Bah Humbug

The head cashiers at the bookstore started wearing a variety of Christmas-y hats during the holidays, so we can find them more easily (they have to give out change, do returns, deal with yellers, etc.) Anyway, a few days ago one was wearing a Santa hat which had "bah humbug" written across it. My Dominican co-worker turned to me and said, "what is bah hoombug? I have no idea what that means."

Now, try explaining Ebenezer Scrooge, the ghosts of Christmas past, present, and future, Tiny Tim, and Bob Crachitt to someone who has no reference for them at all. It's like when David Sedaris moved to France and a Morrocan woman in his language class didn't know what Easter was, and they were trying to explain crucifixtion, rabbits, and resurrection in a really limited vocabulary (I think the best line was, "and then he died, on two morsels of lumber"). I didn't have the vocabulary problem, but I did have a time problem, since we were checking out at the same time. So I am babbling about, "well, he was bad, and all he cared about was money and he was SO mean to poor Bob Crachitt and wouldn't give him any coal, and then the ghost of his employer shows up and then more ghosts show up and then he is changed..erm." Sounds pretty feeble, and she said as much. "It sounds like the Grinch, but not as good." He's the *original* grinch, I said. She just looked at me dubiously. Dickens probably rolled over in his grave.

But no bah humbugs from me! I am home, home, home, for the first time since June. And so far I have baked, slept (lots! in my own bed!), and decorated (well, put up ornaments and then watched my mom move them around). I will write..sometime..about the NYC Blizzard, which made my last day of work very interesting, and made getting to Metro North pretty crazy as well (and I have the bruises on my knees from hauling my suitcases over snowpiles to prove it!). Now I have to go frost some cookies.

Merry Christmas to all of you. And in the words of good ol' Dickens,
god(dess) bless us, every one!

Guest Blog, or Why it is Nice to have Talented Friends

I was able to sucker one of my friends into writing a post for me, because 1. she is a very good writer, and enjoys it, 2. she and I are in similar situations, but in different spots, 3. she is going to be the next Sharon Creech, and 4. she has the best rom-com collection of anyone I know. Also, I didn't so much "sucker" her as "ask" her, and she said yes. Enjoy. I know I did.

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First of all, a big thanks to “Ahhna” for letting me guest blog. I am very honored. I did have a Live Journal in high school (which a friend is still trying to stalk out—I haven’t deleted it yet because I like to read it from time to time and lament over how ridiculously superficial I was), but have always been a fan of the world of blogging. Needless to say, I am loving this.

So, being a 22-year old female having just graduated from college last May, I have been thinking a lot about my future.

Turns out you can do that, when your current existence consists of retail, trashy TV and the occasional chip binge.

You see, the future to me was always this semi-tangible thing, looming somewhere out in the distance. In high school, and then in college—where I really started to become aware of these things—I would think about “the future” from time to time and then turn my thoughts to whatever trivial event was happening at the moment.

But the future is here. Now. I’m living it. And I can’t say that it has (so far at least) been what I expected.

The summer before my group of high school friends left for our respective colleges, we made a “life goals” list of sort. We predicted where each member of the group would be when we turned 30, and pledged not to remove the list from its home (with one of our most trustworthy friends) until then.

I can’t remember what the predictions for myself were exactly, but it definitely had something to do with marrying a rich Hobart boy and not having to work the rest of my life.

Which, you know. I could definitely handle.

As of now, however, that hasn’t happened. I’m not sure it will either, as my perceptions of all types of people have changed dramatically over the past five years.

Anyway. The high school friends I speak of are currently in all sorts of places. One is studying at Oxford, one won a $30,000 grant to travel the world and do research, one is working an AmeriCorps job near Seattle, and one is out in Los Angeles being brilliant….

And I am here. Living with my parents.

I try not to compare myself to others. I really do. I know it will only lead to a deep spiral of depression. But from time to time, when I’m dealing with a ridiculous customer, or seeing someone from my town that I really don’t want to be seeing, it happens.

Which is why, I’ve decided, that life would be so much better if there was a soundtrack to each of our lives. Awesome songs would play in the background during epic moments that we experience, like in the movies. Think about it. Wouldn’t that be the best?

Of course, I’d want to pick the songs myself. And the music gods would have to make sure that they were soft enough that you could hear whatever was actually happening to you.

So, as a way of entertaining myself (and you as well, hopefully), the following are my top ten song choices for possible future epic moments.

