Today was a day truly at the constant brink of my current life. I was up late last night working on a problem set and a paper outline because, as usual, I waited until the last minute to do both. I got a total of 150 minutes of sleep last night. This, combined with the fact that I am getting sick/am sick, bought me to my tipping point. I usually stick these kinds of things out (that's what she said) but today I was honestly going to throw in the towel. I contemplated calling out of work sick but am so glad I did not. And here's a list why:
1. I shook the hand of Ted Olson. Whatever your political leanings, you cannot deny the influence this man has in the United States.
2. I met Chief Justice Roberts today and was in a few photos with him along with Justice Sotomayor. They're both so friendly and jovial with people in general and each other despite their opposite statures on almost all legal questions. It is amazing to see such camaraderie in person and such adversarial stances on the bench.
3. I saw Justices Breyer and Thomas in the hallway today joking with each other - another example of Justices being friends despite having almost opposites leanings on judicial questions.
4. Solicitor General (and one of the names being kicked around for the next Justice appointment) Elena Kagan was walking past me and stopped to say hello on her way into the courtroom.
And now the big one:
5. I saw Justice John Paul Stevens's final oral argument today in court. The case was an important one (whether those that sign a petition for referendum are protected from release of their names under the first amendment). Despite the cases real-world applications and the arguing attorneys (one of which was great, the other not so much), what really spoke out to me today was at the last moment of court. The petitioner had run out his rebuttal time and the Chief Justice said the usual "the case has been submitted" at the end of the argument. The Marshal hit the gavel and the nine Justices rose to leave their seats. They all vacated their spots except for Justice Stevens, who lingered for a moment. He did not say anything. He simply stood up and looked around the room from the bench for the last time. He then turned around and left the courtroom silently.
I am not sure if this was as powerful to everyone else as it was to me. A true pioneer on the bench, Justice Stevens was more concerned with the practical implications of the legal questions than whether the cases fit the statutes or not. An anecdote from Justice Ginsburg:
Every Friday the Justices meet for conference. ONLY the 9 justices are allowed to sit in on conference - they have no aides, law clerks, or anything of the sort. The Justices went through an entire conference session (they last for hours sometimes) discussing cases. As soon as conference ended, Justice Steven stood up and said: "If we are done here, I would like to leave and go to my son's funeral." Such devotion to public service and one's duties is likely never to be seen again.
So... despite my irritability and inability to function, today was a great and inspirational day.
And in case it wasn't for you, here are all the words to Goodnight Moon.
In the great green room
there was a telephone
And a red balloon
And a picture of--
The cow jumping over the moon
and there were three little bears, sitting on chairs
and two little kittens and a pair of mittens
and a little toy house and a young mouse
and a comb and a brush and bowl full of mush
and a quiet old lady who was whispering "hush"
Goodnight room
goodnight moon
goodnight cow jumping over the moon
goodnight light and the red balloon
goodnight bears goodnight chairs
goodnight kittens goodnight mittens
goodnight clocks and goodnight socks
goodnight little house and goodnight mouse
goodnight comb and goodnight brush
goodnight nobody goodnight mush
and goodnight to the old lady whispering "hush"
goodnight stars, goodnight air
goodnight noises everywhere.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Saturday, April 24, 2010
On the Time I Got Vomited On at the Orange Fireman's Carnival
I am not sure how many years ago this happened, but let it be known that I hated carnivals before this event and still continue to hate them to this day.
The town where I am from, Orange, CT, has two events annually that the entire town shows up for: the first is a lackluster fireworks display for the Fourth of July and the second is the annual Orange Volunteer Fireman's Carnival. Both events are strewn with mediocre-at-best entertainment and a continual volley of high school acquaintances, the sightings of which carry with them the constant inner dilemma of "do I say hi to him/her or not?" This post is about the latter of these events.
