Tourism, a Causerie

cohesive\koh-HEE-siv\
adjective:exhibiting or producing a condition in which people or things are closely united

Last week I handed in two complete, cohesive essays. And since I have limited bandwith to write anything additionally creative, I think I'll include the beginning pages of one of my essays, on tourism...

The Tourism Kaleidoscope

We continued on our journey, in Cappadocia, Turkey, winding around the tunnels of underground cities and awkwardly climbing into basalt rock caves like children playing politely on a jungle gym. Fatih, our tour guide, was always with us, never ahead or behind; he stuck with us like a friend and casually shared bits of information, instead of lecturing or teaching. I watched a few tourists from other groups gravitate toward his voice as he whispered local secrets; swells of jealously toward these trespassers rose within me. We strolled together through the open-air museum of Göreme, a Christian monastery turned national park and World Heritage Site, which contained more than 30 rock-carved churches and chapels and vibrant frescoes from the 10th, 11th, and 12th centuries.

Treading in and out of the caves, I began to notice the relevance of my camera. When I would bring it to my eye, Fatih would stop and retreat to the background, avoiding the picture. It was there, in Göreme, that I decided I no longer wanted to be that tourist, the one who thrives on picture taking, thereby seeing an entire trip through a secondary lens, the one who relies on context, and the one who travels to a country to observe instead of experience.

Sometime before I got to Cappadocia, I became aware of the concept of tourism as something that had lost its panache. A tourist, “one that makes a tour for pleasure or culture,” sounds fashionable enough, but it carries a bit of baggage. Picture a group of “them,” folks touting pickpocket-proof carry-alls, wide-brimmed hats, camera lenses, pearly white sneakers and their eccentric, energetic leader carrying a neon-colored flag or balloon. Sunscreen spoils native aromas, and whimpering kids drag the soles of their sneakers along squeaky floors, leaving trails of rubbery goo. This scene is as immediate to the term tourist as a box of Kleenex is to the word tissue.

Today, you should be one of several things: a “traveler”, a “jetsetter”, a “globe-trotter”, a “trekker”, a “vacationer” or a “staycationer”, anything but a “tourist.” You should have “insider info” and avoid the typical spots that function as feeding frenzies for picture sharks. You should dress to fit in with the locals. If you are American, you should look un-American. You do not want to be one of the brainless sheep with a fanny pack. Accordingly to the World Tourism Organization (UNWTO), plenty of tourists roam the globe: “In 2009, travel for leisure, recreation and holidays accounted for just over half of all international tourist arrivals (446 million arrivals). Some 15% of international tourists reported travelling for business and professional purposes and another 27% travelled for specific purposes, such as visiting friends and relatives, religious reasons and pilgrimages, health treatment, etc.” This is a pastime here to stay.

Helter Skelter

Word of the day:
Skelton (noun): definition TBD

So today, Sunday, I am up early. It's 9:30(am)! Since leaving New York on Tuesday evening, I have had one main objective: sleep. To date, my sleep count is 62 hours in 5 nights. This is awesome.

So back to today, up early, and I find myself in a quiet house. My parents are off to Lancaster, to drop my Grandmother off with my Uncle, and I am here, undisturbed for at least another hour. After making a pot of coffee, burning some bacon, and smoking up the house - I have decided to sit down and work on my final projects for grad school.

But, not until I check Facebook. And it so happens that, today, I needed to ace one of those word puzzles to get in, which is either a sign from above that I should just call it quits or a precautionary measure from the site, some level of security that I don't really attempt to understand.

I needed to enter the following words: Skelton and Column. Column is easy, I've been spelling that since the third grade. Skelton is... not a word. Now, most people might not care but, being the scholar that I am, I stopped to think twice about why these people who make up these puzzles actually choose "words" that aren't really words. They definitely wouldn't win Scrabble. Do they want to keep people on their toes? Or just confuse them? Or play a joke on some poor innocent facebooker and make them feel helpless and brainless? (I know I am hinging on the slightly scary/pathetic conspiracy theory here, and no, I won't go there.)

So I looked it up. (Thanks Google.) And "Skelton" really does actually exist:
- Skelton is a village and civil parish in the unitary authority of the City of York, in North Yorkshire England
- Representative Ike Skelton (D - MO)
- Burges High School standout quarterback, John Skelton
- The world's greatest clown, Red Skelton

There we go. Mystery solved.