“We’re Dancing” by PYT. Right after I tell my evil boss off (in an extremely witty manner) and storm out of the store, with my fellow employees clapping and cheering.

“Inner Smile,” by Texas. I envision this song playing as I walk around the Thames in London. Part Bridget Jones/Bend it Like Beckham moment. Maybe I had just clinched something career-wise. Alternately, it could be playing during a moment of sports drama. (This is a slim chance, considering I no longer really play sports…at all.)

“All the Above” by Maino ft. T Pain. Because you have to have one rap-ish song in there somewhere.

“Alone” by Heart (although I really love the Glee version too). This would occur after a disappointing break up, where I realize the guy I thought I liked was a jerk, and then this other guy (!) swoops in and saves the day.

“Don’t Stop Believin’” by Journey. It would be great if this song could happen something like that “Say a Little Prayer” scene from My Best Friend’s Wedding, with everybody singing and totally in the moment. This actually DID happen at my cousin’s wedding, but I’d like to do it again.

“Everything” by Lifehouse HAS to play at some point. Preferably as I walk down the aisle at my wedding.

“Someone Like You” by Van Morrison is my go-to wedding song, though. We might have to squeeze in both.

“Black Balloon” by the Goo Goo Dolls. Not sure when this song would play, as I am not a heroin addict. However, as it is my favorite song, if it means taking up drugs in order for it to feature in my life, so be it.

“Only Hope” by Switchfoot. I could see this song playing as I’m sitting in a park or at a restaurant and a bunch of people are walking by. A good thinking/mulling over/gathering strength before the climax of the movie song.

“I Want it That Way” by the Backstreet Boys. I don’t care when or where it plays, as long as it plays. True friends of mine will attest to that fact.

As I’m reading this over I’m realizing that the list sort of transitioned from my life to complete fictional romantic-comedy movie. I can’t help it. If life was a movie, we’d all have neat and tidy endings, our problems would only span about two hours, and we’d at least know that my romantic prospects would be a main plotline. It would be quite epic.

On the other hand, when the movie is over in two hours, so are the characters. It’s kind of exciting to think about all the time I (and we) have for our lives to unfold. Kind of exciting that we aren’t allowed to see the plot synopsis of our lives before we’ve lived it.

And with that being said, I’m feeling like optimism is the only way to go from here.

Now, I will go eat more chips.

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And here is my question to all of you--what songs would you have on your life soundtrack?

Assimilating, Sorta

I am going home in eight days (as we used to say in college, "home is in the ten-day forecast," which is weather.com's farthest date, and we were always on there checking driving conditions.) I can't wait. I really do love it here, but it's been six months since I've been in Jamestown, and that is a long time. I had to "give notice" at the bookstore since they don't give time off for holidays, at all, but that is ok (and there are far more important things than work. Aw.). However, I will miss my co-workers tremendously.

I bemuse (and amuse) my co-workers, as a recent Brooklyn transplant (I mentioned in a previous post about how they kept asking me what nationality I was, and it's still a popular conversation starter.) I say things like, "it wasn't far, I walked for 2 miles" and they will say, "ooh sweetie, where are you from? We don't measure in miles here. We measure in blocks." And don't even get them started on sub/hero differences. Thank goodness I've avoided the WNY pitfall of saying "pop" for "soda." One of the policemen on duty told me, when asking (again) where I was from, "Buffalo? How do you people get AROUND? I was there once, and there was an IHOP across the street, and I was real hungover and that's all I wanted, but I would have had to walk across the highway, so I said fuhgeddaboudit. [note: this is exactly what he sounded like. Not resorting to ugly NY stereotypes here.] Went to the Irish bar next door instead. Buffalo has got some good bars." And another co-worker, "is Jamestown near Utica? I was in Utica for 3 weeks. Never again."

On the subject of bars, it was probably my first week at work, and we were talking about good drink specials, since drinks are so expensive here. Offhandedly, I said, "there is a place in my hometown that has 25 cent drafts." It got dead silent and everyone was staring at me. One of them said, "why would you ever LEAVE there? Maybe we should visit." I tried to explain that there is not much to do, otherwise ("no really, there aren't any buses. Or subways. Or Indian restaurants.") Another co-worker told me recently that she wants to move somewhere where she can drive. "It must be so cool to have a licence," she said wistfully. Is it? Maybe it is.