While still in high school, though I am not sure which year it was exactly, I attended the fireman's carnival. Like all carnivals, the one in Orange is adorned with inescapable cigarette smoke, disgusting ride operators, and those similarly clad folks running the games berating those ambling by to pay $30 for an attempt to win a prize worth about 50 cents. As my groups of friends and I drifted through the second-hand smoke and avoided making eye-contact with the carnies, we made it in line to ride the king of the carnival rides, the Zipper. Having sold a kidney to afford the tickets to enter such a mechanism, it made sense to give it a whirl (pun intended).
A gentleman with less teeth than fingers opened the creeky and rusted door and allowed me and my friend Ari to board. The door shut and the carnie locked it with what seemed to be a safety pin. Seriously, there is no way those rides are safe.
Now, if you have yet to ride the Zipper in your life (and after this story, you will probably never ride it), the seating is arranged so you are facing the members of another car immediately across from you. Across from Ari and me sat a group of three 12 or 13 year old girls. The mechanical engineer carnie locked them in as well, and after all the cars were likewise filled, the ride began.
The cars move so that the one we were facing, filled with the 12/13 year old girls, shifted to the position stacked on top of us. The Zipper spins and flips the cars around and, if your car carries enough momentum, it can flip upside down. After 45 seconds of spinning around on the brink of death 50 feet in the air, the ride ended and the carnies began to release the locks on the doors and release the passengers. Ari and I were at the top of the ride and opposite us was the car with the 7th graders.
We both hear one of them utter "I think I am going to be sick" and then we laugh to each other. The ride really isn't that intense and would barely warrant any nausea.
We thought.
The ride shifts so that the 13 year olds' car is positioned directly above us. One more quick rotation and both of us would be released from the spinning metal death trap. Despite the tiny amount of time between disembarkation of the rotation before us and our own escape, the sick-to-her-stomach girl above us could not hold it in anymore.
Ari and I heard a splash on the top of our car. Actually, it was more of a splat than a splash. It doesn't matter what sound it made because soon the other senses would take over. Oh, I forgot to mention, it landed solely on my half of the car.
The trickle of vomit seeped slowly but surely into our car. Because of the restraint system inside the car, my mobility was impaired. I had to sit and watch the recently lost lunch slowly drip through the roof of our car onto my shirt, shorts, arm, and leg. I could smell the bile; I could feel the warmth. The slow, dripping stream of barf onto my body, combined with the ear-piercing laughter of my car-mate, as well as the occasional chunk-of-something that feel through the cracks lead to a feeling I would never wish on anyone: a feeling of disgusting, impending doom - a fate that one must watch unfold and that, under no circumstances, can be avoided, no matter how hard one tried or how loud one yelled.
Covered in a stranger's recycled meal of the day and too shocked and appalled to feel anything but utter disgust and misery, I was released from the ride car. The sick girl and her friends were also let out, but said no words of apology to me and instead ran away. Ari, still laughing, attempted to explain what had happened on the ride to our friends but to no avail; he could not muster the strength to speak through the hilarity.
Drenched in humiliation and dotted with chunks of what I believe was bread and some part of a hot dog, I left the carnival for home to shower for hours and burn my clothing. I have ridden the Zipper since, but only with Ari and only for the sake of reliving this story together, because, despite how disgusting the event was, it was still hilarious.
I just wish it had happened to someone else.
The town where I am from, Orange, CT, has two events annually that the entire town shows up for: the first is a lackluster fireworks display for the Fourth of July and the second is the annual Orange Volunteer Fireman's Carnival. Both events are strewn with mediocre-at-best entertainment and a continual volley of high school acquaintances, the sightings of which carry with them the constant inner dilemma of "do I say hi to him/her or not?" This post is about the latter of these events.
