Sedaris siblings would save my evening, and he did. The only reason I knew that the midnight changeover happened was a 12:08 the PO finally texted me with “Happy New Years.” The grammar of the sentiment aside, I was left with a minor, reserved reaction of “WTF IS THAT SUPPOSED TO MEAN!!!!!!” I chose for this to remain internalized. My younger self would have responded. My older self, with several more years of passive aggressiveness under my belt, did not. And so I maturely let the message exist in the e-ether. As did the PO. As the end of the next day approaches, neither one of us has responded. Me because I have no response (this blog posting being more of a cathartic release than a formal response). The PO because, well, the Giants game is soon to be on.

So I am left with this quandary:  what to do? Enact my own radio silence? Attempt to contact for clarity? Assume that the PO knows that dropping me for the New Year’s celebration has a very real consequence? This is assuming that the PO recalls my saying previously that “If you ever break up with my on New Year’s Eve I will never speak to you ever again.” What to do indeed.

Ok, end of mopey post. Musings about the whore upstairs will resume shortly I imagine.

The people you meet in your neighborhood

Or at least the people you hear from overhead when you’re trying to sleep.

I feel it’s time to revisit the topic of my fellow apartment building residents. Or at least one resident in particular. Those of you who have followed my relatively recent Twitter-based activities are already familiar with this resident. Yes, I’m going to be writing about the upstairs neighbor. In fact, the directly upstairs neighbor. The one who I affectionately refer to as “The Whore who Lives Upstairs.” It’s like the Man who Came to Dinner, with comparable Bette Davis-style crazy.

I’ve shared a ceiling/floor with her a little under a year. Or at least I think that’s true. The first time I met her was the week before Valentines Day when she knocked on my door, accessory dog in hand. Her request: she wanted to know if she could climb through my apartment to break into the apartment above because she had locked her keys in there but the window was open so she would just use that as a means of access and then be able to live her happy three-toned hair life in peace then. My response: “Um, hi. I don’t think we’ve met. You say you live in the building?” I think she detected my reticence to allow her nobody understands me torn fishnets and combat boot self to wander through my apartment for the purpose of breaking into “her” apartment, so she offered collateral in the form of her dog. Yes, she offered to leave her unwashed yapping dog behind in my apartment as she regained access to hers. Because it was still early (read: pre-noon) and clearly I wasn’t thinking, I think I muttered something equivalent to “Uh sure, whatevs, that makes sense” and she was off. And by off I mean hurling her dog at me and hurling herself towards the fire escape. The dog was placed on the floor and then it (gender unknown) and I continued to stare at one another in a battle of wills. I didn’t want it in my space and it clearly did not understand how to thrive in my West Elm inspired paradise.

Quick digression: I am actually a dog person. But I believe that dogs should a) not make high pitched sounds and b) be at least large enough to take down a small child if the situation arises. Small dogs I rank lower than cats, and I hate cats. They’re shifty. Small dogs are just annoying and unable to feed themselves. Digression over.

The WwLU returned, keys in hand and scooped up her dog and said thanks. She then said, “Oh, I’m hosing a Valentines Day party. I’ve turned my apartment into a Valentine and am going to be dressed like a Shah. You should stop by.” I took this as the equivalent of the empty invitation that one often gives when they run into a high school peer several years later. “Oh, we should totes do coffee.” Translation: God I hope they still don’t have my number. “We should catch up, if not before the reunion then definitely at it.” Translation: Now I’m really not going to the reunion (not that I was entertaining the idea of going to go before). Plus, to go back, she’s dressing up like a Shah for Valentines Day? And is a Shah different from a Sultan? Did she mean Sultan? Was she drawing her inspiration from an animated character? And what does either have to do with Valentines Day?

This was the last I saw of the WwLU. But sadly not the last I hear of her. Not so much from her as of her. I soon realized that she had a unique pattern of behavior. Because of her, I always know when the end of the month is coming. Some people have football injuries that allow them to recognize oncoming hurricanes forming in the Atlantic. I have a neighbor whose nighttime activities signal the emergence a new rent cycle.