I was talking about holiday-stuff with one of my favorite co-workers, a totally sweet Pakistani girl. "You're so lucky your family doesn't live here," she said. "I live with three generations and brother-in-laws and random cousins and I just want to be someplace where people just know me." I told her that it's just as bad in smaller towns, too, if not worse. And being away from my fam does mean that when we do get together, it's more exciting than if I saw them all the time. Hence: eight days. The countdown starts now. Yay!

P.S. Happy Sankta Lucia Day to all you Scandinavian folk! (yes, I know we stole it from the Italians.) Apparently there is big doings in Manhattan, my Swede co-worker told me today. Maybe next year I will check that out!

A Night at the Opera, Round 2

You're willing to pay him a thousand dollars a night just for singing? Why, you can get a phonograph record of Minnie the Moocher for 75 cents. And for a buck and a quarter, you can get Minnie.
--Groucho Marx, A Night at the Opera, 1935

(Susanna and Cherobino. Thanks to NYTimes online for the image!)

Today is my Name Day, which doesn't really mean much. I'm assuming it goes back to Saint Days, although we celebrate it in a Scandinavian vein; meaning, if I were home, that I would be having a cupcake from Ecklof's Bakery (actually, I would be having half a vanilla cupcake and half a chocolate cupcake, because that is the protocol on one's Name Day.) Today is also the day that my student loans become due. In honor of that, I would like to quote David Sedaris, who so often articulates what I am thinking: "I came home this afternoon and checked the machine for a message from UPS but the only message I got was from the company that holds my student loan, Sallie Mae. Sallie Mae sounds like a naive and barefoot hillbilly girl but in fact they are a ruthless and aggressive conglomeration of bullies located in a tall brick building somewhere in Kansas. I picture it to be the tallest building in that state and I have decided they hire their employees straight out of prison. It scares me." (from the Santaland Diaries.)

So in honor of my impending debt, and just because, last night I went to see my favorite opera, The Marriage of Figaro (or Le Nozze de Figaro.) And it was wonderful. I waited in line for rush tickets again, although the basement of Lincoln Center is not heated, as it turns out. I did make an older-lady friend in line, although she was NOT as much a Mozart fan as I was. She has been coming to the opera with her husband since 1968, and so has seen her fair share of Figaro's...I still don't think I would ever be sick of him. She suggested some modern operas to me, which is good, because I definitely tend to the classical and need to branch out. We ended up getting seats next to each other (Row K!! For $20!! Rush tickets rock) and afterwards she patted me on the arm and said, "here's to many more years of your opera viewing, dear."

I actually think that Figaro works better in a smaller theater, since Mozart's music is so crazy good that some of the intricacies get lost or swallowed up in a theater as huge as the Met ("it sounds jewel-like in Prague," said my old-lady buddy. Good golly!). But, no matter. The sets were nifty, the singing was glorious, Susanna (Danielle de Niese) was pretty and her comic timing was great, Figaro (Luca Pisaroni) was charming and smart, and the Count and Countess (Ludovic Tezier and Annette Dasch) were smarmy and wounded, respectively, although I think the stand-out was Cherobino (Isabel Leonard) who played the dippy lovesick nobleman to perfection. There wasn't as much chemistry as there could have been between Figaro and Susanna, but I was too high on Mozart-joy to care. The conducting was also speedier than I'd heard before (the overture especially) but I actually kind of liked that--it made it especially energetic. The story, originally by Beaumarchais, tells of infidelity, intrigue, baby-snatching, cross-dressing, more intrigue, scheming servants, double weddings, and apologies. In short, it's a big ol' farce. Plus, it is funny...I think when people think "opera" they don't often think about how funny it can be. True, the misogyny in this one is pretty heavy, but I think Mozart and DaPonte were making fun of the men for being self-righteous, and anyway, Susanna slaps Figaro, like, 5 times, so it all evens out in the end. (Although, I'd like the Count to have more of a comeuppance.)

The opera ends with apologies from the Count to his long-suffering wife, who forgives him. And Figaro and Susanna forgive each other. And all is well. I would nominate Act IV's finale as the greatest music ever written; it is so manic but controlled, and fast and contemplative and lovely. Ahh. For a pretty good clip from the Met's '99 production, you can watch here. The sets appear to be the same now, or very similar. And the text of the finale states that, "This day of torment,
Of caprices and folly, Love can end, Only in contentment and joy." Forgiveness and love reigns, at least for a little while. Not much better than that, although it sounds less banal in Italian.

