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.
Thursday, March 25, 2010
On Where I Got My Sense of Humor
For those of you that have met my parents, namely my father, you can kind of see where I came from. This post begins with TWO stories about my dad's adventures, not mine. Both of these stories are true - I promise - but I was not present for either of them. Some background information: my parents own a restaurant and my dad works there every day. He is about 6' 2" and not thin, for lack of a better term.
Story 1: Delivery on Presidents' Day Elevator Hilarity.
My dad was delivering an order to an accounting firm located on the 14th floor of a building. After dropping the food off, he got back into the elevator and began his descent. The way he described it to me, very rarely do people ever get on the elevator in this building - at least when he is delivering - so he usually rides it down alone. Anyway, the elevator stopped at floor 12 and two people got on. Then, it stopped on floor 11 and a couple more people got on. The same at floors 10, 9, and 7. After the door closed at 7, the elevator was packed with people. My dad, from the back corner, says out loud "Ok everyone, if someone gets on at the 5th floor, we should all yell SURPRISE as soon as the door opens up." The elevator skips the 6th floor and sure enough, the door opens on the 5th floor. On the other side of the door is a 60-something year old woman wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and hat. The door opens fully. My dad yells "SURPRISE!!!" and jumps into the air in his corner of the elevator. No one else does anything. The poor little woman that had taken two steps into the elevator promptly backs out. The door shuts 5 awkward seconds later and continues to the ground floor. On the way, my dad says to the people in the elevator: "Thanks a lot, guys."
Story 2: The Rainy Day Debacle
Now, New Haven is not known for having especially heavy rain, but from time to time it can really pour. On one of these occasions, my dad was returning from a delivery. The rain had started while he was dropping the food off inside a building and he did not bring an umbrella. He stood in the lobby of the building where he had delivered the food and gazed out into the downpour, wondering how he would be able to get back. Waiting the storm out was not an option because the delivery was right before lunch, which is when the restaurant is the busiest. He looked outside and saw his escape plan - a man with a very large golf umbrella walking down the street. My dad ran outside, through the rain, and joined the gentleman underneath his umbrella. The man was shocked. My dad said "Hey, goin' my way?" The man with the umbrella looked at my dad and then promptly ran away down the street. My dad, upset that he was caught in the rain, ran back to the restaurant.
Those are two stories (two of the many) that I feel really show my roots. You see, my dad has always been someone that does things like this and I thus learned from him how to interact with people. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing is really for you all to decide.
We watched the Cornell basketball game tonight together. He was excited that, finally, his son cared enough about a sport to yell at the screen when something bad happened. He was also excited that his son could finally drink a beer with him and not have his wife (my mom) yell at him about it. A bittersweet moment, I guess.
Story 1: Delivery on Presidents' Day Elevator Hilarity.
My dad was delivering an order to an accounting firm located on the 14th floor of a building. After dropping the food off, he got back into the elevator and began his descent. The way he described it to me, very rarely do people ever get on the elevator in this building - at least when he is delivering - so he usually rides it down alone. Anyway, the elevator stopped at floor 12 and two people got on. Then, it stopped on floor 11 and a couple more people got on. The same at floors 10, 9, and 7. After the door closed at 7, the elevator was packed with people. My dad, from the back corner, says out loud "Ok everyone, if someone gets on at the 5th floor, we should all yell SURPRISE as soon as the door opens up." The elevator skips the 6th floor and sure enough, the door opens on the 5th floor. On the other side of the door is a 60-something year old woman wearing a bright yellow rain slicker and hat. The door opens fully. My dad yells "SURPRISE!!!" and jumps into the air in his corner of the elevator. No one else does anything. The poor little woman that had taken two steps into the elevator promptly backs out. The door shuts 5 awkward seconds later and continues to the ground floor. On the way, my dad says to the people in the elevator: "Thanks a lot, guys."
Story 2: The Rainy Day Debacle
Now, New Haven is not known for having especially heavy rain, but from time to time it can really pour. On one of these occasions, my dad was returning from a delivery. The rain had started while he was dropping the food off inside a building and he did not bring an umbrella. He stood in the lobby of the building where he had delivered the food and gazed out into the downpour, wondering how he would be able to get back. Waiting the storm out was not an option because the delivery was right before lunch, which is when the restaurant is the busiest. He looked outside and saw his escape plan - a man with a very large golf umbrella walking down the street. My dad ran outside, through the rain, and joined the gentleman underneath his umbrella. The man was shocked. My dad said "Hey, goin' my way?" The man with the umbrella looked at my dad and then promptly ran away down the street. My dad, upset that he was caught in the rain, ran back to the restaurant.
Those are two stories (two of the many) that I feel really show my roots. You see, my dad has always been someone that does things like this and I thus learned from him how to interact with people. Whether that is a good thing or a bad thing is really for you all to decide.
We watched the Cornell basketball game tonight together. He was excited that, finally, his son cared enough about a sport to yell at the screen when something bad happened. He was also excited that his son could finally drink a beer with him and not have his wife (my mom) yell at him about it. A bittersweet moment, I guess.
Monday, March 22, 2010
On Cross-Cultural Tendencies
This post begins with a short conversation between myself and my longtime friend, Ivica Pavisic. (In case it isn't clear, I'm GeorgetheGreek)
Vitz8989: i have a story
georgethegreek89: ..
Vitz8989: so my mom was telling me that she was with my dad somewhere
georgethegreek89: ok
Vitz8989: and some lady started talking to them
Vitz8989: and the lady turned to my dad and was like "don't you remember me?"