Spa Spotlight on Mexico

Thought I might share the recent writing I did for SpaFinder.com, after my trip to the beautiful Grand Velas Resort & Spa in Riviera Maya...

SpaFinder ClubSpa Blog

Spa Spotlight: Spa at Grand Velas All Suites & Spa Resort
By Dulcy Gregory November 23, 2010

Not your average water park…

Visiting the Spa at Grand Velas All Suites & Spa Resort in Cancun was like stepping into a spa amusement park — 89,000 square feet of pure spa bliss. After checking in, the group I was traveling with quickly changed into our bathing suits and headed to the hydrotherapy area for an hour-long Water Journey. With so many steps to this aqua circuit, it can be confusing: “Wait, is the steam first? Or the sauna? And what do I do in the ice room?”

Well, the attendants at Spa Grand Velas had it all figured out, as they led me from sauna…to experience shower…to steam room…to shower…to ice room…to mud room…and shower in one fluid sequence. The best parts were the little extras: the Evian mist bottles and cucumbers given before I entered the sauna, or the fact that I never once worried where to hang my bathrobe (it was always ready and waiting for me when I stepped out of a treatment room.) At the end of the circuit, I was led to the larger pool area, where I traveled through alternative hot and cold water currents (Kneipp therapy), snoozed on a bed of bubbles, and started working out those shoulder kinks in a jet stream or two. After I emerged from the large “vitality” pool, I was ushered into a warm whirlpool and served an invigorating lemon tea and dried fruits. Did I mention that I was minutes away from a four-hand massage?

Four hands are better than two…

After having one of the best hydrotherapy experiences of my spa days, I settled into the waiting area to prep for my Yaxche Mayan Experience Massage, a four-hand massage inspired by ancient Mayan traditions. My therapists led me to a beautiful treatment room, accented with earthy tones and golden light, with a floor-to-ceiling window overlooking the jungle foliage of the outer spa area. I settled into a corner chair, and was given the customary foot ritual to begin my treatment. Following the footbath, one of the therapists asked me to choose from several oils indigenous to the Yucatan Peninsula… all earthy, lush aromas — I wanted to sample all three! As I stretched out onto the massage table, I was given a tiny chime to ring once I was ready for my treatment (a lovely touch). My therapists first blessed the room and asked for permission from the Mayan Gods to give this sacred treatment. As the Yaxche Mayan Experience Massage began, I noticed that the two therapists started from my feet and worked up my body; previous massages I’ve indulged in had always started from the neck down. The choreographed movements mimicked beings of the jungle: the serpent (long sweeping strokes), jaguar (a kneading motion), and eagle (light fluttering touches with fingertips). The use of special instruments, in tandem with the aromatherapy, filled my senses and enhanced my appreciation with this unique and historic tradition. The therapists’ hands moved in such synchronization, with such balanced pressure, that I wasn’t hyper aware as if there were two therapists working different sides of my body — all was in perfect harmony.

Dearest Blog...

I have neglected thee lately. While I progress, somewhat sparingly, on my final essay for workshop, which may or may not be a brilliant commentary on tourism and tourists, I have come across so many things to share!

...Like, for example, the prevalence of cheese in the news. The government now supports more cheese consumption (via dominos) and one lady's relationship with a piece of 150 year old generational triangle of cheese that she nows keeps in her freezer was a spotlight in Harpers. Which reminds me also of an experiment on a McDonald's happy meal, in which one woman left it "out in the open air" for 168 days only to find it relatively unchanged. This brings me to my question of what, exactly, is our society eating?

Also of note is my adventure to Mexico, which was relatively tame as far as gang war goes, except for a momentary panic at the airport where a few dudes tried to usher my sister and I into unnamed vans that were "definitely going to our resort." Rest assured we found our van, which was actually a Navigator, and once settled into our room at the property made many a flip video utilizing the unique features of the room. Who knew electronic blinds could be so entertaining!

