The Unfortunate Annual Transient

Back in St. Louis

2007-11-20T18:20:00.000-08:00

I've moved again. Hopefully at least the city won't change for a while. My accommodation aren't exactly enviable – a 4x10 three-walled art studio where I sleep on the floor – I love living in the city. I live right next to Blueberry Hill. I can hear the drum circle faintly from my bathroom. Riddle's hosts excellent free live music seven days a week, two blocks from my door. And there are three MetroLink stops within a 15-minute walk…can't complain too much. Except that it would be great to have a small market nearby. Since the time change, I have to bike or walk to the store after dark, and it would be great to have a small, local place to grab wine, garlic and tampons within a few minutes stroll. Can't have everything though.

I have to say, however, I've really been impressed and delighted moving back to the St. Louis City area (I am technically a County resident, by about two blocks). I haven't lived here since 2001, and really didn't venture out here when I would come to visit. But this city has really pulled itself up by its bootstraps. Is it Portland or Seattle? Or Boston? No. But I don't remember systems of urban bike paths six years ago. Once-crumbling historical districts with red brick row houses are undergoing major rehabilitation and encouraging new, young residents, restaurants and the arts. People live downtown. People talk about sustainable food sources and promoting local wine varietals. Not everyone of course, but some do, and that matters. Neighborhood associations get together and promote small civic projects like parks repair or street art. Urban development seemed like a joke ten years ago. But obviously, people were thinking and committing themselves to making St. Louis a better community, and I have to say, it is. Still a lot of work to come, no doubt. Outer ring suburbs still control the largest tax base, city schools are flailing, and, as I know personally, people are still gun-shy about taking public transportation. But its coming around. Its got a struggling little hip-vibe…like a neighborhood dive bar. And everybody loves a dive bar.

Here are a couple of my favorite STL sites:

www.urbanreviewstl.com

www.bikestlouis.org

www.trailnet.org

www.archcitychronicle.com

I move, and almost didn't move (from a pole)

2007-10-09T20:12:00.000-07:00

I'm moving to St. Louis. I did the math, and it is cheaper and more reasonable for me to move out of my dad's rural abode, and live carlessly, in urban St. Louis, than it is for me to buy a car and afford to commute into downtown. Honestly, I don't mind. I lived without a car for six months in Seattle, and actually enjoyed it. And working for the public transit system here in St. Louis...I'm just supporting the family business. While I will be squatting in the three-walled "art studio" part of a one-bedroom apartment (my new theme song...ain't no bed smaaaallll-enough!), I will be living on one of the best street in America. And most importantly, hopefully I will get some of that zest for life back. I miss the energy of a city. Where young people, however hopelessly cynical and broke, still believe their futures will juxtapose someplace wonderful and grand.

Oh, and funny story: a week ago, I was walking to my Metro stop in Shiloh, and a thirty-something year old guy with Down Syndrome asked me if I wanted to see a magic trick. I did a quick scan to see if another train was coming round the bend (the signal that the stationed train would be leaving soon), and there wasn't one, so I said sure. I expected him to whip out some of those novelty hoops or some cards or something. Instead, he said, you have to put your hands behind your back. I was carrying a bag at the time, so I put one behind my back. He circled behind me, and I expected him to put something in my hands, like a hidden quarter or something. He then asks me to put both hands behind my back, and I see, out of the corner of my eye, that he is drawing a longish rope out of his pocket.

Lightbulb moment: this guy wants to tie me up.

I assess my options: let this guy tie me up, or cordially decline having my hands tied together at a Metro stop. I go for the latter, claiming that I "unfortunately don't have time to be tied up" because I have to catch a train. He disappointedly obliges. I find out later, at work, that this guy managed to tie a woman to a pole the day before. She was remarkably good-natured about it, calling it in mostly as a "by the way...". But geez. I think about this later: no matter how optimistic are my liberal tendencies, I probably shouldn't let any stranger tie me to a bus stop pole. Unless it's Johnny Depp. Lesson for the ages.

Back to blogging, turtles and spraying that stuff

2007-10-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

For a while I was blogging on MySpace, but the formatting is uncomfortable and visual aesthetics are akin to a Wal-Mart dressing room, so it’s back to Blogspot. The only thing that I don’t like about Blogspot is it’s ability to know it's me before I've logged in. Because it’s linked to Gmail, it automatically loads my blog when I type in the main page’s URL, even when I’ve logged out of my email account. Just another one of Google’s beautifully hegemonic detailing.

I watched part of The Sarah Silverman Program last night. First time, and the jury’s still out. Something not quite funny about that woman. Probably her nasal-drag voice and her gopher face.

I ran over a turtle last night. And it was horrible. I have run over raccoons and harried squirrels and recently witnessed the Look of Impending Death on a young possum, and it didn’t bother me. Circle of life, dust to dust, Bambi to road splat, etc. I was on I-55/70E, right near the I-64 split, in post-work traffic. There are a lot of cars on the road. And I saw him…a box turtle. Just a little guy. And he was trucking it. He was pumping his little turtle legs as fast as he could. You could see the look of determination about him. He was going to make it! He had gotten past one lane of traffic, and only had two more to go. And I saw him plowing forward as fast and as hard as he could and I thought, oh God buddy. I’m so sorry. I know you are trying really, really hard…but you’re not going to make it.

Thump, and he met his Maker under the tires of my Volvo station wagon.

And I thought to myself, “Man, what were you thinking? Didn’t you see those giant, buzzing and vibrating, smelly-hot metal beasts barreling down this road? Aren’t they going approximately 2000 times faster than your sense of perspective can even comprehend? What is so great about what’s over there, that you would step out of the grass and into a patch of cigarette butts and broken glass and go for what you must realize is in impossible crossing?"

See, when some retard squirrel darts across the street (or worse, runs away and then BACK into traffic), I don’t feel sorry for it. It’s fast. Probably faster than my wagon. It made a miscalculation, and now its Stupid genes are no longer available to propagate squirrel idiocy on this earth. But the turtle…that turtle was trying to get somewhere. He was huffing it. I seriously wondered what could have made such a perilous journey seem worth it to him.

I got a little weepy-eyed and said a prayer that hed have plenty of lettuce and bugs when he got where he was going.

So here’s to all the little determined turtles I know. You may end up wedged in the treads of a proverbial Goodyear, but at least you’re going for it.

And finally – and unrelatedly - I love this quote. Whether he’s kind of an idiot, or just simply honest, or both:

"I've seen this on TV a lot and I'm excited to be part of it. I've always wanted to spray whatever that stuff is all over the place."

- Rockies’ right-fielder Matt Holliday, whose team won the NL Wild Card by beating the Phillies in the 13th, on how awesome it is to spray that stuff.

iPhony!

2007-06-22T13:35:00.000-07:00

My father wants an iPhone. He is convinced that this magical device will solve all of our entertainment disadvantages at the farm (i.e. no cable, internet, TV). I don't what he is exactly imagining...I think the two of us crowded together on lawn chairs on the decks staring at tiny-screened episodes of Deadliest Catch. He thinks that since he was one of the original owners of a 17-pound $900 1989 bag phone, he is forever gets to cut in line to the forefront of technological purchasing.

He asked for an iPod for Father's Day, which I publically flat-out refused to get him. He even made a list of all the artists he wants on said iPod. Apparently he thinks these songs appear mythically upon desire, like blowing out your candles and having a fucking unicorn trot up to your 7th birthday party. In addition to the fact that I cannot afford an iPod myself, if I could, I require that the iPod giftee know what an mp4 is. Just one of my irrational woman-rules! My dad + iPod = Courtney spending hours uploading CDs onto her laptop and then downloading them onto his little $400 irritant. Sorry Pops, if a Sony Walkman is good enough for your daughter, then AM/FM radio is good enough for you.

But, I got to go to Soulard Farmer's Market today after job training. Apricots, green tomatoes, slick lettuce, green beans and an excellent $2 bowl of red beans and rice. Wonderful.

Must..not...write...downer...post...

2007-06-21T17:01:00.000-07:00

I have a job. For three weeks. My bank accounts bows in adulation. He was pretty sure we were on a one-way scenic tour up shit's creek and credit card debt.

But (wa-waa!) said job does involve a nearly two-hour commute. I can and will use public transportation for part of that, but that's a long ass time hustling around. And my first attempts at scoring an apartment near civilization were thrwarted. I suppose I should be grateful however. Puts off the inevitable decision of "where do I want to be" and puts the focus back on "what radio station can I pick up from the deck while I'm playing bags?".

Enough of that happy noise

2007-06-19T11:51:00.000-07:00

Today is much better. Whether it's because I my moods are very susceptible to distraction (they are) or because I've got good people around reminding of the bigger picture (I do), today is better. I already miss Chicago - I woke up specifically thinking of honking silver Taurus waving red, white and blue Puerto Rican flags - but it is a gorgeous time to be unemployed and living in rural Illinois. It's dry, but the early wheat is being harvested already, leaving behind perfect, lonely golden bales of hay in the fields. The corn is already chest high, and from a distance, a cool, mossy green. It waves on the fields below in patterns like TV static...like when you were a kind and pressed your nose against the glass and watched the colors move underneath your eyelashes in shallow, lingering runs.

Tomorrow we go sailing, and tonight I'm buying a baseball in the hopes of getting my dad to toss it around with me. I like the rhythm of tossing things. Maybe I'll have my moment of inspiration during one of these sessions...see a better formed path towards somewhere unfurl in my mind.

Good morning, life!

2007-06-18T08:57:00.000-07:00

Monday morning, 11am.

I am 27.
I am unemployed.
I am sitting in my underwear reading blogs.
I am eating a ham and cheese sandwich.
I am sitting in the apartment of the guy who broke up with me at 4am at my birthday BBQ last weekend, whose futon I crashed last night because I don't own a car.
I have developed half-actualized anxiety about an upcoming apocalypse, and reading current events makes me want to drink heavily, preferably before bed.

Good crap, when did this happen?

Last night

2007-05-29T22:51:00.000-07:00

It's my last night. I knew as soon as I was ready to bust out of town, the weather would turn beautiful and pull people out of their apartments and into the streets and parks. My bosses took the office for a lunch cruise around Lake Union, and in the evening I had an amazing dinner at the Athenian in Pike Place and wandered around the Seattle Art Museum scuplture park. Really, couldn't ask for a better send off. I think I'll write more when I don't feel as overwhelmed by the season of change. I've yet to figure out what I'll need to hold onto, and what to let by.

My LastFM

2007-05-23T22:43:00.000-07:00

I checked out LastFM this evening. Holy time burglar. My early evening, carefully laid out for box-stuffing, bathroom dissecting, and apartment cleaning, was soon split between these necessary tasks and the not-so-necessary task of playing around with tags and skips on LastFM. "Indie" wins for most likeable tag - but "Really fucking good" wins for "Tag Most Likely to Incite Forehead-Wrinkling Gufaws" (apparently, "really fucking good" also translates to "Swedish powerpop"). Regardless, it's addicting, and highly likeable and adapted well for passive listening. My one complaint thus far is that nearly every band save British chav rap is linked as similar to Arcade Fire. Really, great band...but no es todo el mundo, comprendes?