Vitz8989: and he was like "not really"
Vitz8989: so she told him about how this one time she was driving by our house
Vitz8989: with her kids in the car
georgethegreek89: HOLD ON
georgethegreek89: brb
Vitz8989: ok
Vitz8989: lol
georgethegreek89: ok
georgethegreek89: back
georgethegreek89: driving by the house and
Vitz8989: ok
Vitz8989: so
Vitz8989: my dad was making goat or lamb or something that day
Vitz8989: so he had it hanging up in the tree out front while he was making the fire
Vitz8989: and the lady's kids saw this
Vitz8989: and were like "mom, is that guy cooking a dog"
Vitz8989: and she was like "don't be ridiculous"
Vitz8989: and drove by again
Vitz8989: and she saw it
Vitz8989: and her kids saw it again
Vitz8989: and they were convinced he was cooking a dog
Vitz8989: so her kids started crying
georgethegreek89: lmao
georgethegreek89: hahahahahhaha
Vitz8989: so they drove around one more time
Vitz8989: and then she stopped and asked
Vitz8989: and he told them it was just a lamb
Vitz8989: but like
Vitz8989: what if they never stopped and asked
georgethegreek89: hahhahahahahaha
Vitz8989: what if they just went on assuming that he was actually cooking a dog
Vitz8989: we would have been That family
georgethegreek89: and i would have loved it.
Ivica and I both come from old world families - Ivica is Croatian and I am Greek. Our families carry certain traditions from our countries of origin, some more socially acceptable in the United States than others. One of the more major of these traditions is the roasting of an entire animal.
Let's start with some history behind the tradition (I did a report on this Junior year of high school so I am qualified to write on the subject). In ancient times - in Rome and more importantly, Greece - meat was very rarely eaten. Fish was prevalent in the diet, but breads and other starches made up the majority of the meals. Vegetables that grew in the Mediterranean area (spinach, olives, tomatoes, etc) were also part of the daily diet. Meat was not a day to day, or even a weekly food; it was usually consumed on holidays.
Part of these celebrations was the roasting of the animal. People from the entire village would gather around for the event Sacrificial animals would be slain, certain parts would be burnt as offerings, and the rest would be consumed by those all around. The roasting of the animal as part of a celebration remained a part of the culture.
Today, the roastings are a little bit different. Now, my family only does a roast lamb on Easter. My uncle sets up the rotating spit and the charcoal pit early in the morning and the entire family gathers around all day, mouths watering, and watches the meal of day turn and turn. I've always thought the lamb was smiling at me whilst it rotated over the 400 degree heat. My grandfather used to eat the eyes and the brains (after chasing us around the yard with the entire head on a fork) - apparently, they are very good for you.
To my knowledge, Ivica's father roasts animals for no apparent reason in their backyard, but that's not to say it has any less meaning. In fact, an animal roast has become an event enough for having people over - no other holiday or celebration is required. The promise of rotisserie meat is enough to have friends and family from all over gather around.
Last fourth of July, Ivica and I (along with a few friends) tried to capture the feelings of such moments with our now infamous "Fourth of Jufry" party, in which we fried a turkey, twinkies, oreos, different cheeses, shrimp, popsicles, and almost anything else under the sun. While not exactly the same (and certainly not as healthy) as a lamb on the spit, people still gathered around the pot of frying oil - some of us in worship - and watched as the deep fried goodness emerged from the 375 degree cauldron and went straight to our hearts (literally and figuratively speaking).
And while it is easy to be caught up in all the deliciousness of these moments - be them deep fried of roasted over coals - it is important to note that the entire process is to bring people together and celebrate each others' company. While you may be disgusted by an entire animal, face and all, slowly spinning in the front yard, or by the decades sawed off someone who eats fried everything for a day for the sake of eating fried everything for a day, you cannot deny the potential either of these actions has for bringing everyone together. What used to be an occasion to pay tribute to the Gods, to either curb their wrath or thank them for their blessings, has become simply a gathering occasion for friends.
So, I leave you with this advice. No matter your feelings toward food-fueled engagements or your stupidly formed, PETA-esque beliefs, make sure that if you are ever invited to a ridiculous and other the top cookout, you attend.
Sorry this took so long to post - lots of shenanigans going on recently. Another one tomorrow.
Vitz8989: i have a story
georgethegreek89: ..
Vitz8989: so my mom was telling me that she was with my dad somewhere
georgethegreek89: ok
Vitz8989: and some lady started talking to them
Vitz8989: and the lady turned to my dad and was like "don't you remember me?"
Vitz8989: and he was like "not really"
Vitz8989: so she told him about how this one time she was driving by our house
Vitz8989: with her kids in the car
georgethegreek89: HOLD ON
georgethegreek89: brb
Vitz8989: ok
Vitz8989: lol
georgethegreek89: ok
georgethegreek89: back
georgethegreek89: driving by the house and
Vitz8989: ok
Vitz8989: so
Vitz8989: my dad was making goat or lamb or something that day
Vitz8989: so he had it hanging up in the tree out front while he was making the fire
Vitz8989: and the lady's kids saw this
Vitz8989: and were like "mom, is that guy cooking a dog"
Vitz8989: and she was like "don't be ridiculous"
Vitz8989: and drove by again
Vitz8989: and she saw it
Vitz8989: and her kids saw it again
Vitz8989: and they were convinced he was cooking a dog
Vitz8989: so her kids started crying
georgethegreek89: lmao
georgethegreek89: hahahahahhaha
Vitz8989: so they drove around one more time
Vitz8989: and then she stopped and asked
Vitz8989: and he told them it was just a lamb
Vitz8989: but like
Vitz8989: what if they never stopped and asked
georgethegreek89: hahhahahahahaha
Vitz8989: what if they just went on assuming that he was actually cooking a dog
Vitz8989: we would have been That family
georgethegreek89: and i would have loved it.
Ivica and I both come from old world families - Ivica is Croatian and I am Greek. Our families carry certain traditions from our countries of origin, some more socially acceptable in the United States than others. One of the more major of these traditions is the roasting of an entire animal.
Let's start with some history behind the tradition (I did a report on this Junior year of high school so I am qualified to write on the subject). In ancient times - in Rome and more importantly, Greece - meat was very rarely eaten. Fish was prevalent in the diet, but breads and other starches made up the majority of the meals. Vegetables that grew in the Mediterranean area (spinach, olives, tomatoes, etc) were also part of the daily diet. Meat was not a day to day, or even a weekly food; it was usually consumed on holidays.
Part of these celebrations was the roasting of the animal. People from the entire village would gather around for the event Sacrificial animals would be slain, certain parts would be burnt as offerings, and the rest would be consumed by those all around. The roasting of the animal as part of a celebration remained a part of the culture.