While still in high school, though I am not sure which year it was exactly, I attended the fireman's carnival. Like all carnivals, the one in Orange is adorned with inescapable cigarette smoke, disgusting ride operators, and those similarly clad folks running the games berating those ambling by to pay $30 for an attempt to win a prize worth about 50 cents. As my groups of friends and I drifted through the second-hand smoke and avoided making eye-contact with the carnies, we made it in line to ride the king of the carnival rides, the Zipper. Having sold a kidney to afford the tickets to enter such a mechanism, it made sense to give it a whirl (pun intended).
A gentleman with less teeth than fingers opened the creeky and rusted door and allowed me and my friend Ari to board. The door shut and the carnie locked it with what seemed to be a safety pin. Seriously, there is no way those rides are safe.
Now, if you have yet to ride the Zipper in your life (and after this story, you will probably never ride it), the seating is arranged so you are facing the members of another car immediately across from you. Across from Ari and me sat a group of three 12 or 13 year old girls. The mechanical engineer carnie locked them in as well, and after all the cars were likewise filled, the ride began.
The cars move so that the one we were facing, filled with the 12/13 year old girls, shifted to the position stacked on top of us. The Zipper spins and flips the cars around and, if your car carries enough momentum, it can flip upside down. After 45 seconds of spinning around on the brink of death 50 feet in the air, the ride ended and the carnies began to release the locks on the doors and release the passengers. Ari and I were at the top of the ride and opposite us was the car with the 7th graders.
We both hear one of them utter "I think I am going to be sick" and then we laugh to each other. The ride really isn't that intense and would barely warrant any nausea.
We thought.
The ride shifts so that the 13 year olds' car is positioned directly above us. One more quick rotation and both of us would be released from the spinning metal death trap. Despite the tiny amount of time between disembarkation of the rotation before us and our own escape, the sick-to-her-stomach girl above us could not hold it in anymore.
Ari and I heard a splash on the top of our car. Actually, it was more of a splat than a splash. It doesn't matter what sound it made because soon the other senses would take over. Oh, I forgot to mention, it landed solely on my half of the car.
The trickle of vomit seeped slowly but surely into our car. Because of the restraint system inside the car, my mobility was impaired. I had to sit and watch the recently lost lunch slowly drip through the roof of our car onto my shirt, shorts, arm, and leg. I could smell the bile; I could feel the warmth. The slow, dripping stream of barf onto my body, combined with the ear-piercing laughter of my car-mate, as well as the occasional chunk-of-something that feel through the cracks lead to a feeling I would never wish on anyone: a feeling of disgusting, impending doom - a fate that one must watch unfold and that, under no circumstances, can be avoided, no matter how hard one tried or how loud one yelled.
Covered in a stranger's recycled meal of the day and too shocked and appalled to feel anything but utter disgust and misery, I was released from the ride car. The sick girl and her friends were also let out, but said no words of apology to me and instead ran away. Ari, still laughing, attempted to explain what had happened on the ride to our friends but to no avail; he could not muster the strength to speak through the hilarity.
Drenched in humiliation and dotted with chunks of what I believe was bread and some part of a hot dog, I left the carnival for home to shower for hours and burn my clothing. I have ridden the Zipper since, but only with Ari and only for the sake of reliving this story together, because, despite how disgusting the event was, it was still hilarious.
I just wish it had happened to someone else.
Monday, April 19, 2010
On the All-Sense Onslaught of Union Station
I am going to walk you through my after-work walk from the Supreme Court, down First avenue to historic Union Station, where I catch the red line metro to my apartment in Dupont Circle daily.
At around 5:15 every day, I exit the Supreme Court building from the Maryland Avenue side and make my way to First Street. On the way to First street, I have an amazing view of the Capitol shining in the sun, surrounded by the green remnants of what, until recently, were pink and white cherry blossom trees. Taxis of all different colors and sizes drive by along with the regular traffic as I turn right and start the three block trek down to Union Station.