And shall I close with a local adventure, which promised to be a genuine gender-balanced singles night at MOMA but proved instead to be a middle-aged-single-women's social hour? Followed by mechanical bull riding? Let's just say I counted myself out of that one.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Career Spotlight

renovate\REN-uh-vayt\
verb:to restore to a former better state (as by cleaning, repairing, or rebuilding)
:to restore to life, vigor, or activity : revive

Yesterday, after attending a reading by five poets from the women's movement, I hailed a cab on 116th and Broadway. I got into a prius (yay, my favorite of cabs) and was whisked away crosstown, back to the Upper East Side. The middle-to-senior-aged driver had an amazing mustache and a pair of classic spectacles. The thing about the prius cabs, unlike others, is that there is a vast amount of open space that allows for conversation between driver and rider. Sometimes, this is not a good thing, but tonight I was feeling congenial.

"Did the Yankees finally win?" I asked.
"Yes, finally! About time they started winning." The driver answered.

That got us started. Picking me up was almost like Déjà vu, he explained. Just an hour earlier he had stopped for a professor, who had been tied up in class, unable to watch the game, and asked the very same question about the game, hoping too, that the Yankees had renovated their talents. Continuing to chat, I found out that the pitcher from Texas, whose name slips my mind, is going to make $200 million next year, that the cab driver teaches dancing lessons - more specifically international folk dance in Central Park - as his primary career, that a Gemini's best match is really a Gemini, and that he thinks I should either work/write for the President or become a diplomat.

I really liked this guy! I told him that yes, I actually did contemplate at one time or another becoming a diplomat because "diplomatic" is one of the words that people use to describe me most often. He also said I was a polished conversationalist, which would surprise many people (including my Mother and Father, who had recategorized my communication skills as "Dulcy Speak" years ago).

So, according to the fab Mr. Cab man, I need to call up some diplomats and start talking to them about how it all works, get some ideas, and start making my way. It was about that time that we found ourselves on 88th street behind a posse of ConEd trucks. Not going anywhere. "Hey, Buddy," someone shouted, "Didn't you see the road closed sign back there?"

StopTime, in writing workshop

Writing Assignment #6: Writing a Scene

Reina

The taxi driver pulled up to the curb and got rid of us as quickly as one might a carton of sour milk. The entrance of the trendy hot-spot of Istanbul was unbecoming but as the bouncers smiled, I felt a mixture of coziness and privilege. I knew I was getting in.

Now shielded from the bustling, winding streets of the city, the five of us stared, unconditionally, at the oasis before us. The Bosphorus Bridge, the iconic connector of Europe and Asia, loomed in the open backdrop. Beams of steel and taut wires, strong enough to support hundreds of thousands of vehicles, looked graceful, delicate, and luminous in the moonlight. Lights strung along the wires shown blue, then melded to green, morphed to yellow, and seared into orange, red, and purple before cooling off to blue for just a few seconds. Then the pattern started again. Hundreds of feet below the bridge, the water posed gracefully, a silent rictus upon which cheerful cruise liners, quiet yachts, and flimsy dinghies playfully skated. To me, the water wasn’t quite black, more like a midnight blue pigmented by the reach of the lights above.

The ground level of the club stretched to the water’s edge and was sliced into sections. A second floor verandah, which outlined the club’s ground floor, was nestled with comfy wooden tables and chairs upholstered in stripes of antique whites and reds. Looking down endearingly on the people below, diners sampled the flavors of Istanbul’s haute cuisine placed gingerly around tranquil votives. A cornucopia of aromas flirted with my growing hunger: garlic, myriad grilled meats, sizzling seafood, spicy kebabs, marinated olives, seared vegetables, honey, nuts, fruit, and freshly baked breads.

On the dance floor several dozen bodies festooned with fabrics (sequins, spandex) and trends (distressed designer denim, and stringy, heavy necklaces) caressed the air with their upper appendages, and swerved their hips like pendulums. Their feet stomped around on a smaller-than-expected square consisting of sixteen separate boxes, which flashed on and off in a random mathematical order that mimicked the transitioning lights on the bridge above. Shining down on the dance floor was a brighter-than-life plasma television screen that emanated the glow of celebrities who once, or twice, graced the very same boogie cube. Giggles, shrieks, coos, whispers, and chatter of various decibels only slightly marred the sharpness of the international soundtrack. Da, Da, Di, Da, Da. The bass beat divided the thick air like thunder. In the distance, I could hear the Blue Mosque’s tantalizing call to prayer.