Today, the roastings are a little bit different. Now, my family only does a roast lamb on Easter. My uncle sets up the rotating spit and the charcoal pit early in the morning and the entire family gathers around all day, mouths watering, and watches the meal of day turn and turn. I've always thought the lamb was smiling at me whilst it rotated over the 400 degree heat. My grandfather used to eat the eyes and the brains (after chasing us around the yard with the entire head on a fork) - apparently, they are very good for you.
To my knowledge, Ivica's father roasts animals for no apparent reason in their backyard, but that's not to say it has any less meaning. In fact, an animal roast has become an event enough for having people over - no other holiday or celebration is required. The promise of rotisserie meat is enough to have friends and family from all over gather around.
Last fourth of July, Ivica and I (along with a few friends) tried to capture the feelings of such moments with our now infamous "Fourth of Jufry" party, in which we fried a turkey, twinkies, oreos, different cheeses, shrimp, popsicles, and almost anything else under the sun. While not exactly the same (and certainly not as healthy) as a lamb on the spit, people still gathered around the pot of frying oil - some of us in worship - and watched as the deep fried goodness emerged from the 375 degree cauldron and went straight to our hearts (literally and figuratively speaking).
And while it is easy to be caught up in all the deliciousness of these moments - be them deep fried of roasted over coals - it is important to note that the entire process is to bring people together and celebrate each others' company. While you may be disgusted by an entire animal, face and all, slowly spinning in the front yard, or by the decades sawed off someone who eats fried everything for a day for the sake of eating fried everything for a day, you cannot deny the potential either of these actions has for bringing everyone together. What used to be an occasion to pay tribute to the Gods, to either curb their wrath or thank them for their blessings, has become simply a gathering occasion for friends.
So, I leave you with this advice. No matter your feelings toward food-fueled engagements or your stupidly formed, PETA-esque beliefs, make sure that if you are ever invited to a ridiculous and other the top cookout, you attend.
Sorry this took so long to post - lots of shenanigans going on recently. Another one tomorrow.
Thursday, March 18, 2010
Apologies
I'm sorry I have not been updating very much recently. I promise to update TWICE this weekend as soon as I finish my paper due tomorrow.
In the meantime, if you watch this I promise it will make you a better person. You have to listen to the music and watch it fullscreen and watch the whole thing, though.
Anyway, enjoy.
In the meantime, if you watch this I promise it will make you a better person. You have to listen to the music and watch it fullscreen and watch the whole thing, though.
Anyway, enjoy.
Tuesday, March 9, 2010
On Nikhil
This just happened:
Nikhil: hmm ok
im reevaluating my life right now
idk if i really want law school
i dont think my mind works like a lawyers
why fit a square peg into a round hole
me: because thats how babies are made, nikhil.
You're welcome, Tom.
Nikhil: hmm ok
im reevaluating my life right now
idk if i really want law school
i dont think my mind works like a lawyers
why fit a square peg into a round hole
me: because thats how babies are made, nikhil.
You're welcome, Tom.
Tuesday, March 2, 2010
On How I Wanted to Spend My 21st Birthday / On How I Spent My 21st Birthday
For those of you that spoke to me in the weeks leading up to my departure from Connecticut for my semester in DC, this will be repetitive. I had a poetic plan for how I wanted to spend my 21st birthday. It went something like this....
"My plan is to wear my new suit, look extra nice, and ruin the image by wearing my light up shoes. I want to go out to a bar and dance to Lady Gaga and just let loose. I want this to last for the entire night and somehow make my way to the Lincoln Memorial. Once I'm at the Lincoln memorial, I want to undo my tie and top button and sit on the steps looking at the Washington monument. I want to sit there, drink red wine from a bottle in a paper bag, and watch the sun rise over Washington."
That was my original plan and I thought it was beautiful.
Here is what really happened:
On the night of March 1, at approximately 11:35, a troupe of 18 women from the CIW program (and my roommate Mike) paraded into my room. At the head of the procession (keep that wording in mind because a pun is coming up [keep that wording in mind, too]) was a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. In the shape of a penis. With cream filling in the middle. I ate the tip. Seriously.
Once the cake was consumed (I almost used swallowed there), a small contingent of the cake brigade and I set out to The BrickSkeller, a beer bar with over 1000 different type of beer. We were seated by a man with dreadlocks who gave us our menus. There were a ton of different type of beers and I was overwhelmed by the choices. Following some advice from a Rubel-friend, I ordered a Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA. Our dreadlocked beertender complement on my choice.
When he returned with the bottle, he placed it down, poured it into my glass, and said "This is a Beer Drinker's beer." I felt extremely manly. After one beer, the troupe returned home, knowing full well that we had to wake up in 5 hours and go to work.
I arose at 6 am, got dressed, and headed out to work. I got to sit in on oral arguments at the court and saw a historical case - McDonald v. Chicago. The justices absolutely destroyed main counsel on both sides of the case. The only lawyer that withstood the blows was the NRA lawyer, who performed admirably, almost beautifully, in front of the Justices.
After that, I was complement by a real-life woman about my suit. The secretary of the clerk said that she liked me shirt-tie-suit combination. Having dressed myself that day without calling my mom the night before, I felt great.
The Boy Scouts of America presented me with a medal today because I helped give them a great tour.
I attended happy hour at a bar for the first time. Alcohol is expensive.
I returned how, was treated to a dinner with the CIW program by a visiting Cornell group, was sung to by the CIW group, and received a free cupcake.
I have, in my room, a full tray of brownies, an angel food cake, the remnants of the penis cake (now stale and hard), 100 hershey kisses, home baked cookies, Trader Joe's cookies, and Korean ramen noodles (thanks, Lena).
And that was my 21st birthday.
"My plan is to wear my new suit, look extra nice, and ruin the image by wearing my light up shoes. I want to go out to a bar and dance to Lady Gaga and just let loose. I want this to last for the entire night and somehow make my way to the Lincoln Memorial. Once I'm at the Lincoln memorial, I want to undo my tie and top button and sit on the steps looking at the Washington monument. I want to sit there, drink red wine from a bottle in a paper bag, and watch the sun rise over Washington."