I noticed tonight that my friends in Seattle and I keep talking about Seattle happenings as if I'm not leaving. Makes sense, considering the awkwardness of being like, "What, you never went to see a show at the Triple Door? Wow, then nevermind. What I was going to say is totally pointless. You won't see one there anyway." That's a lot more awkward than ignoring that I won't get to see and do certain things by nature of not being here anymore. But when I'm by myself, I think about it and get that salty taste in my mouth when you realize something is ending and you are transitioning. Like when you are standing in the lobby after a film, rubbing dry eyes and trying to disengage from the story so you can mentally put on your coat and walk out the door.

I just got my second Neutral Milk Hotel tune on this tag. Apparently, The Algorithm has declared me a NMH fan. I can't wait for this thing to start predicting music for me. I'll sit back all lazy-minded and let the mathematical structure of my own subconsciousness pick my tunes. Damn, we are so close to hoverboards, I can feel it.

Wait...it's playing Bright Eyes?!?! I don't like Bright Eyes! Or do I? Maybe I love it!

This time again

2007-05-22T22:39:00.000-07:00

Nothing like a little six month break from posting on your blog.

I'm leaving Seattle in one week. This is the longest I've spent in one city in any given stretch since high school. Fifteen months. Less than a cell phone contract. Four jobs, two locations, a couple of stretches sleeping on a cot and the floor, one relationship ending, went from having two cats to no cats, having a car to having no car. Being honest to God broke to having enough to get along well. I spent too many evenings alone reading Pitchfork reviews, watching Frasier reruns and eating Trader Joes peanuts for dinner. Not my finest year.

But damn, when this city tries, it is truly beautiful. And I've made great friends here. And the smell of a warm breeze off Green Lake is amazing.

I can't imagine leaving a place without looking back, without grieving a bit. Sometimes a lot.

Gooshing, face-scrunching embarassment

2006-12-29T08:33:00.000-08:00

I'm probably too affectionate with some people in my life. In a gushing, sort-of-awkward way. Especially with my brothers. I think I get it from from my father. But I remember when I first started telling my brothers' I loved them. It was when I first left for college, when they were 13 and 15. We'd generally gotten along pretty well, especially since Ryan's best friend was my best friend's younger brother. But once I left, I felt a sort of gnawing sense of loss, like I was missing out. And I was. So I decided that I needed to tell my brothers I loved them, and often. So everytime I talked to one of them on the phone, I started ending the conversation with "I love you." And, it was weird at first, but I remember the first time I almost forgot, and was about to hang up, and Ryan chimed in with an expectatory "I love you." It was a home-run moment for me.

My dad always said if nothing else, my brothers and I would always have each other. And in many ways, especially when my parents were being yahoos, I felt that way. At least we have each other. We're very different people, but no one else knows what it's like to be a Sloger. I remember going to take pictures before Ryan's prom and Xmas Ball...and being the only nonparent there. But I thought it was important - somebody should be there to take his picture, even if it's just his older sister. Or going to see Zachary band play and calling for his advice on relationships. Or that Ryan came to visit me in nearly every single city I lived in since he's had his driver's license, even though my parents rarely did. While divorces, especially when you're a teenager, are hardly ideal, it did encourage me to create stronger and more affectionate relationships with my brothers. Maybe they wish I was a little less affectionate, especially when I used to call them at 3 in morning to "walk" me home from my bartending job, or gush about them openly in front of their friends, but it comes from the right place. And you don't get a second chance. I would never want either one to wonder for one second that I didn't admire and love them.

Now that I've thoroughly embarassed myself and my brothers, I have to add glowing words for Ryan's friends. I've known a few of these guys for nearly ten years (and Amy I've known for easily 15) but I am collectively enamored with all of them. When Ryan left town to go to school in Alaska, they threw him good-bye party and gave him an iPod! I'm pretty sure I got a hug and a handshake when I left for college. Regardless, these guys are sweet, loyal, interesting and affectionate. I've already treated a couple of them to one of my famous red wine-soaked late-night, overly affectionate emails. And of course, they love the crap out of my brother. If my brother ever needed a kidney, I'm fairly sure I'd have to fight with some of them for my place in line. There are a lot of things you can accomplish in this lifetime, like being able to breakdance or bake a perfect souffle or sail around Cape Horn, but whatever my brother did to merit such respect from his friends, that's what you're really supposed to be doing.

So it was a good Christmas. Not a great Christmas, but it was nice. Friends and family made it worth the trip home.

Pictures are up in my Flickr account. I'll post some here shortly.

Busrider

2006-08-01T21:54:00.000-07:00

I've discovered a new love in Seattle - taking the bus. This is essentially my first long-term affair with this mode of public transportation...the Chicago bus system was used only to get to Frisbee games, Target and as a last resort when no El lines ran where I needed to go. I suppose I was a long-time grade school bus rider, but the sticky humiliation of seat selection and scratchy Catholic school jumpers suppressed any pleasant memories from that era. Seattle buses are essentially the only game in town, but they make up for it by being plush, comfortable, and undeniably social. The morning bus ride experience is as expected - quiet, sleepy-hazy and diluted by book reading and music-listening. The afternoon bus ride requires patience but doles out the people-enjoying rewards in fourfold.

Yesterday, a middle-aged Latino man handed me fifty cents, one quarter, two dimes and nickel, despite the fact that I didn't ask for it, nor needed it. He seemed very pleased with his gift, so I accepted it graciously, figuring I would need it sooner or later, which happened to be today, when I realized I was a dollar bill short for my afternoon ride home. A retired doctor sat next to me one day and preceded to tell me about his old practice and why he sold it (narcolepsy, also why he rode the bus) and how he missed treating people, often for the majority of their lives. I can't even yet imagine a majority of a life.

And some days it's just the snapshots of people that stick in my mind. Yesterday it was a hipster teenage white-knuckling his iPod with his kneecaps bulging out of skinny-leg jeans. I noticed that my kneecaps didn't bulge out from my thigh, but femininely curved a bit in like a squash. I kind of envied his - they were rather fashionably unsoft. Some people just seems like striking figures...an orange-haired women reading a library copy of The Master and Margarita in Russian. A frail man of Ethiopian descent wearing a service uniform, straddling a large box wrapped clumsily in wedding wrapping paper. A 40-something wearing ridiculous Spongebob Squarepants biking gear chatting loudly with his frizzy-haired coworker about the recent Steve Carell movie while a twenty-something Microsoft employee look-a-like unabashedly slept between them. Maybe its the sense of togetherness...us in the teal-tinted bus cruising past gaggles of commuters stuck in the horrendous traffic - makes me feel connected to these people. Some of it may be that self-righteousness bus riders are entitled to here. Maybe it's just that it makes the world feel bigger, rather than the inside-box feeling you get from sitting in a sedan. Buses full of people seem to unintentionally remind me of the largeness of life.

Generally I think it's just mostly unremarkable people getting caught in a frame of my imagination, so it doesn't matter who they really are. It's simply the action of being there.

Regardless, it seems to be the perfect cure for the slight squeeze and world-shrinking effect of workplaces and common afternoon doubts and worries. I sit on the grass, wait for my bus, enjoy the afternoon sun and wait for the other people on the bus to blow my world back up to normal-sized proportions.

Happy Birthday, Ry-Bear!

2006-07-30T00:49:00.000-07:00

Happy 23rd Birthday to my little brother, Ryan.

When Ryan was about 8 or so, he signed himself up to receive a bunch of Alaskan touristy information, so we got inundated with brochures erroneously addressed to "Rynn Slegor". We joked about the life of Rynn Slegor, great artic explorer. And in three weeks, Ryan will start school at the University of Alaska-Fairbanks. So here's to Ryan, his lifelong dream of moving to Alaska, and to proving to everyone that he was, indeed, Rynn Slegor all along.

Congratulations, Mr. Superman

2006-07-01T00:21:00.000-07:00

Finally, after two years (at least) of knowing that he got the part, and a few teaser covers on Entertainment Weekly, I finally get to congratulate Brandon Routh on the opening of his big debut film. Doesn't seem that long ago that Jarrod, Cripe and I were holding mini Brandon-watching parties to see him on CSI and Will and Grace. Here's hoping the best for him and Superman Returns.

In minutely-related news, I swore, for a good five minutes, that I witnessed a UFO hovering over Lake Washington while crossing 520 this evening. I'm guessing it was actually an old-timey plane doing practice runs for Fourth of July festivities, but for a few moments, I was convinced I was witnessing history, perhaps the only late afternoon commuter who noticed this silvery orb hovering above the Capitol Hill area. And I would be ready with a statement for the 11 o'clock News, about how it was shiny with a black bottom and hovered in air for 10 seconds before heading sharply west. Maybe it was indeed a UFO, and the nearby planes were just a coincidence. Regardless, it was two minutes of Great Importance, and on a long Friday commute home with Trader Joes and Uwajimaya bags overheating in the backseat and sticky-hot jeans pasted to my backside, a Great Importance seems like the routine-breaker I've been secretly daydreaming about. Fly, little spaceship.

Here's one for old Warren Buffet

2006-06-26T22:56:00.000-07:00

My dear fellow, I tip a Miller High Life to Thee:

For making the act of donatinginsane amounts of money for philanthropic causes (read: Not Ralph Reed) Rockafeller-sexy again. (Although, seeing the sum of $31 billion dollars attached to any person did make my eyeballs twitch.)

And for being a Life Member of the Grinnell Board of Trustees, so that while Grinnell did raise my tuition every year, I got to enjoy free printing and all the Dismemberment Plan and Mates of State concerts I could handle as part of the Billion Dollar Endowment Perks Program.

I'm sure that Warren Buffet has done some shady dealing and maybe eaten up a few companies or two in his time. Some blogs and papers seemed to have been ready to rip his actions to shreads before he even posed for the photo ops. Regardless, he's using his rogue-financial advisor street cred to publically flaunt the idea of "You can't take it with you" and give a crapload of money to a decent, internationally-viable foundation that actually supports condoms, sexual education and antiretroviral treatment as necessary artillery in the fight against AIDS. The NGO I worked for in Russia, one of the few working on the problem of HIV/AIDS in Russia and Ukraine, received funding from the Gates Foundation. These guys pack such a monetary punch that governments, pharmaceutical companies, and other international organizations scramble to court their large grant monies. While the US is busy sticking its thumbs in Africa's pies, the Gates Foundation is providing much-needed funding to the Eurasian epidemic, where the epidemic is gaining the fastest ground.