Elsewhere on the ground level, cocktail waitresses fluttered about in punchy stilettos, serving dwellers of sultry, secluded cabanas. Through sheer crimson curtains, I could see smoke oozing from cigarettes and mingling with the ashes of a fat man’s cigar. Just beyond the cabana row, an alcohol infused centerpiece wrapped in sandy wooden paneling held four or five bartenders captive as they attended to patrons who jiggled and gyrated to the syncopated, synthesized melodies. Hands moving seamlessly, the bartenders flipped and spun bottles of tequila, vodka, rum, gin and whiskey around and around, pouring and mixing liquids into glasses like enthusiastic chemists.

The cool breeze that crept in from the water swirled around portable heaters, which lined the floor like lamps with big metal shades and a warm, bright blue-yellow fire in the middle instead of a light bulb. The heat from the lamps, the breeze, and the scents of food, drink, and body braided together and ran like a current through the club’s passageways. My hand grasped the railing as I slowly ascended the staircase.

The Literary Dude Ranch

erstwhile\ERST-wile\
adverb: in the past : formerly

Several weeks ago I truly believed that I had met my soul mate. He sat down next to me, holding a banana and a Grande Starbucks cup. Check. Then I realized that we were reading the very same article (about Brad Paisley), from the very same magazine (the New Yorker), from three months ago (that's the kicker). I spoke to him, we laughed, said that was "like, random," and those 30 seconds were it. I might be hopeless.

So today's Daily Candy newsletter gave me a bit of a lift. "10 Guy Writers We'd Like to Cozy Up With." Sweet! I guess if you can't find a guy, the next best thing might be to get a good book written by one.

I liked Daily Candy's introduction to their Fall literary round-up: "Forget the idea that male writers are shy, sensitive souls. We think they’re like wrestlers: They coax us to a ringside seat; butt heads with bad grammar; and spin, slam, and twist plots until they come to dizzying finishes. Here, ten guy-produced books that will keep you mesmerized this fall."

Erstwhile hopeless, now literary lush.

My Brain

gimcrack\JIM-krak\
noun:a showy object of little use or value

For eight years and counting, my brain has sat on my desk. I am not quite sure where my Uncle Steve got it, and it does have the name of some miscellaneous company on one side. Nevertheless, it looks like a brain should look: it's grey, spongy, and smooth on the outside. There are quite a few wrinkles on it too. I'm proud of my brain's sustainability.

In a world of gimcracks, my brain has been, by far, one of the best. Keychains, flashing LED pins, USB ports that look like superheros, and pens in the shape of red lipstick don't have much of a shelf life. Not this little brain though, it has survived quite a bit of back and forth - college, Delaware, New York. And I imagine that it'll be right there with me in my next venture after grad school, which I am hoping involves frequent trips to Montreux.

Once my brain was lost for several weeks and, until I caught it under my bed with a dust bunny, I had no idea that it was missing! After that, I always vowed to keep better track of my belongings, especially the ones that are hardly replaceable.

Today, on the subway, I finished Ian Frazier's article in Aug 30th's New Yorker about Soviet Stalin-era prison camps. After reading about the desperate plight of the individuals who were confined to these prisons, I learned something new about modern day Russians. They name inanimate objects. They refer to their telephones as "he" or "she," alarms clocks are affectionately called Aunties, and speed bumps are lezhachii politseiskii, which literally means "lying-down policeman."

Short of choosing a pet name for my brain, I have decided to now call it надежный, or nadezhnyĭ, which is the Russian word for dependable. Nadi for short.

A Musical for the Masses

My review for writing workshop:

A Musical for the Masses

“If you’re going to do a rock opera,” says Billie Joe Armstrong, “You gotta do it right. It’s gotta be louder, and it’s gotta have energy.” He’s speaking of course of his musical debut on Broadway: Green Day’s American Idiot. The super-imposed, rock-album -meets-musical features songs and lyrics from the band’s two-time Grammy award winning album; since its release in 2004, the record has sold over 12 million copies worldwide.