Click here for a review and some audio clips from this season (Figaro's aria where he's talking to Cherubino about getting ready for the military, and the Countess's hauntingly sad aria from Act III that always makes me kind of tear up.) For a review plus a little plot exposition, click here. For my past blogging about the Met, click here. For one of my favorite arias (Bartolo's La Vendetta), click here. (Although this guy has a super cheesy moustache.) For one of my favorite duets (Susanna and Countess strategize and letter-write), click here.

That Mozart. He's one of the few people I would be willing to risk pneumonia in the basement of Lincoln Center for.

Hello, I Love You...

...won't you tell me your name?

I have this game I play on the subway, where I look out the window when we pull into stations and make up stories about the people on the platform. Last week I was somewhere in Manhattan on the 4 train, which is express. Traffic was backed up, so we were going slowly past one of the stops that the local makes. We were moving, but I could still see the few people waiting for the 6, although they were a bit blurry. And sitting on the bench was a well-dressed, middle aged woman with short dark hair and a snappy green blazer, who was sobbing. I thought at first she was just blowing her nose, but I started to see her shoulders shake convulsively, and then we turned a corner and I couldn't see her anymore. Not a good game to think about why someone would be that upset on a subway platform. I thought about her all day.

One thing about the comfortable anonymity of a city is that you can do whatever you want, as long as it's not overly illegal or violent, and there is a good chance that people will remember you for a little bit and then forget whatever you did. And I've cried (or laughed loudly, or whatever) in public, of course, but there is a feeling in a small town that people are looking at you and wondering why. Not so here, except, obviously, I notice these things, or else I would not be writing about them now. A while ago I was walking home from work and a woman, probably my age, was having a mega-fight with her significant other. She was screaming, sobbing, and arm-waving, even though he was on the phone. All the proper biddies in Park Slope were tongue-clicking at this display. I felt bad for her, but at the same time, kind of jealous. I have never had a fight with anyone on the street, and it must take some degree of self-confidence to do so and not care what people thing. Or some degree of self-absorption, I guess.

I think cell phone usage prompts these displays too. I've had people at my register who are fighting on the phone, or yelling at their kids on the phone, while I'm trying to check them out. It's super annoying for me, but they don't really care. Is this a phenomena of the world nowadays? Or is it just here that people are so open about airing their dirty laundry? Is this openness a bad thing? In any case, I can't help but listen in.

Anyway, the title of this post (courtesy of The Doors. Watch the song here.) doesn't really refer to love in a particular sense. But isn't it a weird feeling when you see someone on the train/street/bus/store, and you know you will never see that person again? And yet, you know something about them, something private, about their grief or love, which makes you feel like you sorta know them. And it's hard to forget.

The Melancholy Dane

There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
--Hamlet, Act 1, Scene 5

Yesterday, my friend J visited, which was very fun. (she is an '08 WSC grad who I haven't seen in over a year). And we went to see Hamlet! I have never been an "oh-my-gosh-Shakespeare" person, but Hamlet is my favorite. The lovely (and talented, I guess) Jude Law was playing the lead. We thought it would be unlikely that we would get the cheap-seat, day of performance student tickets, but we decided to try. When we got to the Broadhurst theater, there was a tiny line, and we got the tickets with no problem (seriously, I can't recommend enough the day of performance tickets--the seats are good, and the price is SO much better!!)

We had a few hours to kill before the matinee, so we walked by Rockefeller Center where they were setting up for the Tree Lighting, window shopped along 5th Ave, and got sandwiches from a deli to eat in Central Park. I dragged her to the Frick, which had a special exhibit on Watteau drawings. After the show we got some ice cream (healthful, yes) and appetizers and drinks, saw a mass exodus of people en route to the tree lighting, and witnessed an anti-war protest in Times Square. There weren't that many people, but megaphones tend to make me skittish (my friends and I were accidentally in an anti-police brutality riot in Montreal while on spring break, long story). Nothing too crazy happened though.

As for the play--well, it was awesome. Jude Law was good, if different. His Hamlet was mad, not in a crazy sense, but in an ANGRY sense. And with good reason--his father dies and his mother marries his father's brother not 2 months later. What I didn't realize from just reading the play is that it is really funny at certain points, especially in the scenes between Hamlet and Polonius. I thought this Polonius, Ron Cook, was very good. Ophelia was beautiful but ho-hum...I wasn't overly sad when she died. (Hamlet, however, died very beautifully.) The sets were cool too, very minimalist, dark, and gulag-like, as were the costumes, and there were occasional pops of color, in a red carpet, glowing purple thrones, or gleaming white of The Players costumes. There was also fake snow during the "to be or not to be" soliloquy, which looked neat.