I can see it from right where I start and it is truly a sight to behold; the white marble building shines in the sunlight and the entire walk is adorned with beautiful foliage and flower gardens. Busy people run and try to cross the street before the walking symbol turns to that all-familiar, Blackberry in one hand, Starbucks in the other. Despite the commotion around, Union Station, in all of its historic glory, remains directly ahead.
I am now two blocks away, having walked past the Senate office buildings and am about to walk through a park on my way to the station. Squirrels more tame and used to human life than those in Ithaca (a rarity indeed) stand ready to move 18 inches away, but ultimately ignore me as I do the same to them. I am surrounded by flowers, grass, and cherry blossom trees. I press forward through the park and am now one block away from Union Station.
And then it happens.
A gust of wind from the station itself carries the repulsive stench of freshly laid manure that has sat in the sun all day, the ever-nauseating odor of diesel fumes from the mass of old, inefficient buses spewing black clouds from their exhaust, and the omni-present stink of the homeless that have turned the once beautiful grounds of Union Station into a commune. The flood of terrible, disgusting odors is almost a punch in the stomach. The walking part of my commute had, up until now, been so pleasant that it had raised me up so high, only to have the odious funk cut the wind out from under me and drop me into an abyss of malodorous stink.
As I approach Union Station, I try to focus all my senses onto only vision; the architecture of the building itself is truly remarkable. This strategy fails miserably and the deathly grip produced by cow excrement, exhaust fumes, and body odor entangles and overwhelms me.
In a blind rush, I run to the escalator that leads underground to the subterranean sanctuary that is the subway. The smell of burning brakes - something like a combination of camp fire and burning rubber - is a relief from the onslaught of odors outside.
Did you think this would be a pleasant entry when you first started reading?
At around 5:15 every day, I exit the Supreme Court building from the Maryland Avenue side and make my way to First Street. On the way to First street, I have an amazing view of the Capitol shining in the sun, surrounded by the green remnants of what, until recently, were pink and white cherry blossom trees. Taxis of all different colors and sizes drive by along with the regular traffic as I turn right and start the three block trek down to Union Station.
I can see it from right where I start and it is truly a sight to behold; the white marble building shines in the sunlight and the entire walk is adorned with beautiful foliage and flower gardens. Busy people run and try to cross the street before the walking symbol turns to that all-familiar, Blackberry in one hand, Starbucks in the other. Despite the commotion around, Union Station, in all of its historic glory, remains directly ahead.
I am now two blocks away, having walked past the Senate office buildings and am about to walk through a park on my way to the station. Squirrels more tame and used to human life than those in Ithaca (a rarity indeed) stand ready to move 18 inches away, but ultimately ignore me as I do the same to them. I am surrounded by flowers, grass, and cherry blossom trees. I press forward through the park and am now one block away from Union Station.
And then it happens.
A gust of wind from the station itself carries the repulsive stench of freshly laid manure that has sat in the sun all day, the ever-nauseating odor of diesel fumes from the mass of old, inefficient buses spewing black clouds from their exhaust, and the omni-present stink of the homeless that have turned the once beautiful grounds of Union Station into a commune. The flood of terrible, disgusting odors is almost a punch in the stomach. The walking part of my commute had, up until now, been so pleasant that it had raised me up so high, only to have the odious funk cut the wind out from under me and drop me into an abyss of malodorous stink.
As I approach Union Station, I try to focus all my senses onto only vision; the architecture of the building itself is truly remarkable. This strategy fails miserably and the deathly grip produced by cow excrement, exhaust fumes, and body odor entangles and overwhelms me.
In a blind rush, I run to the escalator that leads underground to the subterranean sanctuary that is the subway. The smell of burning brakes - something like a combination of camp fire and burning rubber - is a relief from the onslaught of odors outside.
Did you think this would be a pleasant entry when you first started reading?