I’m not saying that she’s whoring herself out for rent money. Well, actually I am. Here’s the pattern: within the week of the first of the month, there’s a steady flow of traffic in and out of her apartment in the super late and super early hours of the day. And before I get accused of being a creeper standing on a chair with a glass listening to the ceiling of my apartment, let me just say: no. From the heavy fireproofed doors slamming, to the creak of hardsoled shoes on her uncarpeted hardwood flooring, to the sound of bodies being hurled at a non-bedframe and/or boxspringed mattress placed on the floor, I have a pretty clear sonic impression of her activities without trying. And while I don’t know that it’s necessarily Gentleman callers that are visiting an aged Amanda Wingfield (it could be Lady callers… that Amanda always seemed a little left of center anyway), it’s clear that her nighttime visitors increases and she plays host to several different guests. But always within the seven days of the first of the month.

This is also not to say that she doesn’t get any during the rest of the month. It’s just there’s a distinct aural difference in her activities. Namely: the porn no porn distinction. During rent season, she provides her own sonic accompaniment. Other times of the month, there’s the aid of cinema. While I sadly cannot report on the specific titles, I do recall a moment when at 2:45 in the morning, I suddenly heard, coming from above, the sound of smooth jazz followed by the declaration “I want you to fingerbang me. Hard. Now.” Or perhaps, I should have said the series of declarations. Or maybe one declaration with a series of adverbial modifiers. Yes, that’s the most accurate. This was when I decided to sleep with my ipod and headphones and hoped that I wouldn’t inadvertently strangle myself in my sleep. An awkward obituary would have followed.

I know that the above summary may seem like a) I’m throwing serious shade at her (fair) and b) I’m a super creeper not only for listening but also writing this post (less fair, but I’ll own it). I don’t begrudge her for making a buck (I’m assuming that’s the activity and she hasn’t become like Michael Fassbender in Shame. Or at least for the cleanliness of the windows I hope not). My goal is not to Hester Prynne her shit (yes, I’m making that a phrase). I get it. In these economic times etc. Plus, in thinking about it, who am i to begrudge a honey who’s making money. A momma who profits dollars. Yes, Beyonce et al: she is an independent woman.

Girl I didn’t know you could get down like that. No wait I did. I’ve come to expect it monthly.

Zombie Santa Goo

I will not even pretend to admit that I understand anything about Santacon. Don’t get me wrong: anything that increases the odds of seeing trashy middle class faux hos and yo bros stumbling and crashing their skulls into the pavement I’m totally in favor of. But the traveling in packs on a 14 hour bar crawl with others dressed identically to you because it’s “fun” is a concept lost on me. Whatevs. Regardless, I did notice several signs this year that Santacon (at least in my corner of the urban world) may have hit its maximum saturation point, if not the tipping point entirely.

A few examples:

1. When the homeless turn on you, it’s time to retreat.

Starbucks bathrooms exist for one reason: to form a network of public restrooms for otherwise itinerant denizens of the streets. They can be used without proof of purchase. They are occasionally cleaned. They theoretically are functional. But people who have other options for seeking out facilities don’t actually use them. I like to think that Starbucks knows this and provides them as a free service to the homeless (it’s their form of giving back to the community). However, when a gaggle of red skirt and black tights wearing barely legal Mrs. Clauses prevent this residence challenged group from availing themselves of what is rightfully theirs: oh hell no. When gentlemen #1 discovered the swarm of females #1-8 on line for the bathroom, he was less than pleased and made this known verbally (quite verbally). And when none of the Starbucks staff seem to stage an intervention to this or even consider staging an intervention, I knew that they had the same thought everyone else in Starbucks did: It’s fine if you girls want to run around the bars in attempt to test out your new HPV vaccine, but stay out of places where the adults are trying to find refuge from your silliness.