The audience, which was a lot of high school kids, was generally well behaved, with only a few cell phone buzzes. The guy behind me kept falling asleep, but he left after intermission. I admit to feeling a bit sleepy myself, as the play is 3 1/2 hours long, and towards the end the soliloquies pile up. What was wonderful is that it was enunciated well and I could hear everything; even if it didn't register what the words meant, exactly, they just sounded lush and elegant. And sure, Hamlet is misogynistic and kind of a pill (I wrote some paper in high school on Misogyny in Hamlet, but I don't remember what I said, except I was angry at how he treated Gertrude), but he is also pitiable and sad. It was a wonderful way to spend an afternoon.

Here we are looking cute, if damp, in the rain:

But we don't look quite as cute as this guy (even if he is anguished):


Here's a story on it all from the NY Times, and an actual review from that same august (read: pretentious?) newspaper here. And here's "What a Piece of Work is Man," from Hair, a gorgeous string of words from ol' Shakespeare himself.

What's Up?

I used to say "what's up?" to my flatmates, and they used to look at me, bemused, and say, "the sky. Clouds. Ceilings." Those Brits. And "what's up?" is: not much. I had a lovely Thanksgiving, ate an absurd amount of pumpkin-related goodness, slept in a real bed, lost every single card or boardgame that I played, and brought back 3 cans of Wegmans jellied cranberry sauce (I love real cranberry sauce, like the VERY good kind my Aunt Sue made, with oranges, but Wegmans is just so fab). And I got to see my fam! (HI!!)

Brooklyn is as ever. The bookstore has started playing Christmas tunes, which means I'm about to enter into some unmitigated Retail Hell, but no matter. My roomate has put up her fake tree in the living room. I am baking peanut butter cookies, listening to some cheesy '80's pop, and actively avoiding grad apps (AGAIN.) Today I scanned period rooms at the museum and went to the grocery store. It drizzled, but not in a bad way. Some guy tried to spit on my foot as I was getting ready to cross the street this morning. I dodged it though, lest you all were concerned.

This time two years ago I was in Scotland getting a tattoo. Last year I was...what? I have no idea. Probably writing something and being a nutter about finals (now there is something I don't much miss.) As for what is "up" next for the blog--possibly a guest post! And a backstash of arty reviews, pictures of graffiti, and the like. Stay tuned.

Giving Thanks

I thought this wall-advertisement was appropriate for all you turkey eaters out there...I passed it on my walk to Target this morning, and fortunately had my camera with me. (and if you think that I don't crack up every time I see this sign, then you don't know me very well.) The craziest part about the building is that it stands alone in the midst of browning grass and barbed wire, as you can see:

I am closing at the bookstore tonight (blerg) and taking an early train up to my aunt's tomorrow for 3 WHOLE DAYS OFF. And I'm really, really excited to see my family, eat myself into a stupor, and play a myriad of board games. Perhaps I will even post some gratuitously cute pix of my little cousins on here. I am hoping the "fresh country air" will knock out whatever NYC pathogens have taken my lungs hostage (I have never had asthma or allergies, but in the last two days breathing has become a bit of a bugger, to be honest, and I'm not sure why.)

I hope you all have a wonderful family and friend filled day tomorrow. Drive safe. And right now I am thankful for huge William Smith sweatshirts, bagels with scallion cream cheese, the fact that I *don't* have to work on Black Friday, and all of you.

The Usual

I love brunch. Who doesn't? (well, I guess people who don't like eggs. But those people are probably sad all the time.) And I am a BIG fan of dive-y diners, chipped cups and all, although I draw the line at lipstick-on-a-mug. We went in search of brunch on Sunday, and walked by The Usual on Vanderbilt Ave and it looked cool, so in we went. And cool it was! It's a cash-only place and one of the walls is brick; the omelets were on the table in 5 minutes, and came with toast and heaps of home fries, and you could tell it really was "the usual" hangout spot for a lot of the patrons, which is always a good sign. Not to mention the music selection was solid--"Me and Julio Down by the Schoolyard" to "Ob la di, ob la da," to "Light my Fire." It also had a nice Water St Cafe vibe to it.

In other news, it is 12:37 and I can't seem to fall asleep.

The Garden

Hell, you ain't no kind of man if you ain't got land.
--Delmar, Oh Brother Where Art Thou?