Saturday, April 10, 2010
On My Cornell Baja SAE Story
I've been a "car guy" since I was about 10 years old. Before then, I was a video game kid and my constant playing of Mario Kart 64 (still the best racing game in existence) provided the steady transition from joystick to steering wheel. This interest would be limited to putting up Lamborghini posters and saving up three years' worth of swim lesson money to buy my Fiona. Soon this developed into reading Autoblog and Jalopnik daily as well as all the How Stuff Works articles on the standard transmission and the internal combustion engine.
There came a point in my life when I thought I would be an engineer and love to design and work on engines (there were also times when I wanted to be a marine biologist and a stand-up comedian). Then, a combination of an amazing English teacher that taught me how to write and argue and a complete disinterest in calculus (as well as a failing grade on the AP exam) moved me away from engineering and toward a career in law (Sir Issac Newton - your laws of physics have got nothing on the Bill of Rights). And despite my academic pursuance of economic policy and pre-law classes, I could still be found in Catherwood Library reading all the latest car news instead of labor law cases and econ text books.
At the beginning of the second semester of my freshman year, a friend of mine/my mortal enemy, Scott, told me he was interviewing later that day for an off-road race car team. I inquired further about the nature of the competition and he said that the engineering school has a number of "project teams" that each do something different. There was one for a Formula style race car, one for an autonomous underwater vehicle (read robot submarine), one that attempted to make a terminator-style robotic arm, and an off-road race car team. Equipped with no more knowledge than that, I asked Scott to ask his interviewers if they had an extra time slot to interview me for a position on the team. Not being an engineer would pose some difficulty, but luckily there was a facet of the team that I fit into: the business subteam, responsible for all financing, accounting, public relations, recruiting, travel planning, and other business-esque assignments having to do with a major project. I had found a spot where my personal skill set could be useful and I could be involved in something about which I felt so passionately.
My involvement started small but quickly grew, as did my friendships with many of the team members. Indeed, I was not personally building anything on the car (save mounting the headrest, which is obviously the most important part of the car) but I got to be involved in every facet of the project, from engine to brake pedal. And while this semester I have not technically been on the team because I am in DC, I still try to help whenever and where ever I can and maintain constant contact with team members.
Which brings me to today. This weekend marks the opening competition of the North American Baja SAE Series. The competition is taking place in Greenville, South Carolina and you can follow the action live here.
I sat at my computer all day, constantly refreshing that Twitter page to get updates on how the team was doing while also calling team members for updates. I must admit that I do miss going to competition and that I can't wait for our second and final competition this year in Rochester, NY from June 10-13, where I will be in attendance.
So, here is a toast to the team. You guys are the best and have formed a major part of my life experience thus far. Not only has the project provided a venue to apply my personal strengths and what I am learning in class, but also it has allowed me to fully engage one of the things in the world about which I feel most passionately. I have made some of my best friends on the team and, despite currently watching the progress from afar via facebook, Youtube, and Twitter, I still feel that sense of pride and accomplishment, and I want to thank you guys for that. I am so proud to be a member of this team, and whether we come in first or get run off the road by some Foreigners, we all come back with free hats and T-shirts, and that is what really matters.
The team is currently sitting in 6th place overall out of 103 with the final and most important event, the 4 hour endurance race, to be held tomorrow.
There came a point in my life when I thought I would be an engineer and love to design and work on engines (there were also times when I wanted to be a marine biologist and a stand-up comedian). Then, a combination of an amazing English teacher that taught me how to write and argue and a complete disinterest in calculus (as well as a failing grade on the AP exam) moved me away from engineering and toward a career in law (Sir Issac Newton - your laws of physics have got nothing on the Bill of Rights). And despite my academic pursuance of economic policy and pre-law classes, I could still be found in Catherwood Library reading all the latest car news instead of labor law cases and econ text books.