2. Shouting out the window of a cab is annoying. Having someone shout back at you is amazing.

Whilst traveling between points A and B today, avoiding the color-coordinated throngs, I was stopped at a street corner. As traffic flew by, one taxi stood out. Not because it itself had donned the appropriate seasonal red and white garb. Not because it was in fact a hovercraft. No, because as it roared by, windows down, the group of four Santa hat wearing males in the car were slurring the chorus to Rihanna’s We Found Love as it blasted on the radio. By slurring I mean they were shouting indistinct phonemes as loud as they could. Already I’m unimpressed because if it’s still daylight and you’re already too tuckered out slash hammered from Santacon to move from place to place without the aid of a car, then you fail both at Stantacon and at life in general. But what makes it even better is that the Male Santa Experience on the other side of the block shouted back “Shut the fuck up you cunt donkeys!” Two points worth parsing out here: 1. “Cunt donkey,” while possibly original, doesn’t necessarily have a chance of having true lexical inclusion. The voiced vs. unvoiced repetition of the same sound cluster just about ensures that. 2. When Santas begin turning on Santas, the days for the movement are limited. In zombie movies, zombies don’t attack other zombies. Why? Because they need human brains to survive, they don’t need zombie brains to survive. We, as consumers of B movie wonderment, watch that in awe. However, when they begin to kill their own, people stop watching, because who the fuck cares if a zombie population kills another zombie population. They’re no threat to us, other than requiring we clean up the puddles of goo afterwards. And people hate cleaning puddles of goo, and so would just enslave the zombies to clean up their own goo. Santacon revelers are just now on the cusp of becoming those puddles of goo cleaners.

Fear not: the meme will soon be over. Just like that whole public pillow fight thing that never really took off. Stupid.

I have not abandoned you (despite the lure of the blue bird)

So it’s been a while since I generated a post. One could be mistaken for thinking that this was due to my attention being focused on more important  career-oriented matters. And yes, one would be mistaken for thinking that. Progress on Operation: Finish the Degree and Flee Floundering Department has been made, but sadly not to the extent that I would like. Nonetheless, a series of quick biographical updates slash recaps to fill in for the previous month and a half of silence.

The Most Recent Now Former has returned to being the Plus One. If we’re going to ignore the series of break-ups, it’ll be two years in February. Scary. The Plus One (or PO as I think I’ll go with from here on out) invited me to Thanksgiving with the family. I met the mother, father, sister, sister’s Plus One, Aunt #1, Aunt #1′s Children #1 and #2, Aunt #1′s Child #1′s Plus One, Aunt #1′s Child #2′s Plus One, etc. I was able to be the new introduction into a mix of 30ish already firmly established and familiar folk. This required appropriate pre-shopping for both clothing and hostess gift. Thanks Original Penguin and Bisous Ciao for all of your help. And by “help” I mean willingness to sell me your products in order to impress. Mission accomplished. I now have a standing appointment to have a follow-up dinner with the PO’s mother. Time to buy another fancy hoodie.

My sister and her socially awkward husband are still going strong, or at least as strong as those two can be. The PO’s older sister is getting married as well (still 11 months away), so the PO gets to encounter the joy of being the younger sibling of the bride experience that I endured several months prior. In other wedding based news, my former housemate finally got married to her poet beau. Or actually she got married for the second time to her poet beau. She was “secret married” to him previously (over a year ago). And by secret married I mean she told just about everyone she ran into other than her parents. Which just raises the question for me: why would you go through the subterfuge and expense of having the second wedding, when it’s clear that you just wanted to have a party in a pseudo-landmark site? Why not a) delay getting married until that space becomes available or b) get married and just have an anniversary party or non-specific blowout party at the site at a later date? Why the need to think you’re sneaking around and somehow resolving the issue of having lied to your parents for over a year by now having a show wedding? You’ve still lied to two sets of parents. You’ve still kind of been a terrible person for not inviting your parents to the actual marriage ceremony, which is clearly important to both you and them, or else you wouldn’t go through with the charade of the later sham wedding. Then again: my former roommate is kind of a terrible person. So good for her and her poet lover.

Operation: Give Me Job is underway. If only a) I had any sort of clear skills that could translate to a career outside of academia or b) the possibility of a career in academia was not as bleak as it seems to be, I would be more sanguine about the whole job search and its prospects of ending favorably to me. I don’t and it’s not. That means every even remotely reasonable open position gets a resume and cover letter combo. Because just filling in the blanks of “and I am interested in applying for the ________ at _______”  without changing the content of the cover letter itself is a completely reasonable strategy for success. Completely.