Faith Ringgold, The Sunflower Quilting Bee at Arles, 1991, Private Collection*

I don't often recommend movies to people, because my tastes tend to run from the sappy (Colin Firth + anyone else), the cheesy (STAR WARS! STAR WARS!, but only 4-6), or quirky with a good soundtrack (The Royal Tenenbaums). However, we watched The Garden last night, which is a 2008 documentary directed by Scott Hamilton Kennedy. And it is very good.

It tells the saga of the South Central Farm, which was a 14-acre garden/community in the middle of Los Angeles. The land became available after the race-related riots in 1992, and the garden was around for 10 years before a bunch of forces conspired to shut it down. The man who originally owned the land was given $5 million for it, because the city seized it through eminent domain laws. In 2003 he decides he wants it back, and the city sells it back to him--through really, REALLY questionable circumstances. There are alleged backroom deals with the City Council, and another activist group that wants to turn the land into soccer fields (well, they say soccer fields but they really mean a few soccer fields and then 10 acres of warehouses.) It complicates matters that the South Central Farmers are mostly poor Latinos, and the guy who originally owned the land is a horrid xenophobe who says in his deposition that they should be "thanking" him for being gracious enough to let them use the land. He continually calls them un-American.

And there are court orders and secrecy and shady judges and the South Central Farmers raise the $16 million that the owner wants for it (they get a bit of help at the end from Joan Baez and some others.) And he won't sell it to them (to reiterate: he is a xenophobe.) I'll let you watch it and find out what happens, but I will say that I was pretty angry and frustrated, so you can guess what happens...

Community gardens are important. The South Central Farmers were able to grow food for themselves, and it gave them something to work for, for them and their families. And it really was beautiful--tall plantain trees, multi-colored corn, fat radishes, bushels of greens. There is a community garden, of a much smaller scale, near my usual subway stop. And there are co-ops in some of the fancier neighborhoods, but a lot of places in New York have those gardens too. (I mentioned one in an older post on gardens, here.) So--if you have a garden enjoy it! At least when it's warm again.

*Faith Ringgold is totally, totally rad, and it is my not-so-secret life goal to meet her. So Professor Ringgold, if you're reading this... ;)

A Day in the Digital Lab

So in my other life, when I'm not taking germy money from germy people, I work for a stipend in the Brooklyn Museum's Digital Collections and Services Lab. (note: I have a cold, which I am surly about and blame retail for. However, I like it that my voice is an octave lower than normal, because now when I sing Billie Holiday standards in the shower, it sounds more authentic. In case you were curious.)

I am at the Lab currently, scanning, so I thought I would give you an account. I am being funded as part of a grant given by the IMLS (Institute of Museum and Library Services) to the BM. This grant is used for scanning and uploading on the website some areas of the collection (over 1,000,000 all told) which are underrepresented. Prior to this, most of the images on the website were "greatest hits" of the collection, which left out a lot of works. So, the curators went in and picked out the objects they liked and found interesting, and gave us a list, and we've been scanning them. My realm is the black and white photonegatives. (Photonegatives are film, like you would have in a normal, non-digital camera, except they are a larger size. And since they are negatives, what appears black on them would be white in the actual work, and what is white would be black.)

Anyway, here is what I do:
1. Consult the master list of the IMLS objects, and start pulling slides out of the boxes. They are arranged by their accession number, which is the year in which they entered the museum. For example, 12.53.2 would be something acquired in 1912. It was the 53rd group of objects acquired that year, and the 2nd object in that group. There are 89 boxes of black and white photonegatives.
2. Once I have a pile, I power on the scanner, which is a flat thing (technical terminology, ha) which opens and has two large glass plates. I clean the plates with a chamois cloth (which traps more dust than a regular cloth, allegedly.)
3. I put on one white glove, like Michael Jackson c. 1985. With the white-gloved hand (finger-prints = VERY BAD), you grip a negative in the corner by your thumb and forefinger. Drag the cloth across both sides of it to remove dust. Hold it up to the light--the dust will show up as white specks, and then you can keep cleaning accordingly.
4. Once the negative looks pretty clean, I hold it under the light to figure out which side has emulsion on it. You can tell which side is emulsion-ed because it will not transmit light. The non-emulsion side will reflect light back at you. In these scanners the emulsion side goes UP, but it's different for other machines (were I to put the emulsion side DOWN, the image would be scanned reversed, and I would have to redo it.
5. The scanner I use fits 8 images comfortably, so once 8 are loaded then it scans and I have a few minutes to get tea or blog (yo!) or email or wander around.
6. Once the batch is done scanning, you save them in very specific folders (there is a whole naming process for each image, involving "bw" and "IMLS" and "view 1" and "a-c" and a bunch of stuff that normal people don't need to know about.) Then you open them in photoshop and crop, straighten, color correct (which for the black-and-whites involves grayscale, curves and layers and little eye-dropper looking tools.) Finally you blow them up to actual pixel size and delete any imperfections/dust/scratches. My problem is I tend to over-edit and delete things which are flaws of the work, and not just flaws of the negative (like if a page from a manuscript is torn, I have a tendency to edit out the rip, when it is really a part of the work. If that makes any sense.)
7. After all that, you look up the image in a bunch of databases, make sure the accession number is right, update the info in Microsoft Access and email a bunch of people to let them know that it is ready to be uploaded to the website.
8. Repeat. Indefinitely.