Every seat in the St. James’ theatre on 44th and 8th Avenue was occupied on the Thursday night I attended; the audience, looking much the part of a concert crowd, was fringed and speckled by those of older generations, those who might have lingered once as concerned parents in venue parking lots, and younger generations who probably have no idea what punk is. That night’s performance happened to be the last of a three-night series called “American Idiot U”, which offered discounted tickets for New York co-eds and allowed them to linger for an enlightening post-show panel featuring none other than Billie Joe himself (the producer, lighting designer, a few actors, and the music supervisor were scheduled to appear as well).

Working with Billie Joe and his bandmates isn’t director Michael Mayer’s first experience with rock stars. Duncan Sheik, the quasi-one-hit-wonder who sang “Barely Breathing,” wrote music for Spring Awakening, based on the German play written in 1891 by Frank Wedekind. This too is a rock musical (although it lends itself somewhat to the folksier side of the spectrum) and is now on a global tour. There are two major differences between Mayer’s first stab at rock-musical fusion and his second. Spring Awakening was adapted from a play. American Idiot was built from a rock record. Albums such as Green Day’s might not be the most story-telling medium; yet, it’s the mish-mash of melodies and lyrics that the show takes after.

“I think having a show on Broadway, its breaking boundaries,” Billie says. Knowing and accepting that this production isn’t traditional in a Broadway sense is the first step to enjoying the performance. For us impatient New Yorkers, and others attending who might feel just slightly frenetic and Blackberry obsessed, Mayer’s show gyrates and gallivants through 21 numbers in 90 minutes, without an intermission. A simple, non-descript red curtain shields the audience from the Tony Award winning stage smattered with newspaper clippings shouting “Dead Kennedy”, WANTED ads, show posters, ticket stubs and the “We Can Do It!” woman, interspersed by an anthology of television sets – plasmas, flat screens, and whatever televisions were called before remote-controls, HD, and 1080dpi. The televisions are synched together – flying through clips from the past few decades and occasionally, between numbers, requesting the audience to “Pay Attention Please,” as if we might have started to drift.

“It’s much more than a bunch of cool kids bouncing their heads and singing. Broadway’s absolutely ready for punk,” a cast member proclaims. The first number, which shares the same name as the show and the album, features a group of punked-out boys and girls bouncing around and slamming their heads against the air (albeit in tandem, to which I give my kudos to Olivier Award-winning choreographer Steven Hoggett for cultivating the effects of noggin banging). The number also introduces the three main characters, Will played by Michael Esper, Tunny played by Stark Sands, and the endearing Johnny, played by John Gallagher Jr. who debuted the role of Moritz in Spring Awakening. Johnny bears some resemblance to Marc Cohen, the self deprecating narrator of Rent as he shares dates, letters to his parents, and musings between numbers. The show sparkles with riffs of other Broadway favorites; when Tunny heads of to the military and comes back without the bottom half of his left leg, I couldn’t help but think that he made out better than Claude did in Hair. The production seems to intensify once-novel subjects of other Broadway trend-setters, drugs, sex, and war. However, I never quite felt akin to this particular cast in the way I felt for Mimi and Roger, Moritz, or the counter-culture tribe that “bares all” to the audience before intermission.

Despite resemblances, the show has a few original moments (I was especially distracted by Will, who spends almost the entire show singing, strumming his guitar, and making out on a beat up old couch on stage right) and the spotlight is entirely stolen by the character of St. Jimmy, played by Tony Vincent. Regardless of the fact that I found him absolutely creepy, he is the quintessential “bad boy” and provides the audience with a conundrum - to figure out whether or not this St. Jimmy dude is Johnny’s psychological side kick. That was the post-show panel’s deepest question, and perhaps a segway for the nod to blatant and reoccurring drug use to which Billie Joe replied, “Hey, one night you start out having just a few drinks and then wake up on Sunset Boulevard and get picked up by a bunch of Mexican Gangbangers.”

American Idiot is like a mirage in that it looks and feels like Broadway but down deep it’s still a rock concert. And while I was delightfully entertained, I wondered what exactly did the show give us? Like any billboard favorite would do, the cast gave the audience an encore as result of the former’s standing ovation, an acoustic version of “Time of Your Life” where the cast stood in a chorus line, cradling guitars. Broadway productions have historically given the audience something, “On My Own,” “Seasons of Love,” “Music of the Night” have become staples for family road trips, concert bands, grade school programs for the arts, and network quirks like Glee. What does American Idiot on Broadway give us that 12 million people don’t already have?