At the beginning of the second semester of my freshman year, a friend of mine/my mortal enemy, Scott, told me he was interviewing later that day for an off-road race car team. I inquired further about the nature of the competition and he said that the engineering school has a number of "project teams" that each do something different. There was one for a Formula style race car, one for an autonomous underwater vehicle (read robot submarine), one that attempted to make a terminator-style robotic arm, and an off-road race car team. Equipped with no more knowledge than that, I asked Scott to ask his interviewers if they had an extra time slot to interview me for a position on the team. Not being an engineer would pose some difficulty, but luckily there was a facet of the team that I fit into: the business subteam, responsible for all financing, accounting, public relations, recruiting, travel planning, and other business-esque assignments having to do with a major project. I had found a spot where my personal skill set could be useful and I could be involved in something about which I felt so passionately.
My involvement started small but quickly grew, as did my friendships with many of the team members. Indeed, I was not personally building anything on the car (save mounting the headrest, which is obviously the most important part of the car) but I got to be involved in every facet of the project, from engine to brake pedal. And while this semester I have not technically been on the team because I am in DC, I still try to help whenever and where ever I can and maintain constant contact with team members.
Which brings me to today. This weekend marks the opening competition of the North American Baja SAE Series. The competition is taking place in Greenville, South Carolina and you can follow the action live here.
I sat at my computer all day, constantly refreshing that Twitter page to get updates on how the team was doing while also calling team members for updates. I must admit that I do miss going to competition and that I can't wait for our second and final competition this year in Rochester, NY from June 10-13, where I will be in attendance.
So, here is a toast to the team. You guys are the best and have formed a major part of my life experience thus far. Not only has the project provided a venue to apply my personal strengths and what I am learning in class, but also it has allowed me to fully engage one of the things in the world about which I feel most passionately. I have made some of my best friends on the team and, despite currently watching the progress from afar via facebook, Youtube, and Twitter, I still feel that sense of pride and accomplishment, and I want to thank you guys for that. I am so proud to be a member of this team, and whether we come in first or get run off the road by some Foreigners, we all come back with free hats and T-shirts, and that is what really matters.
The team is currently sitting in 6th place overall out of 103 with the final and most important event, the 4 hour endurance race, to be held tomorrow.
Saturday, April 3, 2010
Monday, March 29, 2010
On the One Battle I Ever Won Against My Mom
Let me premise this entry by saying that I am the biggest mama's boy in the world. I love my mom with all my heart and would do anything for her (except laundry, but we'll get to that). While I am pretty domesticated in the kitchen, I am completely and utterly lost when it comes to clothing. If it was up to me, all my shirts would have dinosaurs with hilarious onomatopoeia on them. I still call my mom almost nightly for her to tell me what to wear to work the next day (wearing suits is awesome, but hard work).
Over the course of my life, I've learned to heed my mother's advice on almost every subject. Whenever I did not, some ironic twist of fate would have me coming home at the end of the day, telling her my story, and receiving something along the lines of: "I told you that would happen this morning! Why don't you ever believe me? How many times do you have to (insert: break something, hurt yourself, lose something, etc) before you learn to listen to me? Well, I'm glad you're alright. But I told you so."
Despite the hundreds of debates/discussions/battles I've had with my mom over the past 21 years, I've only been victorious in one instance: laundry.
When I was in 9th grade, my mom tried to get me to do my own laundry for the first time. "You're going to have to learn how to do it in college, so you might as well start now" was the rationale of choice. I said that I had plenty of time before college and would learn later. This worked until senior year of high school.
It started with baby steps - requests for me to carry my laundry down the stairs, holding fake conversations with me in the laundry room while subtly feeding me instructions on how to use the washer, asking me to separate my whites from my colors, having me hang up and fold everything, etc. I played along for the most part, always with the intention that I would not ever actually put my clothes in the washer and then transfer them to the dryer. This type of "laundering debate" lasted for a couple of weeks - I would get creative and think of ways out of doing laundry time and time again. Finally, my mom refused to do my laundry anymore.
"You will have to learn how to do it yourself now because I'm not doing it anymore. You're going to be the smelly kid at school."