Now, if you think this sounds boring and monotonous, you are darn right it is. However, sometimes you get either totally awesome or totally ridiculous images, which breaks up the boring. Like today, on the awesome scale, I got a Rothko watercolor. I've had a few Hoppers (mmm) and some Mary Cassatt's which were cool. The JJ Audobon nature prints are fun, because they are very stylized, and you can play with the contrasts--plus the foxes are CUTE! Some of the Asian collection's hanging scrolls are great, and there is one really fun one which is a series of insects, who all have little humanoid faces...some are grumpy, some are smiling, which cracked me up. On the ridiculous scale are the period rooms, which were photographed in the '70's (the BM has a whole floor of period rooms, mostly from the 19th century). The food that is displayed on the tables is usually pretty funny--today we got one that was turkey, pot roast (we think), shrimp, peas, mushrooms, and what looks like goblets full of jell-o.

In the next few weeks I get to start scanning papyrus slides from the Egyptian collection, so that could be neat. (What is neat is that the actual photographs are over a century old and on glass plates instead of film. So at least that'll be different.) And then next time you go on a museum's website, think about how many people it actually takes to get those images to you!

Procrastination

Today, I: made tea, emailed some people, went for a long walk to get tea, realized the walk was longer than I thought and took the bus home, made a veggieburger, ate a veggieburger, watched 2 episodes of "The West Wing," cleaned the bathtub, tried unsuccessfully to take a nap, and read a book. Basically, everything other than write my grad school essays. Clearly, procrastination has not left me post-graduation. And it doesn't help that I feel like a total twit whenever I have to write about myself, and I would rather do almost anything else, and so I just have 2 sentences to show for my entire day.

So, here we are, and I know what I need to do tonight, and am kind of dreading it. But I thought I would put up a picture that totally cracks me up--I took this a few weeks ago on the ferry from Manhattan to Governor's Island (I just realized I still need to write about that, whoops!) The old ship was here for the Henry Hudson 400th anniversary celebration, and it looks like it's about to do battle with the Staten Island ferry. It looks like I photoshopped it.

Buddy, can you spare a...piano?

Some of you already know this story, or parts of it.

When I first moved here, I started looking around for a place to practice the piano, and decided that churches would probably be the easiest places to start: they usually have pianos, and many days of the week they are unused. My first stop was the very large Catholic church a few blocks up the street. I spoke to an aide, who gave me the priest's phone number. After calling him, our conversation went something like this:

Me: I just moved to the neighborhood, blah blah blah, I'm looking for somewhere to unobtrusively practice, on some day that would be most convenient for you.
Priest: I see. So you are in my parish.
Me: Well, not exactly.
Priest: What parish are you in?
Me: I'm not in a parish.
Priest: So you are unchurched [note: he actually said "unchurched," which to me sounds like something from the Spanish Inquisition.]
Me: Erm, well, I'm not Catholic.
Priest: Well, why don't you stop by mass sometime, and we can have a discussion.
Me: Would it be possible to meet at some time other than mass?
Priest: No. I will see you at mass. We can discuss this further then. Our church is often occupied, so meeting at another time would be impossible. Goodbye and god bless.
Me: [stares at phone]

Now I take his point that it is his church, and I am "unchurched," so perhaps I shouldn't be allowed to use his piano, or apparently even enter the building. (This begs the question of what I would do at mass. I can't take communion, nor do I say the rosary, and isn't that kinda the whole point?) He was, however, extremely condescending. I fumed about this, and told my friends, who thought it was hilarious. It's pretty funny in retrospect. It's also funnier if you know that I spent my senior year in college writing a lengthy paper about nuns and art patronage, and I actually know more about saints than normal people do (in a fit of scholarly activity, I signed up for Saint of the Day emails). I also spent a weekend in a Benedictine convent in Erie PA. I didn't mention this to the Priest, because, frankly, my nuns are too good for him.