Sorry for the long commendation on the part of AIDS work, but man, this is important. And people standing up and supporting organizations that provide many to promote sexual education and protect vulnerable groups is just so crucial. And you know what? It's nice to feel that sense of heroism. That some super-duper rich guy, with billions and billions of dollars, didn't fork over a couple hundred million to launch his oldself into space or build an underwater vacation home. He gave it back. To a foundation I can get behind. And hopefully inspired a few generations of upper crust moguls to quit screwing around with buying Batmobiles and Bragelina Namibian vacation packages. GIVE IT BACK.

So I'll pour one out for Warren B.

The New Digs

2006-06-15T23:28:00.000-07:00

We've moved into a new apartment. I officially live in Seattle, and not just in the general suburban vincinity. Unlike my friend Jake, my apartment is decked out in early nineties aesthetic unoffensiveness. Seattle apartments seem to often lack the toasty brown seventies vibe because the city was purchased from the Canadians by Boeing in the late 1970s, and later acquired in a friendly takeover by Microsoft. The walls are white, the carpet khaki, and the faucets water-conserving. The walls are lined with thin windows designed to suck in all possible morning partly-cloudiness, and my kitchen ledge appears to be specifically designed to house ripening avocados. My books are sitting on semi-wood Ikea shelves. It's tiny, airy, relaxed and unpretentious, ironically or otherwise. I like it.

I even like the views. To the east, it's the sprawling side of a four-story Target/Ross complex, the tops of nearby two-story apartment buildings, and our complex's heated outdoor pool (sounds swank, but it's realistically Motel 6). Someone has take the time to plant many deciduous trees on the property, so we will be treated to the changing of the seasons. To the west, approximately 150 yards away, is Interstate 5, rambling on to Vancouver. Some people might hate the sounds of a highway nearby, but it isn't like stop-and-go suburban thoroughfares. It produces a constant, lulling hum that sounds like a constant stream of water and wind lapping against our basement. It reminds me of living on the corner of Lawrence and Western in Chicago. Constant noise, if not grating and irratic, can feel like evening company...quiet is much more isolating.

I had an amazing time in Iowa and Chicago...so much so the return to Seattle was really discumbobulating, as if months had been forgotten and needed to be relearned. It was a gentle learning curve though. I'm already popping into the 156th Ave. (Microserf's fans, take note) Trader Joes and filling my kitchen with polenta and steamed artichokes. I'm making plans to paint, and to have parties. To tuck in.

I am turning 26 in...approximately 57 minutes.

2006-06-06T23:06:00.000-07:00

Less, actually. It will take more minutes to write this. But whatever...in my mind...it's my birfday!

I love birthdays, and here's why. Every other day of the year, I should be lamenting my gradual getting-older-ness. My size 8 jeans that ain't a size 4. My heart palpitations that are probably just anxiety but maybe its heart disease!!! But on my birthday, it's no holds bar. Bring on the cake and cheap wine. I just lived another goddamn year on this beautiful, smelly earth and woooo! I'm feeling saucy! There are many havenots, but I have a lovely boyfriend, a good family and family-in-law, avocados, dreams left to realize, and a new hairdo. A beautiful sunny day and a good tune to listen to. And in one day, I board a Southwest Airlines flight to Chicago to hang out with some of my favorite people in the world, the kind that fill me with warm, soft affectionate feelings even thinking about them.

Bring on 26! May it be a year with and without fear, with and without regret, with and only with unabashed love.

Happy Birthday me!

More libraries should grow grass on the roof

2006-05-14T23:03:00.000-07:00

These were taken of the Ballard Neighborhood Center and Public Library in Seattle. I spotted the building from the neighborhood square by it's hammock-slope ceiling. If you look, you can see the grasses growing on the roof. That's right, guy...grasses growing on the roof. Seattle Public Libraries are known for their nonconformist architectural styles, and I loved this building for it's sense of irreverence and serenity. It's not the kind of building you gape and bow to...it's the grin-and-say-"That's awesome" kind. In addition, the weather that was so perfect it made you pause for spiritual reflection every ten minutes. My belly is full of pho and Bud Select, and I am thoroughly delighted with life.

Let's start this day on a good note.

2006-05-11T01:43:00.000-07:00

Since I stayed up too late with the lovely Vendange, I'm going to put a nice, positive spin on my morning (since my stomach is demanding I feel otherwise).

Things I love, at this very moment:

All-natural lip balm
The Best American Magazine Writing 2003
walnuts
Lost conspiracy/clue blogs
Danskos
Shoulders, especially other people's shoulders
Crazy by Gnarls Barkley

Ah, now I feel pumped and ready to join the world. Combined with little V8 cans and chewable Centrum vitamins, this is one of the better hangover cures I've tried.

You're so mean

2006-05-11T00:44:00.000-07:00

I'm writing this entry while watching Lost, so excuse me if my writing is littered with the signs of one's mind being blown. Damn, I love this show.

I have a new job, and I promised to myself that I wouldn't hold onto too many expectations. For the last three years, I searched for and took jobs I would hope would lead me to a career. Attorney, restauranteur, policy analyst. This time, I'm trying hard not to picture six years in advanced. What advanced degree I would need to actually pursue this degree. I want to go to work in a blue-toned place in a well-lit environment surrounded by people who don't hate their job, on most days. So I can just come home, read some witty nonfiction and roast some asparagus. Maybe do some painting. Move on up Maslow's hierarchy. And enjoy it, un-adulterated-ly.

I guess I always thought I would become a professional. Professional something or other. But, maybe not. Maybe not sounds alright.

And a shout out to my baby brother Zachary Robert, turning a twinkly 21 at midnight tonight. He was looking forward to his chance to "get drunk in public" this evening.* Through the magic of time zones, I called him after the ball dropped and he and his buddy were on the way to the Casino Queen (Wilco fans, take note), otherwise known as "The Boat". My mom took me out to the Boat on my 21st birthday, and with my shiny new $60, we played nickle slots and drank weak cranberry and vodka's on a Sunday afternoon. The after-church casino crowd is not normally cheeriest, but I received warm congratulations from the nearby retired ladies and Mom raked in more than $120 in nickel-riffic profits. My dad took me to Growler's Pub, with its 99 beers on tap, and I finished the night with Bloody Marys during Twang Fest at Blueberry Hill. A cherry on top. I hope all the same for my brother.

* At Jason and I's graduation party at our apartment, Zach declined beer and went for plastic-jug vodka and cranberry juice drinks (even during King's Cup), which led to uncharacteristic and indiscriminate outgoingness, and eventually, vomiting into a plastic grocery bag nine times before, during, and after his flight back to St. Louis. Ry and I tried to warn him, but in the end, only cheap vodka could learn him good.

J-O-B!

2006-05-10T07:02:00.000-07:00

I got one!

J-O-B!

It's mine!

J-O-B!

Got healthcare!

J-O-B!

Nine to five!

J-O-B! YEAH!

[Ninja stance, kickbox the air, clap your hands together, alright.]

You know you're from [insert fashionably unhip rural or Midwestern area here] when...

2006-05-07T15:48:00.000-07:00

I had to include this little "You know you are from St. Louis" lists. It's nerdy, but ridiculously true and childhood memory-inducing. I never had so much pride in the beer, baseball and Italian food of the area until I moved away. Now that its all Starbucks, salmon fillets and teal-colored expansion teams, I fly my Midwestern accent and dusty, garage-party upbringing proudly. Maybe it's the pleasure of being from somewhere else, carrying around an alternative identity around with you. Something to make you fashionably un-pampered...hipsters from the green suburbs of Seattle or San Fransisco usually haven't gone to a Waffle House, have "Dad was too drunk so he let my 11-year-old brother drive home" stories, or spent Sunday afternoons going to car lots or went to high school without AP courses. It's the authentically-somewhat redneck childhood that I politely rejected for the ecologically and economically-friendly Northwest but still hold on to to boast my personal street cred. I'm sure that not every plain-Jane town transplant uses the "Not From These Parts" card, but I'm just the kind of loud-mouthed, defensive pud that would. Yup, me and George W.

And so, this list was great fun for me. Have one for yourself: You know you're from...when

You love toasted ravioli with Budweiser beer. With marinara sauce.

"Vacation" is a choice between Silver Dollar City and Lake of the Ozarks. Or the Huzzah.

You can find Pestalozzi Street by aroma alone. Oh, the Hill. Many a 16-year-old date spent there.

You can get anywhere in 20 minutes, except on highway 40.

You can debate for 30 minutes whether Missouri Baking or Marge Amighetti makes the best Italian bread. Are you kidding me? It's Amighetti's for sure.

You know what "Party Cove" is, and where the "lake" is. A friend from Ohio new about this. Or at least about the famed boat orgies in the middle of Party Cove.

You still can't believe the Arena is gone. Sniff.

Your first question to a new person is, "Where did you go to High School?" This is the most true statement in this list. It's a compulsion. Your life's worth is measured on this ridiculous question.

Your non-St. Louisan friends always ask if you're aware there is no "r" in "wash." And no "aw" in Lord."

You know at least one person who's gotten hurt at Johnson Shut-ins. Like me. I can't believe they shut down the cliff jumping...and at the same time, can't believe they ever allowed 10-years-old to jump into shallow, rocky water.

You know in your heart that Mizzou can beat Nebraska in football. Sigh. I don't believe it, but my dad and brother are still holding out.

You think the four major food groups are Beef, Pork, Budweiser and Imo's.Replace Bud with Bud Light and Beef with Jumbo Jacks and that sounds about right. And Ted Drewes.

You know there are really only three salad dressings: Imo's, Zia's and Rich and Charlie's. Zia's is the best, but Imo's makes the best salad. With pepperoncini hot peppers, pepperoni and provel cheese. Yum.

You'll pay for your kid to go to college unless they want to go to KU.Or U of I.

You would rather have a root canal without anesthetic than drive on Manchester on a Saturday afternoon.

It just doesn't seem like a wedding without mostaciolli. AND YOU PRONOUNCE IT 'MUSKACHOLLI'. The balance of the menu is ham, boiled roast beef, string beans with ham and of course pitchers of Busch Bavarian (class weddings have Bud). No, it would be kegs of Busch Light, muskachiolli, and your 19 Catholic great aunts and uncles. In the Knights of Columbus Hall.

You know, within a three-mile radius, where another St. Louisan grew up as soon as they open their mouth.Just ask them where they went to high school.

You know what a Pork Steak is...and what kind of sauce to put on it!

Everyone in your family has floated the Meramec River at least once.Only the Huzzah, Jack's Fork and Snake. I don't know how you could grow up and not have the term "float trip" in your immediate vocabulary. And you should have at least one "My brother/cousin/sister/dad/neighbor/priest got so drunk on the float trip, they..." stories.

A hoosier is someone that lives just south of Chouteau, not a person from Indiana.Or anyone from Caseyville, Granite City or WoPo. Boosh!

You have made fun of Mike Shanahan and tried to imitate him ordering another cold, frosty Busch Bavarian Beer.