That was my original plan and I thought it was beautiful.
Here is what really happened:
On the night of March 1, at approximately 11:35, a troupe of 18 women from the CIW program (and my roommate Mike) paraded into my room. At the head of the procession (keep that wording in mind because a pun is coming up [keep that wording in mind, too]) was a vanilla cake with chocolate frosting. In the shape of a penis. With cream filling in the middle. I ate the tip. Seriously.
Once the cake was consumed (I almost used swallowed there), a small contingent of the cake brigade and I set out to The BrickSkeller, a beer bar with over 1000 different type of beer. We were seated by a man with dreadlocks who gave us our menus. There were a ton of different type of beers and I was overwhelmed by the choices. Following some advice from a Rubel-friend, I ordered a Dogfish Head 90 Minute IPA. Our dreadlocked beertender complement on my choice.
When he returned with the bottle, he placed it down, poured it into my glass, and said "This is a Beer Drinker's beer." I felt extremely manly. After one beer, the troupe returned home, knowing full well that we had to wake up in 5 hours and go to work.
I arose at 6 am, got dressed, and headed out to work. I got to sit in on oral arguments at the court and saw a historical case - McDonald v. Chicago. The justices absolutely destroyed main counsel on both sides of the case. The only lawyer that withstood the blows was the NRA lawyer, who performed admirably, almost beautifully, in front of the Justices.
After that, I was complement by a real-life woman about my suit. The secretary of the clerk said that she liked me shirt-tie-suit combination. Having dressed myself that day without calling my mom the night before, I felt great.
The Boy Scouts of America presented me with a medal today because I helped give them a great tour.
I attended happy hour at a bar for the first time. Alcohol is expensive.
I returned how, was treated to a dinner with the CIW program by a visiting Cornell group, was sung to by the CIW group, and received a free cupcake.
I have, in my room, a full tray of brownies, an angel food cake, the remnants of the penis cake (now stale and hard), 100 hershey kisses, home baked cookies, Trader Joe's cookies, and Korean ramen noodles (thanks, Lena).
And that was my 21st birthday.
Monday, March 1, 2010
On the Meaninglessness of Saying "Happy Birthday! How are you?!" on Someone's Facebook Wall on Their Birthday
This post is dedicated to Allison Koehler, whose presence in my life I miss more and more each day and whose laughter still echoes in my head, be it due to its charm or its sheer volume, despite the ocean currently between us (and who was also the first person to wish me "Happy Birthday" on Facebook). Giraffe.
And this post is especially not dedicated at all to Tim Wingerter, who I could live pretty indifferently with or without.
With my birthday coming up tomorrow, I feel inclined to say something about the facebook posts one receives on one's birthday from the random assortment of accumulated acquaintances that compile the "Friends" list of any given individual.
There exists no manner of wishing a person "Happy Birthday" more impersonal than the facebook post. In fact, I would rather not receive anything than receive just a facebook post.
The lack of caring emerges from the fact that Facebook removes all thought and responsibility from the act of wishing someone a happy birthday. There are two parts to wishing someone a happy birthday:
1. Remembering the date.
2. Exerting some effort to wish someone a happy birthday.
Facebook eliminates both of these processes. The reminders on the side of the screen, combined with simple links to someone's page and the stroke of 14 keys hardly bring about any exertion on the actor. Thinking of the other person is therefore eliminated; there is a hollow shell left of best wishes founded on no meaningful thought. You're giving someone a gift with no batteries.
Now, facebook posts are acceptable in addition to some sort of phone call, online conversation, e-mail, e-card, letter, package, present. There needs to be some sort of thought about the person you are wishing a happy birthday to for it to have any meaning.
Now, I cite Alli up top as the first person to wish me a happy birthday on Facebook. Don't get confused - Alli is a true friend. She posted on my wall in addition to messaging me, wishing me a happy birthday, and being genuinely interested in how I am doing. High five for Alli.
In an attempt to overcome my bitterness of facebook posts, I implore all the readers of this blog to call those they care about when their birthdays come around. It shows not only that you care about the person, but that you are making an active effort to contact them and wish them well; it shows someone that they mean more to you than three clicks, 13 letters, and one strike of the spacebar.
I'm pretty sure whoever reads this will call me anyway and those that don't read this will not have called me. Ah, beautiful beautiful equilibrium.
And this post is especially not dedicated at all to Tim Wingerter, who I could live pretty indifferently with or without.
With my birthday coming up tomorrow, I feel inclined to say something about the facebook posts one receives on one's birthday from the random assortment of accumulated acquaintances that compile the "Friends" list of any given individual.
There exists no manner of wishing a person "Happy Birthday" more impersonal than the facebook post. In fact, I would rather not receive anything than receive just a facebook post.
The lack of caring emerges from the fact that Facebook removes all thought and responsibility from the act of wishing someone a happy birthday. There are two parts to wishing someone a happy birthday:
1. Remembering the date.
2. Exerting some effort to wish someone a happy birthday.
Facebook eliminates both of these processes. The reminders on the side of the screen, combined with simple links to someone's page and the stroke of 14 keys hardly bring about any exertion on the actor. Thinking of the other person is therefore eliminated; there is a hollow shell left of best wishes founded on no meaningful thought. You're giving someone a gift with no batteries.
Now, facebook posts are acceptable in addition to some sort of phone call, online conversation, e-mail, e-card, letter, package, present. There needs to be some sort of thought about the person you are wishing a happy birthday to for it to have any meaning.
Now, I cite Alli up top as the first person to wish me a happy birthday on Facebook. Don't get confused - Alli is a true friend. She posted on my wall in addition to messaging me, wishing me a happy birthday, and being genuinely interested in how I am doing. High five for Alli.
In an attempt to overcome my bitterness of facebook posts, I implore all the readers of this blog to call those they care about when their birthdays come around. It shows not only that you care about the person, but that you are making an active effort to contact them and wish them well; it shows someone that they mean more to you than three clicks, 13 letters, and one strike of the spacebar.