I want it to be winter already. Fine, not a biographical update, but I’m tired of it either a) snowing in October, b) being 68 degrees in November, and c) being 44 degrees in December with no snow anywhere in sight. Nothing beats the aesthetics of a blizzard. And I have scarves that are totally appropriate for hiking through the city in snow, but for nothing outside of that scenario. These are my priorities: maximizing seasonal scarf usage.

I still can tell when the first of the month is approaching. The whore who lives above me resumes her late night activities within four days of the end of the month. This usually entails a serious of adult-type sounds, rocking furniture, and a series of apartment entry doors opening and closing in approximately 2 -3 hour intervals throughout the super late night and super early morning. To be fair: I don’t know for sure that she’s whoring herself out for rent money, or even whoring herself out for fun. Also, I’m sure my awareness of her sexy time habits could be construed as creepstery on my part. Meh. Bitch making noise over my head. If I’ve got to be kept awake by it, I feel it’s only fair that I should be allowed to speculate about it in an e-format to anonymously broadcast across the interwebs.

I started a Twitter account (like Ellen Barkin). The feed’s to the right (if you hadn’t noticed that yet). I’m using it heavily (if you hadn’t noticed that yet). It will not replace this blog, but will be used much more frequently (if you hadn’t noticed that yet; you should really probably be much more observant if you’re going to be reading this blog with any regularity (which you should)).

Matisse was from Jersey

Those of you that have been following this blog for a while know that I love a good high/low mashup. I like to think that much of my daily routine is controlled by constantly calibrating the various levels of high and low, always making sure that I keep my Proust references in relatively close proximity to my Andy Cohen references at all times. What’s better is when these moments seem to just flash before me, waiting to be gathered and stored for future use. Such as in a blog posting.

On a related point: I have much love for the Jersey Shore. I have never been to the place, but the pop culture phenomenon holds a very special place in my heart. I find myself constantly conflicted with to whom I should devote my allegiances. At various moments I have sided with Ron. Then with Sam. Then with Ron again. Vinnie will always be the voice of reason to me. Pauly will always be the 30yo running around with 20yos. I will never understand Mike. And my heart will forever and always belong to Jenni and Snooki. I only need one member of Team Meatball in my life (sorry Deena), but I will always need both Flow and Nancy (if for no other reason than that it’s “Flow” and not “Flo”). This also means that the Jersey Shore is appointment television for me. Thursday nights: done.

That’s where last night’s episode comes in. Allow for a quick recap the salient points:

Snooki, my little pocket meatball (just go with it), has been crying hysterically because the love of her life has run out on her. In Florence. Where he just arrived. And is now going to leave. To fly back. To the United States. In less than a day. Without even buying a Duomo on a Stick. I refuse to judge my girl Nicole for her interpretive dance moves. I’m sure Martha Graham got shit for wrapping dancers in flourescent stretch fabric. Snooki was just doing the opposite. So she’s abandoned and distraught, almost to the point of being inconsolable. Enter Samantha who, while looking at her roommate, utters the greatest string of sentences I heard all week:

“Your hair looks perfect. Your dress is very cute. Who cares if your face is a mess?”

The combination of concern and obliviousness: it’s kind of amazing. It’s good to know that coiffure plus outfit will always compensate for a busted visage (confession: trying to think of a synonym for the last one nearly killed me). But the realization of the truth value of this sort of life truth was quickly supplanted by another insight. My next thought was unique to me (and I’m pretty sure not as obvious an association to the other MTV viewers across the eastern seaboard at the same moment).

It came to me in a flash: Snooki is Amelie Matisse!