Hi! My name is Joe...

vulpine \VUL-pine\
adjective 1: of, relating to, or resembling a fox 2: foxy, crafty

My cat, Remy, is part Fox. I am quite sure of it due to the level of fuzziness in her tail, and the fact that it doubles the length of her body. Ever since I can remember, I have loved foxes. Legendary foxes, like Swift from David the Gnome, the singing, swimming fox from Milo and Otis. Once, before I decided to officially annul my "no pets for 10 years" rule a bit prematurely, I looked into how it might work having a fox as a domesticated pet. Remy has turned out to be a vulpine gem - and she even plays fetch.

Every now and then you come across a word, a sound, smell, taste that launches you into memory, which is coincidentally, the topic of conversation in my MFA literature course - taught by Honor Moore. Today was my first week of classes and aside from being irrevocably enlightened, I am even more excited to write, read... and even work(!) this week. Oh my!

The first book we read was Joe Brainard's, I Remember, which took form as a series of recollections, providing not only a glimpse into his own memory, but a social history of the 40's and 50's of his lifetime. His recollections were funny, nostalgic, erotic, nauseating, and breathlessly simplistic. Last night, after a pee break, we reconvened to write our own "I Remembers," which I will share with you below (don't worry none of them are erotic, because I can't imagine myself sounded as nonchalantly so as Joe Brainard):

I remember getting married in the last scene of our kindergarten production of "the Little Mermaid."

I remember someone from kindergarten friend-ing me on Facebook recently, and thinking it was creepy that he remember my sea shell bra.

I remember too many tequila shots.

I remember the taste of the tuna that made me sick for 15 hours. (yuck!)

I remember when I started not feeling skinny anymore. (ugh)

I remember the pool at the Grandparent's neighbor's house. The water always looked so clear and bright when we first got there. And the sun was always shining.

I remember my Grandmother's Tropicana Orange juice towels.

I remember my first, and only, speeding ticket. It was my competitive nature that awarded me that ticket, while racing down Route 1 against a car full of boys. Later, when we met up with our friends, I learned that we had passed them on the way down and they thought the FBI was chasing after us.

I remember the day I picked up my kitten, she fit in the car's cup-holder.

I remember the Fisher Price cassette player and microphone that glued to my side.

I remember, "She'll be coming 'round the mountain when she comes"

I remember my red sippy cup filled with orange juice, and my sister's yellow one filled with milk.

I remember band concerts.

I remember how great my Dad is at naming things.

I remember reading my Irish Literature final exam to my professor, because my handwriting "Monet" was illegible. It wasn't the first time a professor had made that request.

I remember feeling great about the cash tips that I brought home as a waitress. Mostly because I had truly worked my way up from the bottom of the work "totem poll."

You blog, I blog

Exciting news in the blog-o-sphere! My friend, and "little", Kate Hargrove is famous: http://howimetyourfatherblog.blogspot.com/2010/08/stop-hunger-now-and-lilly-pulitzer.html.

Her involvement with the organization Stop Hunger Now and Lily Pulitzer's King of Prussia location is causing quite the buzz! Proceeds from the day's sales go to helping this organization combat hunger worldwide. The event goes till 8:30pm, so I am a bit late in getting the world out, but I'll be browsing the pages of Lily.com to find just the thing...

Today, no word of the day, just spreading the news about my little's big heart!

Networking

pre·di·lec·tion \ˌpre-də-ˈlek-shən, ˌprē-\
noun: an established preference for something

I have spent quite a bit of time lately on my home computer - partly in thanks to food poisoning from tuna - and have decided I am ready to comment on the wireless networks within range of my apartment building. (Note: today's word of the day is actually ponzu which is defined as a tangy sauce made with citrus juice, rice wine vinegar, and soy sauce and used especially on seafood. I will not be reflecting on this term for a slew of reasons.)