You have listened to Mike's broadcast on KMOX, while watching the game on TV and wonder what game he is watching. A tear forms in your eye as someone mentions their favorite Jack Buck story."Swwwiiiing into left field.... Jack Buck was every bit as good as Chicago's Harry Carry."

You've said, "It's not the heat, it's the humidity."A million times. It is the humidity.

Your favorite summer treat is handed to you upside-down

You bleed Blue between September and May.My brother won the "Do you bleed blue?" Blues hockey contest and he and a buddy's picture was on a billboard off I-55 for a couple of months.

Ah, that was awesome.

Mount Si, mounted

2006-04-13T00:01:00.000-07:00

Alright, here's proof that I have done something in Seattle besides get a part-time job and watch too many episodes of House. I hiked up a mountain, or rather a Mount Si, and the view was impressive. About 3,200 feet more impressive than what we southern Midwesterners are accustomed too. And though the hike gave me a week of hamstring soreness and dirty-ass jeans, it was great, finally, to cross something off my emblematic to-do list.

Can't sleep

2006-04-07T01:07:00.000-07:00

I couldn't fall asleep last night. Not because my life is a trivial wasteland of booze and masturbation. Not because I harbored upon all the regretful actions of the past, all the cowardly actions I initiated at the expense of my friends and lovers. Not because I have very little money in the bank and several years from a real career. Not because I have a Sunday morning coffee break relationship with the divine.

No! I couldn't sleep because I couldn't stop thinking about what the f#@k Libby was doing in the psychiatric ward? Gaaaarrrrr! Cursed LOST and it's debilitating grip on my imagination!

I...Hiker

2006-04-04T01:17:00.000-07:00

Our out-of-town guest Carlin has left, so now I am going back to the rank-and-file activities: staying up too late on the Internet, washing and rewashing my clothes, going for long walks in the neighborhood, and yelling at my cats. You'd think they would've learned "Get your motherf-in cat head out of my water glass" by now, but unfortunately, they are remedial students.

Not having a guest means I'm not doing any more touristy things this week. I have lived here for almost two months, but this was my first trip to Capitol Hill and the Fremont Sunday Market, where I picked up a kick-ass chocolate coconut cookie, some handmade earrings and a couple of CDs. I also climbed a mountain. OK, we hiked a mountain, or a mount, but it took a long time, and my calves still hurt, so I figure it counts. One thing I realized about hiking - it's all about the gear. I wouldn't have figured this about free hiking up a well-worn trail, but we ran into a lot of other hikers whose icy suburban responses seemed out of place on this free-lovin' kind of place. So either the Julie and Jack Huntingtons were pissed that we were crowding the wilderness, or they looked down on us for lacking the appropriate gear. No poles, no water bottles with drinking tubes dangling from our Eastman backpacks, no Columbia hiking boots, not even REI fleece. No bonus points for our Clif Bars and Fruit Leather snacks either apparently. We figured it means that hiking is just like any sport or hobby...you work hard to train, to learn the lingo, to read the specialized magazines, to go on the hardcore trails and appropriate the right gear so you can be a Hiker. Something to put on a your MySpace account...a Hiker. Above other people who are not hikers...they are merely casual mountain walkers! Dammit, I want that gear too. I also want sweet red poles so I don't have to slide from the top trails on my ass. And wear moisture-wicking pants. I learned that Gap Jeans do not moisture wick...they moisture chafe.

But although I have no gear, there are bonuses to only working part-time. I get to enjoy more of the little moments. Like when you first wake up and rub your bare feet together and they are warm and soft... better yet if you have someone else's feet to rub together too. I like to lie in bed for a few moments to enjoy that.

How often do you find yourself in a place...

2006-03-21T22:40:00.000-08:00

With a black toilet? Well I did. Such a nonconformist object as this deserves a picture.

And so I sit down on the immaculate floor of my guest's luxurious hall bathroom and took some pictures. Then, I went to the bathroom, my original intent. There is something great about a little inspiration and whimsy. That bathroom was fabulous.

Finally, I've been waiting forever for this!

2006-03-17T18:56:00.000-08:00

Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha ha. You know what I'm talkin' about.
Credit to Keith and the Girl for this gem.

Plink, plink

2006-03-15T18:16:00.000-08:00

It was hailing, around 5 pm. The hail was pinenut-sized, like big glops of Dippin' Dots.

No one talks about the weather

2006-03-15T00:24:00.000-08:00

I find this odd about my new home. No one talks about the weather. This is the first question my parents (who live in the Southern Midwest) ask me when they call. This is an interesting question to them, because their weather changes from day to day. One day, 70 degrees in early March. Then tornadoes. Then its 40 degrees and overcast. Exciting stuff, right? Conversation starters, no doubt. Here, its in the 45-55 range and varying degrees of partly cloudy almost every day. No reason to jump outside on the porch in your pajamas to test what to wear for the day. I still ask Jason every morning though, out of habit. There are days when I remember that I am living in an entirely different part of the country...there are days when I forget.

This weekend Jason and I test-drived the Puget Sound bus system, and went to Pioneer Square and Pike's Place Market. I thought Pike's Place was just a tourist trap before I came, but it's not. It's a foodie's fun place, with less of a touristy vibe and more of a..."Oooh, let me try that" feel. I'm a neighborhood kind of gal, and there is nothing like great, fresh local food to shrink a city to one, zig-zaggy mess of tabletops and streetside shops. We also happened upon a gathering in Pioneer Square protesting the illegality of gay marriage and other related civil rights issues. Jason talked earnestly with a communist guy for 20 minutes while I walked around taking pictures.

What do you need when you are unemployed?

2006-03-08T23:58:00.000-08:00

If you thought I was going to say "job", you are wrong, my friend! And money for my next student loan payment, 24-rack of Bud Select, and an oil change is right...but not right enough.

It's a gym membership! Of course, what else should employed people be doing besides working out during the day and staying up late drinking beer and watching youTube videos? Jason and I stopped into "Epicenter Fitness" today, got the grand tour, and plan to sign up tomorrow. Jason has medical reasons he needs to be working out...his sciatic nerve is giving him hell. Me? I'd like to be able to climb a flight of stairs without hyperventilating again.

But here was the selling point. This gym facility has a heated yoga room, warm pool, free classes, and individual TV screen and DVD players ON EVERY WORKOUT MACHINE. And, when I went to check out the women's locker room, two Japanese girls were hanging out topless in the hottub. If only they had heated naked yoga and free Gatorade slurpee machines, this place would be heaven.

But you know, when you are unemployed and facing a lot of rejection, it's good to get your workout on. Get the blood flowing, feel sexy, get some cool injuries. Maybe while I'm busting a gut in sweaty-yoga, I'll have an epiphany and figure out what's my calling in life.

Woo boy

2006-03-07T16:57:00.000-08:00

Job expo. Now that was a litle slap of humility.

I walked around, looking nice in my brand-spanking new Goodwill interview clothes, and lip gloss and everything, and felt completely out of my element. I am over-qualified for the entry-level jobs, under-qualified or haphazardly-qualified for the others. Pfffst. Normally I feel like a good salesperson for myself, but today I was definitely off my mark. Probably convinced some people I was eligible for therapy, but that's about it.

I wish I could enjoy unemployment, but I've neer been that sort of person. I enjoy two weeks, then I get restless and disorganized, watch too much cable and Google too many useless topics. Soul-sucking. I need my structure. Worker bee.

Where's the gutso, Slog? Where's the brazeness? Where's the go-get-'em pal? Left a couple of years and wrong career turns back, I think. I'm not even sure I know what I want to do. I need to be dropped off with the woods with liter bottle of tequila and wait till a squirrel tells me what I need to do with my life.

The weight

2006-03-06T11:49:00.000-08:00

I have a weight hanging over me. It's sitting on my hard drive, and its filled with references to UN agencies, and it should be done by now. But it's not, so every day it screeches at me. And its not tremendously hard work, and worse, it's the type of writing I am good at, but my mind won't wrap around it, so it hangs. And other things that are more deserving of my time get nothing.

Hmmm, one of those mornings when I feel like life gets lost in proscrastination.

My new life...in blue

2006-03-05T23:26:00.000-08:00

For all of you who have ever studied art, or maybe just paid attention to these sorts of things, you understand the notion of "cool" versus "warm colors": every color has a warmer and cooler side...blues and pinks leaning towards cool, reds and yellows leaning towards warm. Anyway, since moving to Seattle, I've realized that Seattle-land wilderness has a cool tone, one that feels very blue to me. True, most of the area is covered in black-green evergreens, but even they seem blue-gray. Or the colors of my brother's eyes, if anybody reading knows Ryan well enough to picture his eye color. And this blueness colors everything, from the mountain ranges to the freeways to local grocery stores. It's calming, and clean-feeling, and the daily dousing of rain doesn't hurt either. I never thought of it much until I left the southern Midwest, where outside feels like a warm yellowish green, making the sky seemed washed out and the trees vibrant but oversunned. It's not necessarily better here, but it's different, and I bet it makes people feel differently as well. Perhaps its the reason people are exceedingly polite in traffic. The blue undertones urging everyone, "Calm down, we know the traffic is hell. Continue listening to your Jack Johnson CD and chill out."

I don't know, I like it though. It's not quite mine yet, and the suburbs are crowded and polished, but the tap water tastes great and its not a bad town to take a drive around. This morning we were up at 5:30 for Jason's gig, and drove into Seattle at 7:30, and it was beautiful. Rainy and cool, and utterly quiet (they don't have billboards here, so quiet morning drives are possible). I think I like the Midwest better for the twilight...but Pugent Sound has the morning.

Care to...Karaoke?

2006-02-20T02:23:00.000-08:00

Here are some pictures from our recent stop in Boulder to visit Suzanne and Jeremy. After we decided that no one wanted to stay sober to drive to Saturday night karaoke, the only option revealed itself...online subscription karaoke. Much to Suz and Jeremy's neighbors utter dismay.
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This song...touches such a special place in my soul...

And it feels...so...good....

I Heart Science-Fiction Primetime Shows

2006-02-08T21:09:00.000-08:00

Questioning the future of human existence? Worried that all these hurricanes, tsunamis, earthquakes, glacier melts and forest fires are part of a grander scheme to screw with the human race? Do you think it be aliens or maybe even some higher deity behind it all? Feed your fears on ABC!

Seriously, it's 11 pm and I have finished two hours of "Lost" and "Invasion". Jason and I got hooked on "Lost" in Russia and well, "Invasion" was on afterwards so I watched that too. Both are very similar in that very strange crap happens to very hot people, but the part that got me hooked to "Lost" is the questions it begs. Folks with regrettable pasts end up on a remarkably temperate tropical island, thrashing out pecking orders and struggling with their "inner demons" (Amazingly, all but two of these aforementioned hot people have managed to resist the temptation to really get it on, despite the fact they are stranded on a tropical island with an endless supply of coconut oil). But wait, there must be some purpose why they are there! Maybe, this island is some sort of purgatory...maybe it's some cruel immersion therapy...maybe it's a science experiment! Boogity boogity!