Allow for the following quick explanation: Amelie Matisse, the wife of the Fauve master Henri Matisse, posed for many of her husband’s now canonical works containing female models. Married to the artist in 1989, she would sit for her first portrait one year later and would continue to be a constant presence in his oeuvre for much of the next decade. But it is one work in particular that occurred to me in this moment of Jersey Shore-induced glee. I realized that Sam’s description of Snooki could equally be applied to a work about which the French art critic Louis Vauxelles stated “Hers would be the fate of a Christian virgin offered to the lions in a circus arena.” Although I’m sure the reverse is necessarily true. Regardless, I submit for evidence, A.P. exhibit 1:

Henri Matisse, Woman with a Hat, 1905, Oil on canvas (image shamelessly stolen from the SFMOMA)

Granted, much of her dress is occluded by her glove and fan, of which I’m sure Sami would also approve. And yes, her hair is difficult to discern underneath the elaborate concoction of flowers and feathers stuck into her chapeau, but I’m again willing to surmise that it’s Karma appropriate (if Karma wasn’t in Seaside Heights but instead in turn of the 20th century Collioure). Maybe her face is a bit of a mess, but I bet Henri would have been DTF anyway.

And then, as if the High/Low gods themselves where staring down upon me (and yes, the gods were probably Adam Gopnik and Kirk Varnedoe [and yes, I know only one of them is dead]), watching this epiphany unfold and wanting to send me a sign confirming that I was on the right track, Jersey Shore After Hours began. And there was Snooki looking as though she just got in a fight with her best gay makeup artist. Her unequal application of blush (I’m assuming it’s blush and not the blood of a dead gorilla juicehead) streaked across her right cheek as if a French Expressionist had hurled his brush at her in an effort to finally once and for all liberate color from its real world referent.

It was like watching one of those living painting tableaus. Except not lame. And more tan.

A streetside poke, jangle, and suckle

Today was one of those days.

Not one of those days where everything seems to be going wrong. Not one of those days where you feel completely drained of both energy and soul at the close of the day. No, today was one of those days where, more than ever, it seemed as though the world was crying out for a semicomic explanatory voiceover (so not Morgan Freeman). Someone to just provide acknowledgement that things just seemed to be a little off from center.

A few examples.

1) Upon leaving my apartment this morning (or actually this afternoon… late start… sigh), I noticed a middle aged man at the end of the block staring down at the curb. Since I happened to be heading in his direction of the block, I figured I’d cross to his side of the road to discretely get a view of what it was he was spying. Because while being interested in the actions of others is fine, going out of your way to demonstrate this interest is not. I had decided I would simply walk by, not pausing, but turn towards the direction of his view while passing. Only as I got closer did I realize that he was not simply looking at the curb, but actually poking at something. In his hand was a small stick, perhaps 4 inches, and he was prodding something while also talking to it. As I passed by, exuding an air of indifference, I realized the object of his poke. A mouse. Not an inner city rat with a switchblade. But a mouse, clinging to curb, which was now being told by the gentleman “Come on, take a ride, just a ride, not going to hurt you.” Now if this was a man in a van with tinted windows saying this, I feel like I would be more prepared with an appropriate reaction (thank you Diane Sawyer special interviews), as well as identifying his phrases as having a very different meaning. But as this was a somewhat non-homeless appearing individual, engaging in a conversation with the urban wildlife, in order to lure him onto his stick (which, again, if it was a guy in a van that phrase would also have a very different meaning). I resorted back to my fault “DO NOT ENGAGE!!!” mentality, well honed from years in academic and administrative settings, and continued on my way, unaware that this would be bookended by a similar jarring event at the end of the day. But before I get there…

2) During the middle of my day of adventures, it was time for a stop by one of my favorite local hot beverage purveyors. Cue legitimately homeless man standing at the drugstore next door. I’ve seen him there before, as well as several others who are part of some unofficial rotation of panhandlers. His m.o. is that he holds the door open for you when you come in and again when you leave, shaking his large slurpee-inspired cup jangling during each transaction, the obvious expectation being that you will tip him for her service. As an aside, I find this offensive. Not that he’s asking for money. But that I often hold open the doors for people when cross the threshold of an establishment or residence. Because, well, that’s what people do in a civilized society. You recognize the presence of others in the world and thus don’t slam doors in their faces. I know this probably makes me unique, but I’ve never considered picking up a little extra mad money for doing this pretty standard deed. So my policy whenever I see my self-determined fee-collecting door holder holding the door open for me is to simply say thank you and ignore the glare of disapproval directed my way that follows. Because I suppose it’s not enough to try to collect money from others for simply being a standard good person. One has a sense of entitlement, demanding this money and thus irritated when it doesn’t come their way. But I digress.