I'm pretty sure whoever reads this will call me anyway and those that don't read this will not have called me. Ah, beautiful beautiful equilibrium.
Tuesday, February 23, 2010
Beware the Marquee
Beware - the following post involves me bragging about my internship and how great it is. I promise I will try to remain modest in the future, but please understand that I have to drop my humility for this post in order to correct a huge mistake in the message of the Cornell in Washington program.
Upon application and acceptance to the Cornell in Washington program, all the capital-goers were briefed in a meeting at Cornell about the application process for internships. One of the major points, if not the major point, was that all internship seekers should "beware the marquee" when searching for a job.
In case you're not up to speed/confused about the program I am in: I am currently enrolled in the Cornell in Washington program. We are a group of about 40-50 Cornell students that work 3-4 days a week at an internship and do a research project throughout the duration of the semester that culminates into a mini-thesis in the end.
Anyway, we were all told when thinking about what jobs to apply to that we should "beware the marquee." In short, this was the program's way of saying "You might want to apply to a big name internship, but you should be forewarned that if you work at a place with a fancy name, you won't be doing substantial work - you'll be filing and entering data into the computer."
This is the worse advice that anyone could ever give to anyone doing anything ever. Never beware the marquee.
I did not beware the marquee. I saw the opportunity to apply for a job I thought would be cool no matter what I was doing, and I was right. All I do all day is run around and deliver things, file papers, answer phones, and other clerical tasks.
But today I shook hands with Justice Sotomayor and had a short, but 1 on 1, conversation with her (she is ridiculously nice). On March 10, I am going on a private tour of the White House. On March 23, I will be watching the oral arguments for the case Kiyemba v. Obama, which has to do with the whether or not it is constitutional for the president to move prisoners from Guantanamo Bay to the continental United States. I am surrounded by some of the most important people in the country every single day. I have daily chats about history, comedians, and movies with the 10th most important person in the federal judicial system. AND I got a free brownie today.
So, beware the marquee? I think not. If anything, flock to the marquee. Love the marquee. Bow down to the marquee. Do anything you can to join the marquee. It will pay dividends.
At least it did for me.
Upon application and acceptance to the Cornell in Washington program, all the capital-goers were briefed in a meeting at Cornell about the application process for internships. One of the major points, if not the major point, was that all internship seekers should "beware the marquee" when searching for a job.
In case you're not up to speed/confused about the program I am in: I am currently enrolled in the Cornell in Washington program. We are a group of about 40-50 Cornell students that work 3-4 days a week at an internship and do a research project throughout the duration of the semester that culminates into a mini-thesis in the end.
Anyway, we were all told when thinking about what jobs to apply to that we should "beware the marquee." In short, this was the program's way of saying "You might want to apply to a big name internship, but you should be forewarned that if you work at a place with a fancy name, you won't be doing substantial work - you'll be filing and entering data into the computer."
This is the worse advice that anyone could ever give to anyone doing anything ever. Never beware the marquee.
I did not beware the marquee. I saw the opportunity to apply for a job I thought would be cool no matter what I was doing, and I was right. All I do all day is run around and deliver things, file papers, answer phones, and other clerical tasks.
But today I shook hands with Justice Sotomayor and had a short, but 1 on 1, conversation with her (she is ridiculously nice). On March 10, I am going on a private tour of the White House. On March 23, I will be watching the oral arguments for the case Kiyemba v. Obama, which has to do with the whether or not it is constitutional for the president to move prisoners from Guantanamo Bay to the continental United States. I am surrounded by some of the most important people in the country every single day. I have daily chats about history, comedians, and movies with the 10th most important person in the federal judicial system. AND I got a free brownie today.
So, beware the marquee? I think not. If anything, flock to the marquee. Love the marquee. Bow down to the marquee. Do anything you can to join the marquee. It will pay dividends.
At least it did for me.
Monday, February 22, 2010
On Being in DC....
So someone (Maureen) complained that my blogs were about my thoughts and not about me being in DC. So, for you Maureen, I dedicate this entry.
I'll write about whatever the hell I want to write about and if you don't like it you just stop reading. I don't even like you anyway.
Just kidding.
My time thus far has been amazing here. I really love my internship at the Court. Today, I had my first Justice sighting. Justice Stevens was walking around the first floor of the court and I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He moved like "a phantom," to quote my roommate Mike. Other than that, we did the National Gallery of Art this past weekend and I commentated on all the paintings as if they all had sexual undertones (most of them did). I saw the only Da Vinci in Western Hemisphere - a portrait of a young woman from when da Vinci was about 22 years old.
The gallery was pretty boring.
On Friday night, the CIW (Cornell in Washington) program attended the National Symphony. That was pretty amazing. Everyone in the program was all dressed up (I was clad in a suit, as usual, but the light up shoes were scoffed out before I got out the door and I was forced to change). We sat behind the stage, so to speak, so that the audience was looking directly at us. We were positioned right above the band with attention on the conductor who waved his hands as if in a trance and really felt the music. Having worked 8 hours that day and not even had time to change, I could not appreciate the beauty of the orchestra as much as I would have wanted. However, it was still a great experience.
Maureen, do you see why it is hard to just recant little stories of my travels here? My writing becomes terrible. Bleh. Now onto something with a little more substance to close this entry.
The National Symphony was at the Kennedy Center, which is on the banks of the Potomac River. Because of the seating arrangement, it felt like the lights were directly focused on our section of seats. Thus, for the duration of the program before intermission I felt as if I was being slowly roasted. By the time the break came around, I had to get some fresh air. Out the doors I went.
When I arrived outside, I was met by a breathtakingly beautiful view. Though still covered in snow (stupidly), the terrace overlooked the entire city nightscape on the banks of the river. It was if an artist had painted it (Full circle from art gallery! +200 points). Across the river, skyscrapers with sporadically lit windows lay beneath a clear sky. Orion was in sight as was a large, white moon. All of these were reflected on the calm, moving waters of the Potomac.
I stood outside alone for a long few minutes before having to return inside for the second half of the show. I felt pretty lonely out there with no one to share that view with. I made it a point to tell everyone inside to make sure to check it out on the way back.