This was my first watch of "Invasion", so all I can really tell about the show is that there was this hurricane, then these aliens came, and some people got special healing powers, and now there are these hybrids who looks a lot like Brendan Fraser in Encino Man with flippers. Now its humans vs. hybrids, with a fair amount of God-speak thrown in. I heard the word "God" more often in this episode than Mitch touches his nose throughout all of Dazed and Confused. That means many, many times. But despite not having watched the first thirteen episodes, I got the idea the show was trying to "say" something...like, "Can't we all just get along?" or "Humanity is totally doomed by its own foolish ignorance and fear...Love, The Aliens."

And I like it. These shows aren't the same as "Touched By an Angel" and more pseudo-religious cushy shows that touch upon this material. These shows aren't particularly applauding the love and actions of God as much as examining the strange relationships humankind has between God-deities (though to be fair, these shows only mention a singular God - and "Lost" featured a Catholic baptism), and among themselves within these moral frameworks we have built upon our idea of God and religion. Say what you like, these shows make you think about faith, and understanding, and rationalism, and morality...and other topics I find otherwise "awkward" to sneak into everyday conversation or thought, but honestly, I'm a little glad when they're there. Cause I like these questions, and I remember when they fascinated the hell out of me in high school. These are the themes that make people make sense, and feel connected, and inspire art and love and anger. I spend a good majority of my day flucuating between which moisturizer to use and Triscuit vs. Wheat Thin, so spending 20 minutes out of my day wondering if fear is an greater agent of destruction or construction, or if true redemption from guilt is possible, is very good thing.

And if I have those questions, the questions of life, love and faith delivered to me by people in dirty, tight low-rise jeans...all the better, my friend.

Brush, one, two, three....

2006-02-07T22:08:00.000-08:00

We are wrapping up our stay in Iowa. Oh Iowa, the Geode and Wild Rose state. The sunsets were the usual chilly pink, the hills sunny and gray-beige, and the skies forever. Love it here. Beats the shit out of Ohio.

I'm getting a little ansy for some stability though. We've been home for almost a month, and travelled to three states, three homes, three sets of family and friends. I need, repeat need my own tube of toothpaste and reliable clothes-changing schedule. Makes me think of people who are always travelling, being "adventurous" and all that jazz. What do they do to give themselves a sense of routine? Watch that guy you know who travelled around Latin America for six years - bet he brushes his teeth with 60 perfectly counterclockwise strokes.

That said, I like the bathroom routine. Get up, go to the bathroom, wash face, towel off, brush teeth, fluff hair. I think I used to believe that routines like that made you boring, overly settled and predictable. But sometimes routines give you the stability to bust out ninja-style..."You need that presentation on your desk in 15 minutes? Yes, sir Mr. Johnson! Thankfully, I assembled my morning hygiene routine in proper order and I'm ready to kick ass." Those mornings when you forget a step, lose your keys, put the right shoe on before the left...those are the mornings that stomp you around. Try getting something done when you wake up at 11 am and spend the next 2 hours in your underwear reading blogs and watching Apple Trailers. Much better to get up, wash your face, brush your teeth...get on with your life.

Someday I will own once again my mundane routines, but until then...it's off to Boulder!

The First Post-Russia Entry, by Request

2006-02-06T21:18:00.000-08:00

So, this is my first update in over almost two months. Wow, I wish I could blame this lack of updating etiquette on something more excusable, but like many of my fellow amateur bloggists, I just forget that I even have an online persona to tend to. So my blog was starved, but will now feed off my fresh-off-the-jumbo-jet experiences.

The last two months in Russia were some of the most difficult, but also the most truthful. Summer was completely gone, and walking outside turned often into a painful play of will...first the brace, then the shake, then the submission and finally acceptance. But Russians just do winter better (maybe some Minnesotans or Montanians will challenge me, but whatever). They dress for it more properly, they embrace it more fully, and it seems as much a part of Moscow as the Metro. I feel as if Ohio and Iowa just put up with winter because it comes after the gorgeous fall and the amicable spring, but Moscow really felt winter, the mighty foe and partner that it is. The sidewalks are covered in glassy black ice, gutters clog with gray, tarry slush and vendors' hands seem to burn pink with cold. But there are the lights that were up for New Years...much brighter and gaudier than ours but disparingly appropriate for the dingy cold.

Coming home was, of course, a shocker. Not a horrible one, really, but noticable. The people were louder...Chicago was blazingly sunny despite the 30 degree temperature, and the spaciousness and brightness of the airport was jarring. The airline we were taking to Des Moines managed to jerk us from counter to counter till we missed our flight and had to wait 4 more hours in the airport, after we had been up for over 30 hours. I think we finally got to sleep after 48 hours of awake time, which included two goodbye parties and a mad-dash clean-up and pack-up session in our apartment. Once in Marshalltown, we ate Mexican food, resisted the strong urge to address strangers in Russian, and started the slow, but not entirely unpleasant experience of becoming us again.

As far as my experience went, I found it pretty hard to be totally myself in a foreign country (though I suppose there are degrees of difficulty). I don't think this feeling is entirely dependent upon exoticness...I almost feel a very exotic country would be easier to adjust to than just a strange cultural shift. My Russian skills got much better but fell far from fluent, so that probably contributed to my feeling of isolation. But not a strong, negative isolation....it was more like when you first show up in a new, big city, and you wander around, hands in pockets...feeling very unknown and alone, but in a surreal way. Like the city is yours. Yours to watch but not really be part of, and it feels marvelous. That's how I felt many days, even when the cold and hum of unintelligible Russian was getting me down. And I still feel a warm affection for the city I watched and climbed around in for six months. I miss the closeness of everything, the ease of the Metro, the white noise of uncomprehensable conversation.

While in Russia, I started having anxiety attacks. Sometimes those swift whump! breath-gone attacks, but mostly just the after shocks...chest tightness, muscle aches, headaches. And feeling out of control of my situation. Since being home most of the feelings have disappated, but I'm truly amazed at my body's (and others') ability to "flesh" out what churns around in my head. Fears of death and separation came easier, and so did dependence on those around me. My self-esteem tanked and I felt some of the most profound disillusionment have felt in my life. Now I have to take those necessary baby steps (ugh, those words are repulsive) to feel more with it, more in charge of myself, even if its just driving to the store or organizing necessary directions or making minor decisions. Breathe in, breathe out. Choose a restaurant. My time in Moscow was filled with dancing and laughter and so, so much good food, but this was also part of it. The lonely, helpless times.

It's funny, because a good friend of Jason's little brother went to St. Petersburg about the same time we were in Moscow and had a completely different trip. But he spoke no Russian and went in kamikaze-style, trying to suck all the marrow out of Russian life. Jason and I went in trying to live, and succeeded, however imperfectly, in building a true home and work life. Different approaches, indeed. Our acquaintance came home from an adventure, full of wild stories. I came home from a home, banged up real good but affectionately proud and stronger yet. Which is better? I don't know. Once the glitz of novelty wore off, there were days where I felt Moscow to be angrily unapproachable, almost cruel. But I met warm and honest people, I made routines, and gained the ability to converse with strangers. By our last few weeks, I caught myself waking towards Baravitskaya Metro station, looking around at the Arbat, soaking it in and thinking, "Make it stick...make this memory stick." In the end, it was at least a little bit my Moscow. My Metro station. My prodookty. My apologetically crappy Russian.

And now? After our tour abouts the Midwest, visiting family and friend in Ilinois, Ohio and Iowa, it's off to Boulder, and then to Seattle. We both need to find jobs, a place to live, friends to have, a church to belong to, interests to cling to, and a life to build. Somedays I get sad about the lives I tear down to build somewhere else, the friends I leave behind, the cities and their pecularities I forget. But then again, I usually bring along the good ones.

One night in fall 2000 when I was freshly rejected from the University of Illinois, unemployed and living with my parents, I used to run around with some coffee-drinking pseudo-philosopher types with dogmatic tastes in music and movies. And this guy whose name I can't remember and I climb to the top of Monk's Mound (the largest Native American-built mound) in Collinsville at about 4 in the morning. I'm sure we were jazzed on coffee from the Grind in the Central West End, and were sitting around talking. It was chilly for early fall, and I remember shivering. I'm sure we talked about very deep and soul-searching things that people do when they want to make out with each other, but the part I remember was watching the highway from the top as the sun came up...the cars that were travelling along I-55/70 went from being moving lights, to ghostly and shadowy blocks, to 3-D bodies moving fluidly with lushious and surprisingly reverent pink tints. It was amazing...that black and cold world waking up, and suddenly, something entirely different. And I felt like everything had changed...as I watched from above. And then the moment was gone, and I was back with the world. Cars going by, boy talking, time passing.

There's really something about watching the world happen around you, being on the outside, and the moment you let yourself in. From Russia, I'll bring that along.

Bezdomny, Worland and Constipating V. Topple, IV

2005-12-08T01:30:00.000-08:00

In case any of you were wondering, the weather in Moscow today is....cold and gray. It snowed overnight, but it had already, so that wasn't big news. But no sun. That is what makes Russian winters famous. Lack of Vitamin D...I swear it's making all of us squirrelly-like.

I'm reading The Master and Margarita (in English), and its thrilling to read the story while living in Moscow. I walk past the Metropole, or visit Patriarch Ponds, or even Sayadova Street. But the real fun is looking around for evil. When I've had a particularly good read on the Metro, I step out, looking around at all the flushed cheeks, looking for the Professor. Bulgakov makes you feel like it is entirely possible to look round and find signs of evil in everyday, tired faces, and Moscow leaves much to the imagination. It's dirty and vulgar, and people push and stare you down, but it's still beautiful and proper, and somehow you can imagine shady characters walking along the twinkly New Year's decorations on Tverskaya Boulevard, luring others to fight, fear and degrade one another, even as the monuments on Red Square dauntlessly look on. Heee heee, it's great fun.

By the way, bezdomny in Russian means "homeless", for anyone who wanted to know.

In other news, I get lots of spam to my work account. In fact, this server seems to have no filtering capabilities at all, and I get to spend precious minutes deleting these parasites from my inbox. There is some sunshine, however. I get to make up little stories about my spammers. The following are some of the "people" who have sent me emails in the last few months:

Nipping B. Bootlegger
Spicy S. Spurt
Damn E. Fun
Ink-Donor
Constipating V. Topple
Defying A. Twelfths
Balkhashing M. Revealing
Stoic C. Discoed
Acribable K. Misfires
Reversals S. Harried
Warbled R. Persisting
Remonstrates U. Facilitation
Sunbeam P. Cervical
Groveler K. Cheviot

"Well, good lord! If it isn't Nipping B. Bootlegger!"
"The very same! Ascribable, old man, how are you?"
"Alright, alright, except the clap's giving me a bit of a time. Have you heard about old Spicy Spurt?"
"No, my word, what's happened?"
"He challenged Constipating V. Topple to a duel!"
"No!"
"Yes! Except you know old Spurt, bit erratic, isn't he? He shot off early, and hit Stoic Discoed!"
"No! How tragic! And I thought I was the one who Misfires!"