Last fall I bought a wireless USB modem at Verizon Wireless and the program installed on my computer lists the following other networks within range of my apartment (even though I am unable and, more importantly, unwilling to access them since I am very well capable of connecting to the internet with my own device):

THE_ROOST
The Ill Flow
Craftworld
SaToIm
Pistachio Kings (my favorite)
Model UN
Mimi Dog
Apollo13
Smile
At Least Nine
AOFO
CityKids
Pajammie

These are FANTASTIC names. I have left out some which I have generalized as normal, including Home, Rachel, 890C, Tom235, etc. but I am thrilled with the originality of my fellow Upper East Side dwellers and their initiative in actually naming said networks with relevance and wit. Bravo! My predilection for finding creativity in unforsceen places persists.

The Morning Show

stolid \STAH-lid\ adjective
Meaning: having or expressing little or no sensibility : unemotional

I wake up, most weekday mornings to Elvis Duran & The Z100 Morning Show. I don't appreciate waking up to an alarm. The word speaks to itself - it's abrupt, obnoxious, and well, alarming! Why wake up scared/spooked/angry when you could wake up to Elvis Duran and his crew's sometimes stolid banter regarding various topics including "I Quit" stories, Justin Bieber, crotch adjustments, etc? Starting the day with a laugh helps... but today's topic, not only made me chuckle...it made me think.

Photoshop.

They started by discussing people who have "photoshopped" ex's, former friends, estranged family members out of pictures and then took calls from listeners about their own experiences with the Adobe design program (which I have yet to master by the way). Someone even started a (keyword lucrative) business of cutting out the excess baggage. Entertained, I kept listening but stopped a moment when Elvis said pictures used to be the best way to capture history as is, without any changes or adjustments... or something along those lines. Profoundly pensive Elvis - spot on.

True, if photoshop was mainstream during many a person's middle and high school years a lot of angst and anger could have been avoided... but in all seriousness, I do think there is something to be said for the simplicity of the original cameras that allowed such history to be frankly captured. Can you imagine photoshopping bodies in and out of war time photographs or wrinkles out of legendary presidential portraits?

However, I believe that the photoshop legacy is cyclical. Couldn't it be argued that the portrait painter, and painters in general, in the earliest of centuries weren't themselves photoshop gurus of their era? What's to say that aristocrats didn't ask for a tuck here or there or a brightening of their overall skin tone? Painting itself is an interpretation; the computer is a modern enabler of artistic liberty bestowed upon the masses.

Perhaps, as seen during the dawn of the first camera, our society might return to the natural order of photography - capturing things as is without succumbing to the temptation of tweaks. Would we be surprised by what we see?

Fusion

eminently \EM-uh-nunt-lee\ adverb
Meaning: to a high degree : very:

Several weeks ago while running the AC full blast, lights ablaze, and switching on a culprit of a hair dryer, I blew the first fuse in my apartment.

At 9:30pm on a saturday night, one might not expect it to be such an ordeal. One, being me, found an antiquated fuse box with little round fixtures that fit roughly into corroded sockets. I panicked.

My friend Becky and I went on a racing search for these so called "fuses" and by the time 10:30 came and went we had found several fuses but not the exact 15-volt S-type fuse needed to bring power back to my apartment. I googled. Found them on amazon.com. Ships in two days. Not good enough.

Sickened, we returned to the apartment, but not before I had given the door man across the street a $20 bill to find some fuses in his basement. They didn't work either. We gave up, packed bags, and went to Becky's Aunt's apartment down on St. Mark's. I threw up when I got there.

In the morning, the handy man arrived to fix the fuse and all was simplisticly well. I reveled, sheepishly, in the cool air restored in my apartment. And the power stayed eminently well-balanced in my dwelling until this morning.

Today, as I sit here, remembering my strife, I am again without power. This time the power just slipped away - almost unnoticed - as I dozed on and off in the Sunday morning hours. Click. The AC rests.

I'm a pro though, this can be fixed. after evaluating my fuse box, I am alarmed to find that none were broken. Replaced anyway, the socket remains dormant. Panic?

No! I call the landlady and she wishes me best of luck as she says the electrician might not arrive till tomorrow. S'okay. Call to Dad - all is well. My $120 firehouse fan is rigged to cast a gentle breeze in the living room.
Sent from my Verizon Wireless BlackBerry

Lotus with Bee

zwieback • \SWEE-back\ • noun
: a usually sweetened bread enriched with eggs that is baked and then sliced and toasted until dry and crisp

Hmm. I don't even know what to do with this word, except to look up a baking recipe! Even then, we all know how I sometimes fare in the kitchen - and this might be a bit too ambitious. Besides, I have said "ta ta" to carbs...