Then the show started again and the lights continued to roast me to a perfect medium rare.
I'll write about whatever the hell I want to write about and if you don't like it you just stop reading. I don't even like you anyway.
Just kidding.
My time thus far has been amazing here. I really love my internship at the Court. Today, I had my first Justice sighting. Justice Stevens was walking around the first floor of the court and I saw him out of the corner of my eye. He moved like "a phantom," to quote my roommate Mike. Other than that, we did the National Gallery of Art this past weekend and I commentated on all the paintings as if they all had sexual undertones (most of them did). I saw the only Da Vinci in Western Hemisphere - a portrait of a young woman from when da Vinci was about 22 years old.
The gallery was pretty boring.
On Friday night, the CIW (Cornell in Washington) program attended the National Symphony. That was pretty amazing. Everyone in the program was all dressed up (I was clad in a suit, as usual, but the light up shoes were scoffed out before I got out the door and I was forced to change). We sat behind the stage, so to speak, so that the audience was looking directly at us. We were positioned right above the band with attention on the conductor who waved his hands as if in a trance and really felt the music. Having worked 8 hours that day and not even had time to change, I could not appreciate the beauty of the orchestra as much as I would have wanted. However, it was still a great experience.
Maureen, do you see why it is hard to just recant little stories of my travels here? My writing becomes terrible. Bleh. Now onto something with a little more substance to close this entry.
The National Symphony was at the Kennedy Center, which is on the banks of the Potomac River. Because of the seating arrangement, it felt like the lights were directly focused on our section of seats. Thus, for the duration of the program before intermission I felt as if I was being slowly roasted. By the time the break came around, I had to get some fresh air. Out the doors I went.
When I arrived outside, I was met by a breathtakingly beautiful view. Though still covered in snow (stupidly), the terrace overlooked the entire city nightscape on the banks of the river. It was if an artist had painted it (Full circle from art gallery! +200 points). Across the river, skyscrapers with sporadically lit windows lay beneath a clear sky. Orion was in sight as was a large, white moon. All of these were reflected on the calm, moving waters of the Potomac.
I stood outside alone for a long few minutes before having to return inside for the second half of the show. I felt pretty lonely out there with no one to share that view with. I made it a point to tell everyone inside to make sure to check it out on the way back.
Then the show started again and the lights continued to roast me to a perfect medium rare.
On How to Give the Perfect High Five
Few situations are more awkward than an imperfect high five. There is something about that slightly stinging feeling in your hand after that satisfying, ear-ringing clap that seals the envelope on the event that prompted such celebration. I would equate a correctly done high five to the dessert of a great meal; something sweet to bring a close to something savory.
While I will primarily focus on the physical aspect of the perfect high five, some items need to be cleared up about the moments leading up to the high five. Allow me to break it down:
The high five is an appropriate event that should follow events worthy of acknowledgement but one that does not warrant some sort of gift. The event in question should be something valuable. More often than not, high fives are dealt out without merit, thus watering down the meaning of the act for all worthy actions. The event should be a true accomplishment - a personal best in a race, a new job offer, a good grade on a hard test, or something of that nature. An appropriate metaphor would be when one first caught Articuno in Pokemon - a larger event than your run in the mill capture of a Ratata, but not exactly catching a Mewtwo (if you don't understand the above reference, I'm sorry you were a loser in 4th grade).
The physical motion of the high five should be fluid and natural. The "fist bump" or "pound" is a failure of a celebration for this very reason - people are stopped in mid motion, have to realize what is going on ("I'm not getting punched - this is actually a good thing for some stupid reason"). Raising the hand is part of our culture now - whether we are raising the roof, putting our hands up for Detroit, or just plain waving, a raised hand is synonymous with happiness. Or beating someone. But probably happiness.
The following is the most important physical step in the high five process. It is a simple yet often overlooked step that leaves both parties unsatisfied with a soft, sometimes zero-contact air wave. Both parties look goofy, feel awkward, and leave that great moment that should have been closed with a clap of joy with a feeling of longing for what could have been.
It is essentially a feeling of emotional blue balls. And that's the worst.
Anyway, the most important part of the high five: looking at your partner's elbow.
Now, you might not believe me until you try it (and you probably will after reading this), but if both partners look at the elbow of the arm that is being used in the high five, the resulting contact and slight stinging sensation will leave both parties happily satisfied. Be advised, however, that the rush of adrenaline and endorphins that occur immediately following a high five utilizing this strategy often overshadow the event itself.
Example - you got an A on that 12 page paper on the historical significance of something stupid. You stayed up for hours the night before it was due writing on it, used the CTRL+F period trick to lengthen it half a page, and found "sources" on Google 20 minutes before it was due. Upon receiving your grade, you inform your roommate (who you kept up by opening Red Bull cans all night and throwing them on the floor in disgust), who raises his hand. You each raise an arm, gazing at each others' weenises . Your hands race at each other, only to have their forward momentum stalled by each other. The expelled energy, in the form of sounds, shakes the room you're in and probably kills a small animal outside.
Luckily, your hands are both still intact (hopefully). The feeling in your fingers and palms is of a slight pain, but also of a slight numbing sensation. The feeling in your heart, however, is of congratulations or accomplishment and, most importantly, the happiness in the event that brought someone to you or brought you to someone to celebrate.
While I will primarily focus on the physical aspect of the perfect high five, some items need to be cleared up about the moments leading up to the high five. Allow me to break it down:
The high five is an appropriate event that should follow events worthy of acknowledgement but one that does not warrant some sort of gift. The event in question should be something valuable. More often than not, high fives are dealt out without merit, thus watering down the meaning of the act for all worthy actions. The event should be a true accomplishment - a personal best in a race, a new job offer, a good grade on a hard test, or something of that nature. An appropriate metaphor would be when one first caught Articuno in Pokemon - a larger event than your run in the mill capture of a Ratata, but not exactly catching a Mewtwo (if you don't understand the above reference, I'm sorry you were a loser in 4th grade).