Today I'm Ally Sheedy

2005-12-07T04:31:00.000-08:00

This morning I drank an "NR-Ja"... an energy drink with red, yellow and green stripes with a small, eyeless Rastafarian at the bottom declaring, "I know it!" Know what, I wonder? It, man. All I knew after drinking it was that it tastes like watered-down Red Bull and slightly jarred me from my late morning coma.

I'm in one of those moods. I don't want to read about HIV/AIDS policy. I don't want to teach English tonight. I don't want to go out, but staying in sounds like a chore. I don't want to deal with anyone around me. I don't know what I want to do with myself career-wise, though I know I want a job with health insurance and paid vacations. When I was 18-years-old, I thought I knew exactly what I wanted, and even though what that was changed over the proceeding years, my certainty did not. But now I'm 25, generally jobless with a Generic Liberal Arts Degree (aren't you GLAD you still owe $25,000 in student loans for this?) in Psychology, and I don't even want to think about it. About any of it. I just want to have Jason make me dinner, eat it in bed, and fall promptly into a lazy, indulgent sleep. Yesterday I was Molly Ringwald, and today I'm Ally Sheedy. I need a Mary Kay makeover and a date with the school jock. That will give me some direction in life.

Sigh, I'm not feeling sorry for myself, I promise. Just apathetic. I really just want to sit at this computer and read Salon archives and watch Apple trailers all afternoon. Jason claims when I turned 25, it was if a bomb went off in my brain, and I suddenly felt old, adult, with all the pressures and anxieties that go with that identity. Credit ratings, spider veins, IRA funds, calcium supplements. A steady job. I think back to the ambitions I used to have....to be a social worker, to be a psychologist, to be a lawyer, to run a restaurant, to study policy.... do I still like any of them enough to make a committment? That's what I'm really afraid of: committment. Saying, "This is what I want to do" is a statement of committment to work towards something, to invest in something. Maybe I'll wake up one morning when I'm 43, wonder what the hell have I been doing for the past 15 years, and run off after a series of unfortunate but hilarious events, and discover my talent and passion for something incredible, like building furniture or raising bisen or surgery.

Sorry if this one's a downer. If I were in the States, I'd go get a haircut or buy a new pair of pants. Consumerism - now that's being productive!

Thanksgiving pictures, only a week and a half less relevant

2005-12-06T03:34:00.000-08:00

Here are the turkey bodybags. I assue you they enjoyed their last soak in salty, cold water.

This is me, putting my back in 'to it. These guys were heavy and awkward, and I think it's about midnight, Friday night at this point.Time to eat, that's Tom digging in, after claiming he couldn't eat any more because he wanted to "go all night." [Editor's note: "going all night" involved he and his friends getting "faced" at two Moscow nightclubs.]

Here's Paul, telling what I am sure was a hilarious story, about the origin of the word "deign" or something.
The aftermath. Paul did most of the dishes, but these guys were still waiting their turn. (They waited till 6 o'clock that evening.)

And here's my aftermath. I hadn't left the house in 48 hours, got up with a slight twinge in the back of head, and Jason surprised me with this picture as I was taking out the garbage. Kodak Gold, indeed.

Naive. Super and other stories of un-comings of age

2005-12-06T02:10:00.000-08:00

The weather in Moscow is consistent. Consistently gray and rather chilly. Although this does free my mind up to think about other things. I remember the weather occupying a good part of my mornings' foggy thoughts in Ohio. "What will it be this fine December morning? A foot of snow? Sunny and windy? 60 degrees and raining? Weee! Who knows!" Here, it's cold and gray and occasionally snowy/raining with a certain feeling of apathy. It's all the same, so I can think about other things, like the fact that we're leaving soon, in less than six weeks.

I can't tell how I feel about this. Somedays, when I just...want...a...burrito.....I think that returning will be great. Simpsons! Thai food! Driver's license! Potable tap water! Plus, I'm starting a whole new life, beginning with a month-long cross-country trip. I've never done this, and while it will be slightly less romantic to make the trip in late January, it it's still seeing whole parts of the world I've never seen before. And then living in a part of the country I've never lived before, that has different trees, different furry things, and I bet even some different beer than Southern Illinois or Iowa. And I can feel that I'm coming back to the States a little different. It's trite, I know, but spending six months in a place where you can barely speak the language has to change you. You have to deal with loneliness, in a bigger sense than I usually felt at home.

At the same time, I've gotten used to it all, and even enjoy my daily routine...the unfamilar conversation buzz in the Metro, the yellow lights of the stations, the smell of pastries and dill and car exhaust. And I still don't know what I will do when I get back to the States. You know, do. Career-wise. And I've enjoyed the state of suspended animation that living in Russia has allowed. I just had to focus on learning a foreign language, keeping myself full of food and drink, and wonder around with Jason, taking in the sights. Soon I'll have a real life to maintain. And more importantly, develop. A new city, new job, new interests, new friends. I can't help thinking, what do I want to become? What do I have the guts to become? That sounds so F-ing John Hughes, but it's how I feel. It's my Molly Ringwald moment.

Oh, and I'm reading my first book in Russian. Well, by reading, I mean, scanning and trying to understand a semblance of what is going on. One of my students gave it to me, and cited it as one of his favorites. It's called Naive. Super by Erland Loe, from Norway. I'm going to go out on a limb and pre-recommend it to Jake. From what I read online, and heard from my student, you might like it. The narrator uses lists to organize his thoughts, and you seem to be fond of that vertical orientation.

"У меня есть два друга. Хороший и плохой. А ешё у меня есть брат. Мой брат, может быть, не такой симпатичный, как я, но, в обшем, нормальный."

"I have two friends. Good and bad. I also have a brother. My brother maybe isn't as nice as me, but he's generally alright."

- Opening lines of Наивно. Супер., and one of the few sentences I could translate completely.

How much is owing for a fop-quality chicken?

2005-12-02T02:11:00.000-08:00

Jason found this in Moscow's English language newspaper, The Moscow Times. I can't say I've ever heard my English language students say any of these, but then again, I teach them to speak English good.

This brief list -- culled from P. P. Litvinov's "Advanced English" and "Advanced Conversational English" by Vladimir Voytenok and Alexander Voytenko.

Sayings. Folk sayings, those neat phrases that summarize the wit and wisdom of an ethno-linguistic group, can be fun and revealing. Or not. "Advanced English" offers the following examples of English speakers' national lore:
"No news is a good news."
"Curiosity killed a cat."
"Nothing venture, nothing have."

While these might come under the heading native speakers may know as "close but no cigar," some other offerings from the same volume seem altogether baffling:
"The face is index of the mind."
"Custom is the second nature."
"One man is no man."

Making and greeting acquaintances. Gaining command of these functions is a critical part of acquiring any language -- and that is why it is important to resist the following models offered by "Advanced Conversational English":
"Hallo, I say!"
"You, sir, I address myself to."
"Old cock!"
"Edward: Good Lord! If it isn't George!"
"G. No other."
"E. Let me shake your crab."
"G. And let me do the same."

Grocery shopping. Another important function, and one with great potential for going awry if you use these illustrations:
"Isn't your milk adulterated?"
"It's tragically too expensive."
"You are simply robbing me."
"How much is owing for a fop-quality chicken?"

At a social occasion involving dancing. Everyone parties, but there is a certain lack of timeliness to these "conversational" dialogue phrases:
"This modern dancing is rather tricky at times. Oh, now I recognize it. It's a fox trot. Isn't it?"
"Oh, my foot. You have stepped on it."
"You must avoid jumping."
"Now, why do you hop, I wonder?"
"I wouldn't say that you are much of a dancer."
"She's too bulky to be guided."
"I towed her about the room, bumping into other couples, into the radiator, into the chairs and what not."

The mysterious "Anglo-Saxon soul." Believe it or not, English learners, I have never heard anyone make these "conversational" remarks:
"Your wanderings of desire have no single drive."
"I am astonished to discover what a bundle of motives you are."
"Your tongue is thickly furred."

And finally, a dialogue couplet that, I confess, I have very much wanted to use at large social events where it is difficult to keep everyone straight -- but somehow the occasion never presents itself:
"I couldn't catch his name."
"Doesn't that flame tell you anything?"

World AIDS Day

2005-12-01T05:08:00.000-08:00

Касается Каждого. It Affects Everyone.

It is estimated that one million people, or 1% of the population, have HIV/AIDS in Russia.

Russia now has the one of the fastest growing HIV/AIDS infection rates in the world.

Fewer than 10% of those in need have access to antiretroviral treatment.

Over 75% of those affected are under 30 years old.

For more information about HIV/AIDS in Russia: www.tpaa.net

Bodybags in the Bathtub and other fun Thanksgiving Stories

2005-11-29T05:22:00.000-08:00

I'll post Thanksgiving pictures when I get off my butt and get Jason to upload them onto Flickr. Creating my own blog template is as far as I've gone to control my technological world. Pathetic, yes. I've been frustrated to tears over switching the TV from PlayStation to DVD mode. I can barely operate my digital camera, and I certainly can't do something useful like design a website or organize a database. I am aware that this makes me a less-attractive job candidate (which I will officially be in February), so I will do what I have always done...stretch what lousy skills I do possess (Excel bar charts...done and done!) into a seemingly-desireable package. I wonder if put "information capacity building" experience to mean knowing how to use Google?

So, Thanksgiving went well...as well as can be expected in a country that doesn't sell cream of mushroom soup or jellied cranberry sauce in a can. The turkeys were a little dry but had a rich flavor (I don't think these we're Butterball live-in-a-box turkeys...these we're muscular, old gamey birds). One of the turkeys got the boot for being skinny and sketchy-looking...I'm thinking this bird was a sickly-sort before it hit the chopping block. But cooking the turkeys involved two days of soaking in the bathtub, being brined in black plastic body bags, and taking turns in our pint-sized oven. They were a beautiful golden brown though...but all the work...I don't know, the Kosher chicken I made took 10 minutes, tasted like a dream, and created it's own rich, garlicy sauce. My mashed potatoes (made from starchy Neejzny Novogorad potatoes) were thick and dough-like, despite Jason's muscle-intense efforts to improve them. Margo of Grinnell '05 swept in with her own delicious mashed potatoes and sweet potatoes (!), and the rest of my dishes turned out well, especially the stuffing, thanks to bundles of fresh thyme and sage smuggled in from London by a friend of mine.