I walking into the coffee shop next door to this streetside start-up company of one, received my beverage, and left. Upon leaving I realized that I had now returned to find the company had grown in my absence (which could not have been ten minutes long). The drugstore has a double door for an entrance, and now there was a cup-in-hand individual standing at each of the two doors, framing the entryway like Assyrian lamassu figures (minus the wings and funny hats with horns). They now seemed to be in competition with one another: who could be the first to hold the door open for a soon-to-be-patron? Who would be the one to anticipate which door said patron would take? Who would collect the non-guaranteed quarter from said patron? I was tempted to stay longer, or at least cross the street to observe this tableau of friendly commercial competition from a distanced view, when I realized that this was as far from a friendly working relationship as possible. They were fighting with one another over who had the right to the door. I again adopted my position of “DO NOT ENGAGE!!!” but was momentarily tempted to point out “NEITHER ONE OF YOU!!!” Because I don’t think you can just appropriate ownership over collecting what is essentially a cover charge from an independent establishment that is not playing house music, does not have wasted undergraduate girls in their best ho wear waiting on line to get in, or will not have Kanye showing up to do an impromptu set at 2:00 in the morning.

3) When I returned home, it never occurred to me that things would be happening in threes. Apparently they do and so they would be. Sitting in the middle of the front stoop of my building (I’m calling it a stoop even though it’s more of a set of steps with a landing and because I feel the distinction between the two is silly) is a woman with her infant child. I don’t live in a terribly large building: six floors, six apartments per floor. So I have a pretty good sense of who my fellow building denizens are. Needless to say I hadn’t seen her before, but I figured she must either a) be new or b) snuck in underneath my passive and apathetic radar system. As I got closer, I realized the kid was actually facing her, and more than that, had his head buried underneath some sort of sheet. Quickly realizing that this was not simply a Michael Jackson style of child rearing, I was slightly jarred to realize that she was spending her September afternoon breastfeeding in front of the building. As you do, apparently. I got to the steps and made the international sign for I live here (took out my keys). Since she was sitting in the middle of the not very wide steps, I then made the international sign for move bitch get out the way (standing there waiting while shuffling my feet), now made more awkward because it seemed like I was watching her infant suckle from her maternal lady parts. She looked up and said, “Oh, I’ll be done in a moment.” My first non productive thought was, “Well, no, actually he/she will be done in a moment. You actually are not the thing acting in this situation. You are thing being acted upon.” My next, more possibly productive thought which was then verbalized was “Oh, not a problem. Do you need to get in?” thinking that if you lived in the building and your potato-looking offspring needed to feed you would take yourself inside unless you forgot your keys and thus exposing your boob by the side of the street was the only choice. To which she responded “Nah, I don’t live here. Just needed a place to sit.”

So just to recap ma’am: You are sitting in front of my building even though you don’t live there, refusing to move to allow me who lives  in the building to enter, instead making it so I have to wait and either a) awkwardly watch you breastfeed as you block my way or b) awkwardly pick something else in the world try to look at but make it seem like I’m not just trying to avoid watching you breastfeed even though we both know that all I’m thinking about right now is you breastfeeding and blocking my way. Sure, that seems reasonable.

It was at this point I decided hibernating in my apartment for the rest of the day was probably the best idea. Just in case things actually come in fours and not threes.