My response? "Ok, I'll be the smelly kid at school. And you will be the mom of the smelly kid at school. What will the other moms think?"
(Looking back on this from an Industrial and Labor Relations major's perspective, I can totally see how she was labor and I was management)
The laundry strike lasted somewhere between 4 and 5 weeks. I rewore and reused everything: towels, boxers, shirts, socks, pants - you name it, I recycled it. The continual cycle of dirty, stained clothing and the idea that people were talking about me to their parents eventually forced my mom to crack and wash my clothes (after I brought them down to the laundry room, which I still consider a fair compromise). Victory never smelled so sweet.
Now, I do, in fact, do laundry on my own at school, but I wait until the last possible article of clothing has been worn before I finally concede. Why do I do this? Because there is the chance, albeit a slim one, that before I NEED to do laundry, I'll go home for a weekend and bring with me two massive duffel bags filled with dirty clothes to remind myself of my singular win in a sea of Greek, motherly defeat.
So, thank you, Mom, for everything you've taught me over these past 21 years, everything you'll teach me from now on, and for letting me have this small victory. Remember that while I love you with all my heart and will forever listen to your words of wisdom, you will never have a son that does his own laundry at home. This is not out of inability or laziness, bitterness or anger, but rather the sense of pride that I get when I bring home 150 pounds of dirty clothes and leave home with 135 pounds of clean ones (15 pounds of funk washed out). Take heart in knowing that I am one of the few people I know that still calls home every single day, be it for advice on what to wear the next day or just for the friendly words and unconditional love. Also, know that you will always have a little boy to take care of, and part of that is doing his laundry.
Will someone buy me this shirt?
Over the course of my life, I've learned to heed my mother's advice on almost every subject. Whenever I did not, some ironic twist of fate would have me coming home at the end of the day, telling her my story, and receiving something along the lines of: "I told you that would happen this morning! Why don't you ever believe me? How many times do you have to (insert: break something, hurt yourself, lose something, etc) before you learn to listen to me? Well, I'm glad you're alright. But I told you so."
Despite the hundreds of debates/discussions/battles I've had with my mom over the past 21 years, I've only been victorious in one instance: laundry.
When I was in 9th grade, my mom tried to get me to do my own laundry for the first time. "You're going to have to learn how to do it in college, so you might as well start now" was the rationale of choice. I said that I had plenty of time before college and would learn later. This worked until senior year of high school.
It started with baby steps - requests for me to carry my laundry down the stairs, holding fake conversations with me in the laundry room while subtly feeding me instructions on how to use the washer, asking me to separate my whites from my colors, having me hang up and fold everything, etc. I played along for the most part, always with the intention that I would not ever actually put my clothes in the washer and then transfer them to the dryer. This type of "laundering debate" lasted for a couple of weeks - I would get creative and think of ways out of doing laundry time and time again. Finally, my mom refused to do my laundry anymore.
"You will have to learn how to do it yourself now because I'm not doing it anymore. You're going to be the smelly kid at school."
My response? "Ok, I'll be the smelly kid at school. And you will be the mom of the smelly kid at school. What will the other moms think?"
(Looking back on this from an Industrial and Labor Relations major's perspective, I can totally see how she was labor and I was management)
The laundry strike lasted somewhere between 4 and 5 weeks. I rewore and reused everything: towels, boxers, shirts, socks, pants - you name it, I recycled it. The continual cycle of dirty, stained clothing and the idea that people were talking about me to their parents eventually forced my mom to crack and wash my clothes (after I brought them down to the laundry room, which I still consider a fair compromise). Victory never smelled so sweet.
Now, I do, in fact, do laundry on my own at school, but I wait until the last possible article of clothing has been worn before I finally concede. Why do I do this? Because there is the chance, albeit a slim one, that before I NEED to do laundry, I'll go home for a weekend and bring with me two massive duffel bags filled with dirty clothes to remind myself of my singular win in a sea of Greek, motherly defeat.