I wish I could say I loved the chaos of the day, with groups of people piling in around 6 o'clock with arms of champagne and wine, but I was too busy stirring and chopping and checking to enjoy the early evening festivities. And after a while, I didn't care...I ate and drank and ran around with Liz, playing cards. I missed my family though. Thanksgiving hasn't always been a bright spot in the Sloger family collective memory. I'm thinking of one year when my dad and stepmom were fighting, my mom and brothers working, so we called the holiday off. This sounds good in theory, but in practice it's rough to swallow...I'm enough of an turkey-hugging tradionalist to feel like calling the day off over family rows does NOT put the "fun" in dysfunctional. Dad and I celebrated the night in a Clinton county bar crawl that satisfyed my craving for Dad-time, but did little to soothe the pang of the day as we drank Bud Lights served by grizly but empathetic barmaids under cheap twinkling Christmas lights, surrounded by the other sappy drunks playing Hank Williams and Alabama Christmas covers.

I've gotten more into Thanksgiving and Christmas the last few years (Easter is still and will be forever a crap Hallmark holiday after the New Kids On the Block incident of Easter '91). I don't think all of my family shares the sentiment, but I get all misty-eyed and sentimental when all of three of us kids (my brothers being stout and working guys of 20 and 22) get together and drink Dad and Jamie's beer and listen to Frank Sinatra and make fun of our parents and each other. If we didn't have the ability to tease each other to tears and blows, I don't know how we would have resurrected these holidays from the bowels of divorce and teenage disenchantment. Honestly, I think it helps that I have skipped town, and the only chance my brothers have to call me "whore" and "dumb b**ch" are on these precious nights. I know, I know, these are "bad words" and if Jason ever called me these names in earnest I would threatened him with an involuntary lobotomy. But this is part of the unspoken code of affection my brothers and I have for each other. I may have gone off to private college and live in Russia, but to them, I'll always be their air-headed sister. Laughter may not be the best medicine, but it goes better with turkey than absinthe shooters and punching your face through a wall.

Hope everyone's Thanksgiving was merry and belt-busting. Tonight: Israeli hip-hop group called Dog Snake, or Snake Dog, or some other variation on that theme.

Coming soon...Me vs. Turkey and Kosher Chicken

2005-11-24T00:26:00.000-08:00

Tonight begins a 48-hour perilous trial. A journey of unforeseen horrors, of untold glories. I am making a Thanksgiving dinner (with Kosher accents) for 20+ people. In a Russian one-rack square-shaped oven and a four-point electric range. Lordy, have mercy on me.

A photo-tale of my journey will follow soon, with recipes. To all of you, Happy Thanksgiving, hope you are surrounded by warmth, family, and nostalgia (childhood should always feel a little better in hindsight) and eat some cranberry sauce for me, cause they don't sell the stuff out here.

Whatever you do, don't start a fire in Moscow

2005-11-18T01:47:00.000-08:00

Jason and I got to have a brief encounter with some of the Moscow Fire Department last night. At about 1:30 in the morning we hear the door buzz, then banging. We throw some clothes on and answer the door, where some firefighters are standing in the hallway. They are young (like 18-20), and a couple of them are giggling like mad. I say giggling, cause I can't think of a better word, but its a sort of silly laughing you do when you've drank too many malt beverages. We assure the men that the fire isn't in our apartment, so they buzz the apartment next door. We close the door, but watch through the peephole (what a glorious invention). No answer. The firefighters attempt to kick the door in. They must not think it's that serious, because no one swings their pickaxe at the flimsy wood door, but give it a few solid kicks. Voices yell out from inside. No fire in here. They still won't open the door. A couple of the fireguys are now sitting in the hallway, laughing, but apparently the supervisor, a bit older, thinks this is fishy.

He takes off his oxygen tank, lights a cigarette, and kicks the door again. He asks the question again, was there, at any time, a fire in this apartment. Oh right, the voice say, there was a fire. In a frying pan. It's fine now. The people never come out of the apartment, and I think the woman may have lied about being alone (there was a man in there too). Totally sketchy. What could they have been doing in there? I don't think crystal meth is very popular here, so I ruled out that. Stolen merchandise? Hiding illegal immigrants? Illegal glass-blowing? I have to mention that this is a nice new apartment building. But it is curious. Makes me wonder what is so mysterious and worth hiding that you wouldn't open the door for firemen. Or maybe they were dressed up funny, like German school girls. Who knows, though the best part was definitely Captain Fireguy lighting a cigarette while attempting to investigate a fire. Yes, sir, now is definitely the time for a Malboro Light.

The trip to Krasnodar was great, and filling. Jason's host mom insisted that we eat, and eat, and keep eating...and of course, all of it was god, filling starchy foods your grandmother favors. They were entirely lovely people though, and my true saving grace. I needed to be around warm sweet people for a weekend. And walking around streets that weren't covered in construction and towering gray buildings. Krasnodar had trees, and paths, and sweet and dirty-smelling wind. It was lovely. The 26-hour-train ride down, was cool for the first three hours, then lost its novel charm. Being stuck in small, cramped spaces just makes you want to sleep and perhaps read. Not very romantic, indeed.

This is called lunch in Jason's host mom's house. Other people call this a crap ton of fun.

Jason and Lisa walking down the main drag in Krasnodar. We are currently searching for the tofu store. This magical little place had blocks of fresh tofu, which is called "Cheese-tofu" here. Lisa had brought us stick-on fake mustaches from the US, so we sat around a couple of night, drinking wine, wearing mustaches, and taking turns reading from the sixth Harry Potter book.

Babooshka, or grandma, sipping tea after lunch. She couldn't pronouce "Courtney" (Russian girls names always have "a" or "ya" at the end... an "ee" ending sound very strange to them), so she just called me "Helper" or "Young Lady". My Russian students thought this was hilarious, though for the record, I can't remember any of them using my name either. Ah well, "you" works in any language.

Me speaks the good English, yes...

2005-11-08T08:08:00.000-08:00

If you heard the following phrase, where do you think it came from:
"How would you send it somebody through the email?"

A) Circa-1950's Alien-Moves-Next-Door-and-Eats-Babies flic
B) Your friendly neighborhood Hungarian wine-guzzler, while using the CD-drive as a cupholder
C) Brendan Frazer in "Encino Man"
D) None of the above

D. None of the above. I said it, sober, at work, while trying to send an mp3 file. And you wonder why it's difficult for me to improve my Russian.

Cream puffs, caviar and the cool kids' table

2005-10-24T02:07:00.000-07:00

I keep forgetting to take my camera with me on weekend outings, so no new photos to share. I really wanted some of the Russian Fashion Week event our friend Denis invited us to a show of Olga Romina’s designs. I actually really liked some of her designs…skirts with billowing extra fabric and large, deep pockets so you can imagine walking down the streets in September with your hands in your pockets and think, “Yeah, this is me walking in my poofy skirt that feels like a mini-toga and a soft breeze is blowing around my panties and I feel fine.” And, to my delight, all of her models wore Chuck Taylors in varying colors and heights. Just an hour earlier I had been arguing with Jason that Chuck Taylor’s never go out of style. Obviously, I win.

My favorite moment in the show happened when one of the models walked out in a pair of hi-top white Chucks and a dress that closely resembled a cream puff. I couldn’t even find arm holes. On cue, a blond woman in “hip lady” glasses ooohed and clapped silently for the cream puff, obviously approving of the dress, despite the fact that it does not enable the wearer to go the bathroom, fit through doors or avoid being compared to pastry. Jason and I discussed said dress afterwards. He liked it, thought it was cool-looking, and you know, pushing the boundaries of “wearable” and traditional modes of clothing, blah blah blah. I agree with him, really…I actually liked the design with the brown hullahoop covered in flopping brown leaf-things that the designer intended these poor women to sling over their shoulder as part of the ensemble. But cream puff? My parents made me a pumpkin costume when I was four that looks strikingly similar to that design, but at least I could hold my fucking candy bucket.

I have a student in my English class, Natalie, who likes good music, so we’ve been trading music. I should say, I tried…I gave a list of my favorite bands that Relatively Few People know about, but she had heard them all. So, again, I’m the one getting the recommendations. A long while back I realized that I would always be the indie fan who had just heard the great new album or movie that everyone had seen and listened to, like, two days ago. It’s was like that in Chicago…between Joel Reamer and Cripe and Jake Mohan, I couldn’t keep up. Never will either. Am I OK with that? More or less. Some days I want to be sitting at the cool kids table though, I’ll admit it.

But then, I'll always have eggplant caviar.

EGGPLANT CAVIAR

Ingredients:
One large or two small eggplants (Japanese purple are best, but more expensive)
One can crushed tomatoes, plain
Three cloves garlic, finely diced (don’t use that silly shit in a jar either)
One small red onion, finely diced
Tomato paste
Salt
Pepper
Olive oil
Fresh cilantro

Peel the eggplant. Dice into small pieces, about the size of the end of your pointer finger. Then stick on a plate, and salt heavily. I mean heavy. Don’t worry about the saltiness; it will be washed off. Let sit for 30 min-hour. The eggplant will now begin oozing brown water, and this is a good thing. Slice up the rest of the veggies while you wait, then put the eggplant pieces in a strainer and rinse, then squeeze the excess water out. This is important! If your eggplant is stuffed up with extra water, or isn’t soft enough, you will get hard and chewy eggplant, and that crap will give you gas. So squeeze, love the eggplant. Now, heat up about 4 tablespoons of olive oil at medium in a medium sauce pan (that’s the one you make ramen in). You can add more oil if you’re feeling crazy - I almost always do. Once the oil is hot (it will sizzle drops of water), add onion. Cook till the onion is translucent, then toss in the garlic and eggplant, turn the heat to low. Now, don’t touch! Leave uncovered and alone for 5-10 minutes, till the eggplant looks brownish and smooshy. Then add one tablespoon of tomato paste and a teaspoon of red wine vinegar, and turn up heat. In five minutes add tomatoes, salt and pepper to taste till tomatoes are mushy and the whole mess looks like sloppy goo. Finely chop about 3 tablespoons of fresh cilantro (never use dried), add to caviar, and serve warm with toast, grilled pita bread, or crackers. This goes lovely with cheese, and I add a bit of crushed red pepper cause I like it hot, baby.

Zaliningrad

2005-10-17T00:15:00.000-07:00

This weekend, Jason and I ventured with Liz to Zaliningrad, a large town which is supposed to be part of Moscow incorporated, but its a suburb by North American standards. We took the night train from Moscow to hit the local club scene. The club we went to was relatively unextraordinary...expensive MGD bottles, comfy couches and a hooka room off to the side (first time for me, it was pretty tasty). It was 70 and 80s night, which while it meant a bunch of Soviet disco standards with whom I admit, sadly, I am unfamiliar, but the DJ did play the "Ghostbuster's" theme. That song has the capacity to make people move, no matter what side of the pond you're from.