Multiple choice question of the hour

Allow for the following situation: You have just left your apartment with the mission of purchasing some sort of snack at the local corner korean grocer. For the sake of specificity, let’s say you’re planning on picking up unsalted cashews and greek yogurt. That part of the situation is admittedly unimportant, but specificity matters. So you set out, gathering rather than hunting in mind, lock your door, turn around and begin to walk down the hallway. And then you notice that at the other end of the hall, your neighbor who you may have peripherally met once has left his keys in his door.  You pause for a minute considering what you should do. You decide:

a. Do nothing. Not your keys, not your business. Plus, you can’t even remember which iteration of rotating tenants is currently occupying that apartment. The guy you met might not even still live there. Plus plus, it’s not like it’s the apartment directly next to yours. Plus plus plus, there are snacks to be had.

b. Do something. If you see something, say something. Knock on the door to see if he forgot them coming in or going out. If the former, introduce yourself as the hero neighbor and non creepster. If the latter, take them, run back to your apartment, return with a handwritten note explaining your seizure of the keys, and surrender your snack-based activities and wait in your apartment until the key-owner returns, and then introduce yourself as the hero neighbor and non creepster.

c. Do nothing which will then count as something. Stand there watching the keys and simultaneously standing guard over the door, Beefeater-style (or perhaps Yeoman Warders of Her Majesty’s Royal Palace and Fortress the Tower of London, and Members of the Sovereign’s Body Guard of the Yeoman of the Guard Extraordinary-style),  just without the ridiculous hat, awaiting the apartment renter’s return.

Not everything can be learned on the street

A quick anecdote from the day:

I was in the middle of my usual mid-morning coffee shop to tea shop transition walk* when I found myself in a pedestrian pileup on a street corner sidewalk. While waiting for the light to change, I overhead the following exchange:

Mother/adult caregiver: Let’s practice what you learned yesterday. Ok? Can you do the numbers?

Daughter/child in need of care (about 4 years old): ABCDEFGHIJKLMNOPQRSTUV

(silence)

Unrelated guy to his female friend (equally engaged in street corner overhearing): Blew it.

Mother: (icy cold glare at man)

Mother (to daughter): Oh, good job honey. Keep practicing.

And that was where I lost it. Cue me laughing out loud (yes, there was actual literal public lol-ing). Not because the third party observer was right in pointing out the child’s failure to finish. Although I’m kind of with him. Once you make it past the “LMNOP” clusterfuck of elided phonemes, you’re basically home free. I’m not sure why she gave up on the final four letters. Maybe she hates grouped diagonal orthographic notations, making W, X, Y, and Z the forbidden sequence. Maybe she’s part Native American, and this was her version of leaving a single bead out of some sort of jewelry/body ornamentation. Or maybe she just forgot them.

Regardless, this was not what set me off. It was the instant recognition that she had in fact blown it long before the terminal quartet of letters. Because from the start of the series, she was a goner. Because, quite frankly, letters are not numbers. And this mother is just setting her daughter up for a lifetime of counting and spelling confusion. Damaging her worse than any Writing to Read program ever could. Ruining her ability to be both a Creative Writing major and an Economics major at college. Reconciling her to an entire lifetime of understanding the world as nothing but a rebus waiting to be decoded (yes, simple pictures will be incorporated next in this undifferentiated listing of communication components).

So I guess that is truly the lesson of the day: letters are not numbers. Feel free to share with a friend you feel could use the guidance.

 

* The life of a passively dissertating grad student is filled with such excursions. Sometimes it’s simply a coffee shop to coffee shop sojourn. My limit is about 2.5 hours per establishment.

Maybe only give me a lot

Because to demand that someone give you everything just seems selfish.

I haven’t done a song/video deconstruction in a while. So what, you may ask, prompted this sudden impulse to return to this topic? The answer is: I’m not sure.

It may have started with watching the Billboard Music Awards a couple weeks back and the clusterfucky nonsense that such type of second tier awards show generate. So amidst wondering why Brittney and Rihanna were working the pole during the 8:00 hour of primetime and  why Ryan Tedder decided that it shouldn’t just be Bono who gets to climb on and then jump off of pieces of furniture (sorry, I mean instruments) came a beaming bright light of over the top nonsense and awkwardness. His name is Pitbull.