So, thank you, Mom, for everything you've taught me over these past 21 years, everything you'll teach me from now on, and for letting me have this small victory. Remember that while I love you with all my heart and will forever listen to your words of wisdom, you will never have a son that does his own laundry at home. This is not out of inability or laziness, bitterness or anger, but rather the sense of pride that I get when I bring home 150 pounds of dirty clothes and leave home with 135 pounds of clean ones (15 pounds of funk washed out). Take heart in knowing that I am one of the few people I know that still calls home every single day, be it for advice on what to wear the next day or just for the friendly words and unconditional love. Also, know that you will always have a little boy to take care of, and part of that is doing his laundry.
Will someone buy me this shirt?
Saturday, March 27, 2010
On "This Week in Techno Music"
Whenever I meet anyone from Long Island, one of the first things I always say is "You guys have great radio stations." They always inquire as to which channels I tune into and almost always assume it is 106.1 BLI. While that station is preset 5 on my dial, my station of choice is always Party 105.3.
Unfortunately, few Long Islanders (at least the ones I've met) know about this station. But for those that I've crossed that do listen to it, we instantly have something in common: an absurd and irrational obsession with techno, trance, and house music. I'm not sure where my fascination with this type of music came from, but my hard drive is loaded with it. Anyway, since I've been home these past couple days, I've been listening and I found some great music during my long, aimless drives to nowhere (which are a big part of my life, as my hometown friends will attest, and will be explained in my next entry).
Anyway, some of my favorite new songs are listed here. Take a listen, even if you aren't into techno music. Also, a bunch of the videos are GREAT to watch, so if you can't stand the music, hit mute and enjoy the visuals.
M'Black - Heartbreak
*No video, but a great song.
Blake Lewis - Heartbreak on Vinyl
*I very much recommend watching this video because it is just a compilation of 80s and 90s movie clips. It is awesome. Put it on mute if you must.
Tiesto featuring Sneaky Sound System - I Will Be Here
*Amazing music video, amazing song. It is that simple.
Edward Maya & Vika Jigulina - Stereo Love
*This music video takes place in Greece - which is awesome - and no woman ever looked as good as Vika Jigulina while wearing rain boots. The lyrics are really great, too.
La Roux - Bulletproof
*Hilarious music video and pretty catchy song. I am 90% sure this artist is a woman.
Anyway, hope you enjoy these songs at least as much as I do. Philosophical post with depth maybe later tonight or tomorrow.
Unfortunately, few Long Islanders (at least the ones I've met) know about this station. But for those that I've crossed that do listen to it, we instantly have something in common: an absurd and irrational obsession with techno, trance, and house music. I'm not sure where my fascination with this type of music came from, but my hard drive is loaded with it. Anyway, since I've been home these past couple days, I've been listening and I found some great music during my long, aimless drives to nowhere (which are a big part of my life, as my hometown friends will attest, and will be explained in my next entry).
Anyway, some of my favorite new songs are listed here. Take a listen, even if you aren't into techno music. Also, a bunch of the videos are GREAT to watch, so if you can't stand the music, hit mute and enjoy the visuals.
M'Black - Heartbreak
*No video, but a great song.
Blake Lewis - Heartbreak on Vinyl
*I very much recommend watching this video because it is just a compilation of 80s and 90s movie clips. It is awesome. Put it on mute if you must.
Tiesto featuring Sneaky Sound System - I Will Be Here
*Amazing music video, amazing song. It is that simple.
Edward Maya & Vika Jigulina - Stereo Love
*This music video takes place in Greece - which is awesome - and no woman ever looked as good as Vika Jigulina while wearing rain boots. The lyrics are really great, too.
La Roux - Bulletproof
*Hilarious music video and pretty catchy song. I am 90% sure this artist is a woman.
Anyway, hope you enjoy these songs at least as much as I do. Philosophical post with depth maybe later tonight or tomorrow.
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