The physical motion of the high five should be fluid and natural. The "fist bump" or "pound" is a failure of a celebration for this very reason - people are stopped in mid motion, have to realize what is going on ("I'm not getting punched - this is actually a good thing for some stupid reason"). Raising the hand is part of our culture now - whether we are raising the roof, putting our hands up for Detroit, or just plain waving, a raised hand is synonymous with happiness. Or beating someone. But probably happiness.
The following is the most important physical step in the high five process. It is a simple yet often overlooked step that leaves both parties unsatisfied with a soft, sometimes zero-contact air wave. Both parties look goofy, feel awkward, and leave that great moment that should have been closed with a clap of joy with a feeling of longing for what could have been.
It is essentially a feeling of emotional blue balls. And that's the worst.
Anyway, the most important part of the high five: looking at your partner's elbow.
Now, you might not believe me until you try it (and you probably will after reading this), but if both partners look at the elbow of the arm that is being used in the high five, the resulting contact and slight stinging sensation will leave both parties happily satisfied. Be advised, however, that the rush of adrenaline and endorphins that occur immediately following a high five utilizing this strategy often overshadow the event itself.
Example - you got an A on that 12 page paper on the historical significance of something stupid. You stayed up for hours the night before it was due writing on it, used the CTRL+F period trick to lengthen it half a page, and found "sources" on Google 20 minutes before it was due. Upon receiving your grade, you inform your roommate (who you kept up by opening Red Bull cans all night and throwing them on the floor in disgust), who raises his hand. You each raise an arm, gazing at each others' weenises . Your hands race at each other, only to have their forward momentum stalled by each other. The expelled energy, in the form of sounds, shakes the room you're in and probably kills a small animal outside.
Luckily, your hands are both still intact (hopefully). The feeling in your fingers and palms is of a slight pain, but also of a slight numbing sensation. The feeling in your heart, however, is of congratulations or accomplishment and, most importantly, the happiness in the event that brought someone to you or brought you to someone to celebrate.
Sorry
To those of you I promised a new entry last night, I apologize. I had lots of work that I should have done, but instead just procrastinated. So now I haven't written an entry AND I didn't get any work done.
<3 College.
<3 College.
Wednesday, February 17, 2010
My College Essay
So my college essay came up in conversation today. I always thought I did a good job on it and that it set me apart from the multitude of other college students and their applications. Anyway, enjoy:
"I count him braver who overcomes his desires than him who conquers his enemies; for the hardest victory is over self." -Aristotle
I know exactly what he means.
I was standing alone in a candy store.
My physics class had taken a field trip to Six Flags as part of a project based on roller coasters. My friends decided to go on a ride that my stomach could not handle, so I took a walk, planning to return in a few minutes. However, what I found on the way changed me forever.
I walked past the Wild West themed part of the amusement park and saw in the corner of my eye an open door leading to the candy store. I entered what I thought to be Heaven but would soon turn to Hell.
I stepped in and noticed that none of the lights were on and there was no one at the register. I asked out loud if anyone was there, but never received an answer. That is when the gravity of my situation hit me. I was alone in an unattended candy store.
I had dreamt of this situation. Who hasn’t? Both as a child and a seventeen year old, I prayed for this moment, knowing my entire life exactly what I would do.
And then it hit me. I would not be borrowing without asking or playing “finders-keepers,” I would be stealing. I had never stolen anything before except bases in kickball.
I stood in silence for what seemed like an eternity. I paced back and forth contemplating justification for taking candy. I paid forty dollars to enter the park, they owed me some candy. “It’s their fault they left the door open, they should have been more careful. It’s not like this place doesn’t make a huge profit. What’s a pack of gobstoppers to them anyway?” Thoughts like these ran through my mind constantly as my heart raced and my palms moistened.
I looked around one more time, almost in tears from what I was about to do. I stretched out my trembling fingers. I knew I would regret this decision for the rest of my life. I took a deep breath, grabbed the door handle, and stepped out. I took one last look back at what I had dreamt about for years, and walked back to my friends, empowerment in my veins.
Monday, February 15, 2010
Why I Bought Light Up Shoes
Ever since I grew out of my LA Gear sneakers - the ones that blink whenever you step - I've been searching for shoes that light up in adult sizes. It took very many years before I found them. I was lifeguarding at a private pool party in my town (woo Orange, CT) when a 14 year old boy sat down nearby. The sun had just set but my vision was still illuminated by bright blue light emanating from the sole of the young man's shoes. I inquired as to where he found them, how much they were, the brand name, and other questions of that nature.
I had to have them.
You see, I've been working summers as a lifeguard since I was 15 (this will be the first summer that I will not, thank God). I started with between 20 and 30 hours a week and by the "Summer of the Shoes," I was teaching swim lessons at one pool and lifeguarding at another for around 70 hours a week total. In addition to this, I was teaching private swim lessons and guarding private parties on the weekend. Needless to say, I was busy.
I subscribe to the philosophy - and I may be alone in actually living this way but have met many people that think it is a great idea - that if you work hard, you earn a little something more than money. You earn the right to do at least one thing completely stupid with it.
I'm not saying one should do anything crazy or that one should spend all the money one earns on a flagrant and ridiculous purchase - what I am talking about is something much smaller, but still meaningful - something sacred and individually important, but still downright absurd in nature. It should be a strict want and not a need. It should be something no one would ever need.
And thus, light up shoes were my stupid purchase of the summer. My shoes don't blink when I step - they have a button on the side that turns them on or off as I please and are powered by a 9-volt battery (big clunky square batteries found in smoke detectors) in the tongue.
Since I've bought them, I've been both lauded and harangued from fraternity decks, lambasted and complemented on their appearance, brought police cars to a halt with curious officers wanting to know where they can get a pair, pelted with empty beer cans, taken pictures with many random strangers, heard whispers and shaken off pointing fingers, moved to the front of lines to get into anything, and been called a complete idiot for having spent as much as I did on them (which will remain a secret).