Don’t get me wrong. I love Mister 409. Sorry, I mean Mister 205. Sorry, I really mean Mister 305. Damn you three digit cleaning products and Ruben Studdard area-codes confusing me. Seriously though, I think Armondo is great. True, I may have been a little late to the party, only jumping on the bandwagon when everyone else did with Rebelution. But I’m ok with riding music trends with the rest of the Top 100 music listening populace. Who says Jewish white boys from the north east can’t rock out on the subways to Cuban-americans from Miami. Ok, maybe rock out is a little strong. And yes, maybe social humiliation prevents it from happening on the subways. Moving on…

Cut to the Billboard Awards. Following an awkward introduction by Nas (oh how the mighty have fallen), the camera pans to the stage in the middle of the audience. And there was Mister 305 himself, bald head glistening in the blue spotlight,  surrounded by three, um, thick showgirls complete with white feathered headgear equally gleaming. My first thought: good for him/them. My second thought: aren’t they all the same height? How short IS he? My next thought: Did he just rhyme Kodak with Kodak?! And then it was on.

I considered talking about just the performance. Chests popping. Asses bouncing. Or maybe it’s the other way around. Pitbull’s seizure dancing. Ne Yo’s ridiculous hat and shoe combination. Camera angles that make it look like that latter was dry humping the leg of the former (youtube it if you don’t believe me). But alas, this post is not about that performance. Instead it will be about the video for Give Me Everything.

Pitbull in a backlit ballroom space with a couch with his own personal video lady (who accommodatingly dressed to match the interior decor). Ne Yo in a bright red freight elevator with his own video gal and Nayer. Quick digression: I think it’s AMAZING that there’s a Nayer Facebook profile that gives her name as “Nayer (model of Pitbull). Digression complete. Cut to chorus. Suddenly Ne Yo’s elevator moves. Each time I watch it I secretly hope he’s going to end up in Metropolis, and come lumbering out to face the monster machine with Freder. Also, someone needs to tell Nayer that leaning on a guy’s shoulder with your unsleeved upper arm just makes you look mannish. Cue product placement of Voli Vodka. Because apparently now Pitbull:Voli::Diddy:Ciroc::Gaga:Nemiroff. The lesson to be learned: Vodka is awesome, youth of America.

Only thirty seconds in, and already so much has happened. Thankfully Nayer is there, accompanied by lens flares galore to throw us into some sort of Japanese cartoon-based seizure state. Or maybe it’s more of a Men In Black memory eraser. It must be the latter. Why else would someone be sitting behind a bank of tv screens watching Pitbull walk across a room, unless it was some sort of secret government operation? That combined with the lecherous old man look he keeps giving the camera definitely suggests law enforcement will soon be coming. Quick: grab you Kodak and Voli and run fool! Before they get the plastic To Catch a Predator handcuffs on you.

No wait, it’s all ok. Ne Yo just gave the sign. Literally.

The guests are arriving! Pitbull has his black suit on. No his brown suit. No back to his black suit. No back to his brown suit.

And then we arrive at the problem of citing LiLo’s various forms of incarceration in a song. As of right this minute (which may change right this next minute), Huntington, Long Island’s own favorite daughter is free. Although odds are she’s not trolling the streets of Huntington. So if Pitbull is keeping it “locked up like Lindsay Lohan” does that mean he’s not? What does this mean for his game? Damn you zeitgeist lyrics.

Cue staircase macking (on; not with). Cue Ne Yo air traffic controlling. Cue more Voli. Cue strange late 90s “Waiting for Tonight” the remix-esque filmic flickering and montaging.

And then finally, together at last: Ne Yo and Pitbull have managed to find a shared space (complete with about 150 of their closest club-going friends). There’s jumping. There’s Jersey Shore-inspired fist pumping. There’s Ne Yo again directing airplanes.

And FINALLY the Kodak camera appears.

And from there it’s all repetitive (both in terms of the song and the video). All of the dramatic tension is gone. The inner struggle of the first half of the video had been when will the two lead protagonists-cum-vocalists reunite with one another? The whole dramatic structure of the piece rested upon uniting Pitbull and Ne Yo. Will Pitbull leave the room and climb the staircase? Will Ne Yo ever escape from the freight elevator? Will Nayer ever stop looking mannish? The answer is mostly yes with at least one no. But 66% is still passing at some small liberal arts institutions, so good enough I suppose.

End on imaginary piano playing to Kodak billboard freeze frame. Video: finished. Everything: gotten. I guess.