But the interesting part of the trip was the town itself. Zaliningrad was designed and constructed to house all the computer nerds and their families as the trade emerged in late 70s or so (I estimate). It doesn't have the broken-down kiosks and slick slots clubs everywhere...the stores weren't swanky, just strikingly middle-class. For a country that supposedly doesn't have that Ikea-shopping bulge in the middle of its income spread, Zaliningrad was a real sight. The bus we rode on was shiny-new, with automated turnstiles...the park we crossed to get to Pizza Pronto was meticulously kept with thick cobblestones and convenient rain-protected benches. The grade school and high school, built right next to each other, looked like Cosmonaut versions of 1980s SoCal schools...and the grade school was an orange-and-white MiniMe version of the impressive blue-and-white high school.

The neighborhoods lack trees, so 17-story pale but newish apartment buildings shoot of the ground like fence posts. Intimidatingly dense forest surrounds the whole town...the birch tree and evergreen Russian-style forest. This kind of forest doesn't have the slopy roundness to the treetops that you see in the Midwest, and they remain the same muted green the whole year. It's dark, foreboding, and after 3 months in Moscow, one of the most beautiful sights I've seen in a while. And the air...lawrd, the air was clear and almost sweet. Jason and I kept reminding each other, "Do it again, do it again...breathe, ahhhh". It's been raining, so Moscow air is like sniffing a wet ashtray. Our friend James thought Zaliningrad was as dinged and flashy as Moscow, but I thought it was lovely. I wondered guiltily if it was because a Whole Foods store might look more at place in Zaliningrad...that my suburban sensibilities drew me to the white-and-gray Tinker-Town. But it made me wonder if this feeling was what young families in the US thought in the 1950s...not that their new McSuburbs were impersonal, or gawdy, or oppressive...but rather pretty.

Living in Moscow, with water-logged gray quickly becoming the season's hottest color around here, and the late fall rains washing countless streams of tar, dirt and trash down the sidewalks, I imagine the charms of a pre-made, sparkly white suburb. No crowded metro wagons, fewer aging drunks sleeping on steam grates, fewer buildings draped in construction tarp. Zaliningrad didn't have a McDonald's every two feet, or miles of strip malls, or streets clogged with traffic and construction. It doesn't have the noise, the oppressive go, go. Just busy families wandering into shops and bustops under the giant white apartment buildings stretching up towards the clear gray sky. Russia's grand version of the white picket fence.

Someone pays me for this, seriously

2005-10-14T00:44:00.000-07:00

I have come to a realization. Teaching English to foreigners isn't hard, as long as they already speak English. Since you, the American, are an expert in English-speaking, (approximately 24 years of experience, as I noted in my resume) all you have to do, is correct them when it sounds a bit off-kilter:
"I am stressed when mother makes of me eat only carrot for the dinner because she reveals that I am too fat."
Easy, right? I can sit on my desk (you know, I'm a "casual" kind of teacher) and grin and correct them with easy confidence and even compassion. My wonderful students are eager to learn to speak English better because they realize, and admit freely, that English is slowly dominating communication across the globe and no one wants to be a loser in the game of globalization.

Last night, however, I taught a "Beginners" class. They too, want to take part in the global dominance of the English language, but barely know the alphabet. I have to admit that I am, in all honesty, somewhat higher than a beginner in Russian, but not quite intermediate. Like the kid in class that the teacher apologizes for and whispers, "Oh, and that's Joe...she's a little slow." My students only understand "Nice to meet you", and "That is a beautiful park" and "Look at my BMW" (I did, and both of them were very nice cars, I have to admit). So giving an English lesson to them meant that I should both speak Russian and know English really, really well. Well enough to explain the difference between a, some and any. And singular. And fucking busy. I attempted a charades version of "busy". They guessed "ill".

Student: (long question in Russian, I hear nothing until, "Understand?")
Me: Um, nyet. (No)
Student: (throws hands in air, laughing, long statement in Russian)
Me: Ok, super. (Look at board, look at book, look at watch). So, read this sentence please...

In the end, I was taught how to say busy, sentence, and river in Russian, and I think my students learned the word, "mountains." Very productive. At one point, I even had to ask them to cross out a part of the notes I told them to write down, because it was wrong. Just wrong.

Uh, кашмар. The only solice was that the two students thought I was at least funny enough that I should come back. He yelled to me as Jason and I were leaving:

"Hey, you should come back anytime. We will teach each other!"
He grinned, and then yelled to Jason, "She doesn't understand. Make sure to tell her what I said!"

Keep your top on

2005-09-28T01:26:00.000-07:00

Many days are like this, mind wandering. I can’t seem to keep my attention on the important things I should be reading, so I just listen to sweet music and read frivolous articles online. It’s almost been three months in Moscow, which means we have only three months left. Before we came, the idea of moving to Russia seemed like a quaint, far off idea, like owning a house. Now it’s my here and it’s half-way over. One thing I’ve definitely realized, it that maybe living abroad is best lived in hindsight. My everyday is filled with normal living – brushing my teeth, making sandwiches, typing on the keyboard, crossing streets. I can’t always sit back and take it in, the smells, the noise of voices speaking a language I don’t understand very well. But after we’re gone…it’ll be there, in beautifully filtered pieces. The smell of pirozoky in the metro stops, the cold of cobblestones on Red Square, the taste of waxy yellow potatoes. It will all feel special then.

The top photo is of the fireworks over the Kremlin after the Russia MTV Music Awards, second photo. Jason and I got tickets through TPAA. It wasn’t quite the gala event I expected…Jason and I stood on some scaffolding near an open and chilly entryway while Russian pop, rock and rap (indeed, it is as bad as you might imagine) acts paraded around the stage and the industry’s big names and faces disinterestedly wandered around below us. Some of the people were great to watch, like the young Dima Bilan, a popular pop singer whose enthusiasm for winning was so sincere he was nearly shaking. Not cool? Two pairs of breasts flashing the crowd during Kasta’s, a Russian rapper, act. I thought the girls looked tacky. I certainly think nudity has an appropriate place, even in entertainment, but it’s not next to a group of over-weight and under-rhythmed white rap guys with BMWs serving around them. Looks like someone’s trying to hard…

Tonight’s my first day of teaching English and getting paid for it. Jason has suggested the trick is to smile a lot. Indeed, American’s are smily. I’ve had to train myself out of smiling at strangers in semi-awkward situations, like stepping on them on the train. Accept the stepping; it happens to everyone.
Bottom photo – the view from our balcony in our new apartment

Julia Ormond-o-mania

2005-09-21T06:10:00.000-07:00

Here's Jason, me, the TPAA staff, and Julia Ormond. A real-life ce-le-bri-tee. She's here to promote AIDS awareness in Russia, which is desperately needed, hence, the need for our organization. She's actually seemed very nice...warm and unpretentious. It's remarkable to realize, though, how important celebrity endorsements are for causes like this. In the last two days, our organization has been on TV stations, front pages of newspapers, and tonight, MTV, when she's presenting the Staying Alive award to our spokeswoman, a young woman living with HIV. Serve a good dish, and everyone comes to the meal. And wow, she's real pretty (gush!)

Goodbye pink scarves

2005-09-21T05:42:00.000-07:00

The weather has turned. The mornings are gray and almost damp, and the temperature never reaches above 55. It's fall in Moscow, and the leaves have turned red, orange, gold almost overnight, and are falling onto the ground in loose clumps. The change from summer to fall was so sudden that I felt as if, without warning, everyone had changed into leather jackets and long pants. The berries and dill have disappeared from babushka vendors - now I see straw slippers and hankerchiefs. It's not so bad though...just different. I would expect warm afternoons and full apple trees in September at home...evenings still buzz with locusts and call for long walks and beer gardens and pink sunsets. There's no lingering here. But at least you can sense change, which always seems a bit exciting. Pull out the warm jackets, unfold the sweaters...something's coming.

This is Puskinskaya metro station...during rush hour.

With a little help from my friends

2005-09-15T01:28:00.000-07:00

Last night Jason and I met up with Denis (right) and Denis (left, affectionately called Denis Dva, or 2) to listen to the Joe Cocker concert on Red Square. We didn’t have tickets, of course, but sat down at a local beer garden where we could hear the music clearly. As usual, our conversation over beers and vodka and Pepsi was a mix of Russian and English, my sentences in Russian usually peppered with English words. The nights here are already around 55 degrees, though the leaves haven’t turned colors, and it’s still a good time to hang out on the street and drink beers.

The strange combination of a bilingual conversation, Russian beer, and familiar English music made me feel content and lovingly nostalgic…I started to think about friends and memories from the last few years. Shots with Ransom, Liz, Devika, and Jen R. at my dad’s house, long, late-night walks with Joe, crawling into bed with Ben and Judd, hearing Jarrod belting out Speakerboxx tunes in the shower, tap dancing with Eli in Oberlin’s Tappan Square. My health hasn’t been so great in Russia and sometimes I get down, wanting to feel warm Grinnell sunshine or the stuffiness of Chicago bars or the noisy, smoky blast of walking up the stairs at the Feve. Russia is a beautiful country, its people extremely hospitable and friendly in the right contexts, but since I can’t speak Russian very well, I don’t always feel like I can understand everything around me, or feel comfortable in anonymity, like I used to in Chicago. Moscow seems like one big, pulsating movement, but I can’t help feeling outside.

Not all days, of course. Joe Cocker, good friends and lovely fall nights, help.

Gat some

2005-09-14T04:00:00.000-07:00

Here's a picture of Paul Heider, which I promised him that I would send to his mom. So Paul's mom, here you go!

Here is my obligatory tourist picture, Jason and I in front of St. Basilica's Cathedral in Red Square. You can't see it very well in the picture, but there was a huge dump truck that threatened to run us over.

Left: Young well-to-do Russians lounging during the Tiger Lillies show in Moscow. One of the girls flagged me down afterwards and gave me her email to send her the photos. I thought she was pissed, but she said told me they looked, "Super", which is the English word du jour.

I got a bit of spam mail from "Vanilla K. Statehood" today, who encouraged me to "Come and gat some." Yes, Mr. Vanilla, perhaps I will.

Step One: Get past Step One

2005-09-14T01:41:00.000-07:00

I created this blog so I might actually chronicle some of my time here in Russia. Of course, I bought a paper journal in the romantic hope I might write in it, but that failed after the first entry. I'm a fan of romantic notions, but rarely a participant. I'd like to think I am the type of person who would capture my trip here in vivid, written detail. Or that I would spend my evenings holed up in a warm Russian apartment toasting vodka to international friendship. In reality, I spend too many evenings getting drunk with other expats at skinty expat bars that cater to the Western businessmen and the ubiquitous Moscow prostitute crowd. I do own, however, a pair of certifiably-Russian, pointy shoes that I use to protect myself from random document checks. "She has pointy shoes! Must be Russian!"

I'm in Moscow with Jason, my fiance, doing an internship at TransAtlantic Partners Against AIDS, where I'm a policy intern. I research policy on AIDS, and write little one-page papers on much bigger papers. I teach English, take Russian lessons, and play around with my new camera. And I cook, a lot.