Instead I will share with you the story of Lotus with Bee, which is actually a photo taken by my father at Longwood Gardens, a botanical estate in Kennett Square, PA. For the past several years, my parents have frequented the grounds, atriums, and greenhouses - my Dad snapping pictures of the flora - orchids, tulips, and the like. The most recent trip to Longwood included a view of the water botanicals - lilies and lotus abound.

I always enjoy receiving the links to his photo albums - especially the ones from Longwood. The closeness of his pictures evoking what I often aim to do with my writing - find the complexity, the extraordinary, in something that seems so simple... so, well, ordinary. What Longwood does with Botany is not ordinary in any means - but flowers themselves are mainstream. You find them everywhere - roses on every city street corner. This year, at the Global Spa Summit in Istanbul we had to import tulips from Amsterdam even though the flower itself originated in Turkey.

I am mildly obsessed with this picture, Lotus with Bee. The striking elegance of the symbiosis reminiscent ever so slightly of my own relationship with New York; smothered and overtaken; a wee worker feeding off of an energy source which is stark and sufficient, surrounded by an environment which proves dangerous, daunting, and debilitating at times.

In 25 days I begin my time as a graduate student, and I am so incredibly excited to begin anew my creative writing craft. This note brings me back to Dad. He's a smart man. "Find your passion" he said to me, when I headed to undergraduate school, when I headed to New York. He didn't need to say it this time when I applied to the master's program at the New School. I think what makes this photograph so special isn't the lotus or the bee, but my Dad's understanding, and respect for the creative craft of the camera and his passion for what the lens captures.

Do It Yourself

perfidious • \per-FID-ee-us\ • adjective
: of, relating to, or characterized by faithlessness or disloyalty : treacherous

During one weekend visit at home, my Mom made the case that my Starbucks routine might be conveniently subsidized by buying my own coffee maker. I suggested a Keurig One Cup Coffee Maker... and that was that for the conversation.

A few days later a surprise package arrived at my desk. I opened the box to find a stove-top cappuccino maker. A Italian-made "mukka express!" Accompanied with this machine came two mugs with the face of a cartoon cow on them, saucers to match, and a package of ground mocha coffee. I was SO excited.

My cappuccino fix originated in Italy when I visited the country on a cruise. Every morning after breakfast we'd board a bus to take us to a prominent city, like Rome or Florence, and everyone morning the bus stopped at a highway rest stop. It was the Italian thing to do, they told us. There we would order cappuccinos and be up and running when we arrived. Since then I find myself to be a cappuccino consumer outside of the States - Switzerland, Turkey, Monaco... all wonderful spots for cappuccino.

My kitchen would soon be another. Home I went with my little machine, cups, saucers, and coffee and come Sunday I gave it a try. There were seven "simple" steps to putting the parts of the Mukka express together - the most important and, of course, complicated was fastening the pressure valve to the main console. I then added the milk and switched on the burner. Three small minutes later a geyser of cappuccino erupted, spewing water, grinds, milk into the air. I stood there, shuddering, in the wake of this explosion - not knowing quite what to do. I turned off the burner, evaluating the damage and the thin but sticky layer which now rested on the fridge, the stove, the floor... and the post-eruption drops that sucked on the ceiling before succumbing to gravity.

I evaluated my mishap. The pressure valve hadn't locked in completely but, fortunately, had been blocked by the top of the machine - instead of being released into my kitchen to cause further destruction. I slowly dismantled the other parts of the perfidious machine - prepping it for another go. I gave the pressure valve a solid two minutes of time. Fastening and unfastening the device several times in the appropriate position. Water, milk, mocha. Go.

I never took my eyes off of the mukka express. My hands grasped together with hope. My feet stuck to the previous cappuccino drying on the floor. Pop!

The milk steamed and bubbled perfectly, the contents and parts of the mukka express remained in tact as my beverage took form. Quickly removing the device from the stove before my successful attempt could be foiled, I transferred the contents quickly into my bovine cup. The first sip... delicious but lukewarm. It'd suffice. I removed my stick flip flops before heading to the living room. I'd clean the kitchen later.