But I've never once regretted buying them and wearing them around. I feel like they represent that part of me that's always wanted to revert to childhood when I was happiest and the most important thing to me was that my shoes lit up. In this crazy state of studentdom which I've entered, I find that between reading, problem sets, thinking about a future career, working at the court, conducting my research, cooking for myself, grocery shopping, and all that kind of stuff, I need a tiny, bright oasis. I need that reminder - that knowledge - that at any time I can turn the shoes on and awaken that little boy inside of me and escape from trying to be a real-life person; I need to know that there once was and still is that feeling of excitement from something so illogical and ridiculous.
So, here is an impromptu toast to my shoes and to that stupid thing everyone has in their lives - that one island away from it all that represents the wants and not the needs:
I raise my glass to you, light up shoes. Despite making me look insane, you keep me sane and remind me of a simpler time. Your heft and clunkiness on my feet reminds me of the extra baggage I now carry as an adult, but when I turn your lights on, I feel lighter than air. Indeed, you not only aid me in my travels on foot, but also through my travels in life. For this, I thank you.
PS - I had cake for breakfast this morning.
Sunday, February 14, 2010
On Wearing a Suit Everyday
There is no feeling in the world that can be equated to the joy I felt when a complete stranger came up to me and said:
"Sir, can you give me directions please?"
I was dressed in a suit, en route to the metro for work. It was approximately 7:50 in the morning and "the event" happened right in Dupont Circle.
Someone called me sir and thought I looked official enough to ask for directions. That is the power of the suit.
I gave the nice, 50-60 year old woman directions even though I had no idea where she was going because, let's face it, I was in a suit, looking spiffy, and should know where everything is. And despite my lack of knowledge of the subject, I felt important enough to pretend.
I have to admit, I enjoy putting a suit on every morning. Scratch that - physically putting the suit on is a terrible experience, but once it is on, oh man, what a feeling. My attachment to suits probably started when I was around 12 years old. My mom took me shopping for a suit to wear to all my friends' bar mitzvahs. I would try one on and then, hands clasped together in front of me with index fingers extended, I would wander around the store pretending to be James Bond, humming the theme music and jumping around corners.
This behavior has since continued to plague my mother and the good, patient folks at Macy's for the past 8 years. She decided, when choosing my wardrobe for work in DC, to "surprise me and have me try things on at home" instead of in the store (Yes, my mom still does my shopping - No, I don't know my sizes. Yes, it is pathetic, but if you had a Greek mother, you would understand - I promise). This course of action was probably the best for all parties involved except yours truly, who only had a younger sister to impress with sick secret agents moves.
So now every morning, I head out to work looking great enough to be called "sir" and asked for directions and feeling great enough to give directions without knowing the way.
Life is good.
Snow Rant
One of the things that has happened to the city, and not me, since I've been here is what has come to be called "The Snowpacalypse," "Snowmaggedon," or "The Snowtorious B.I.G." In short, over the course of one week, about 30 inches of snow accumulated in Washington, DC and the surrounding areas. Being a northeast native (go Connecticut), I took a step back at the projections for large amounts of snow and thought "That's a lot of snow, but it shouldn't be that hard to clean up." Oh, how I was wrong.
After the first snowfall of 20 inches, the city was a wreck. Streets, sidewalks, everything remained unplowed, unshoveled, and completely snowed in. The one plow that DC has at its disposal got stuck outside the Cornell Center and had to be towed out. Sidewalks are a mess as no one wants to/knows how to shovel and put salt down. The entire city was handicapped for a week.
Staggering fact: Every day the US government is closed, there is $100 million ca$h dollarz in lost productivity. Because of the storm, the entire Federal Government was closed for 5 days. Do that math.
So now that roads have been pseudo-plowed, there are massive piles of snow and ice all over the city. On the sidewalks, in the middle of the road, everywhere. They literally have no idea what to do. Cars are blocked in by 7 foot high ice-hills and inept drivers (I'll get to them soon) attempt to shovel themselves out half-assedly.
Oh, and I live in a dog neighborhood, so every 3 feet there's a patch of yellow snow spitefully looking back at me reinforcing my hatred of the handling of the frozen water.
But it does make everything look stunningly beautiful.... not the yellow snow, just the snow in general.
You can't help but stop for a couple seconds and gaze at this city' amazing views covered in white fluff and reflect on the beauty that the snow has brought along with the destruction. On Friday, when I walked up to the Supreme Court to enter the then-snowy gates of Justice, I looked across the street at the Capital. I knew I made the right choice to spend a semester here.
Recap and laying groundwork for future posts
Why I'm in DC - there seems to be some confusion, so allow me to guide you out of the george-jungle: I am participating in Cornell's "Cornell in Washington" program, which is an internship-research program. This involves working 3-4 days a week (4 for me) and a large research project (mini-thesis) on a public policy. I am interning at the Supreme Court, Office of the Clerk and am researching the recent Car Allowance Rebate System (Cash for Clunkers) policy and whether it can stimulate long-term growth in the automotive sector or if it was just an attempt to jumpstart an engine that is destined to die (get the imagery there? Cars? Jumpstart? Engine?).
I live in the Cornell Center, which is a building housing only Cornell students near Dupont Circle. It is on O Street in the northwest quadrant (DC is set up in quadrants or something? I have yet to figure that one out). There are around 50 people in total living in the center and everyone is doing something different for research and for work.
I have two roommates - Mike and Terry - in my apartment. Despite it being a triple, we have plenty of space.
I'm trying to get all the boring stuff out now so that later posts will make more sense.
Museum of Natural History, Newseum, stood outside the White House, Jefferson Monument (daytime), Lincoln Monument (daytime), Protested for a cause I didn't quite understand with a hippie that didn't really understand either (Connie), went to an overpriced nightclub and got charged extra for not being a girl, received complements on my light up shoes (yes!), met the Clerk of the Supreme Court William Suter, been in 2000 person snowball fight, eaten decent sushi, got a great and manly burger...... not sure what else there is right now.
Anyway, expect future posts to focus on a couple things (or one) rather than a summary of what's going on. And probably funnier than this one.
First Entry
I created this blog to document my time in Washington, DC. I am here for a semester through Cornell University's "Cornell in Washington" program. I plan to talk about all the cool things I've been doing and want to do while I'm here.
Enjoy?
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