The next opportunity presented itself a while later when I was walking to the library and passed a Presbyterian church, and figured, why not? So I met the secretary (who has blue hair, and who offered me the cornbread and greens she was eating for lunch). She introduced me to the music teacher who uses the church, and he said I could come any night that he has the church unlocked, and that he'd be happy to teach me some jazz sometime if I'd be interested.

So I've been going there once a week, or every few weeks, whenever my schedule cooperates. I volunteered to help out when they have a concert with the little kids who are taking lessons, which probably won't be until the spring. The piano seat is too high, and the bass keys stick, and chucks of paint from the ceiling occasionally fall off, but who cares? I can play and no one bothers me. It's a cool old building: cool as in there is no heat, and cool in that the rafters are hung with rows and rows of West Indian and African flags. It has a musty church-smell of candles and damp and old choirbooks. And when I leave, Mr. B asks me how I am, and we talk a little bit about Chopin, and I ask about his students, and then I go home.

And that, my friends, is what music should be all about.

Here Comes the Sun!

Whenever I get gloomy with the state of the world, I think about the arrivals gate at Heathrow Airport. General opinion's starting to make out that we live in a world of hatred and greed, but I don't see that. It seems to me that love is everywhere. Often it's not particularly dignified or newsworthy, but it's always there - fathers and sons, mothers and daughters, husbands and wives, boyfriends, girlfriends, old friends. When the planes hit the Twin Towers, as far as I know none of the phone calls from the people on board were messages of hate or revenge - they were all messages of love. If you look for it, I've got a sneaky feeling you'll find that love actually is all around.
--Love Actually aka the Best Movie of All Time (which seemed appropriate because I've spent a lot of time in Penn Station the past few days)

I had a wonderful weekend, as two of my friends visited.* And what did we do? We got treated to brunch by my magnanimous cousin, we hung out in Brooklyn Heights and saw the skyline, we walked from Brighton Beach to Coney Island while the sun got larger and oranger and began to set, we got spicy hot chocolate at Joyce's Bakeshop, they got to see my "hotspots": Prospect Park, the Public Library, the Brooklyn Museum, Eastern Parkway, and the apartment, of course. One went back sooner than the other, so two of us went to the wine bar up the street last night and heard some live jazz music and then went to the raver at the Museum's First Saturday party, and then got bagels this morning. There was a lot of people watching to be had.

I miss them already already already and really need to get dressed for work (who goes into work at 5 pm. C'mon now.) But it was a lovely time. I mean this: visitors ALWAYS welcome!

And the title of this post refers to the fact that it is GLORIOUS out. Enjoy it while it lasts!

*HI GUYS!! LR if you send me that pic, I will put it up here...it's not TWIP, but it'll do. ;)

The Yankeeees Win!

I admit to being fairly ambivalent about baseball in general, although I prefer the Yankees over most teams. So tonight was pretty exciting, mainly because I live in The City and people are serious about their sports teams. I was at work and we put the game on in the cash office, and then intercomed it behind the registers. I felt like I was in the 1930's as we all huddled around the phone and shushed each other and tried to hear the radio through the static. Everyone working was a waste of space, and everyone in the store really just wanted to hear what was happening. It's exciting because everyone was into it. The Bronx, though, is crazy right now. As I was leaving work the security guard said, in his heavy Jamaican accent, "you walk safe, lady, and no getting boozey and tipping over cars." Sound advice. Hope other people follow it as well.

In other news, I had the worst customer I have ever had tonight, so the Yankees winning was a wonderful mood lifter. She was French, and didn't know how to work Traveler's Checks, and called me a pest, and incompetent, and as she counted out change she dropped a Euro in my hand and said, "this is a Euro. You've probably never seen one before." (you'll be happy to know that I responded with, "oh, the Vitruvian man? That's my favorite Euro design" and smiled in a way that would appear polite if you didn't know me.) It was dreadful. But then I had a guy later on who completed his transaction speaking in a fake-Cockney and then a Pirate accent. It made me laugh. The Yankees fans that are on TV right now are making me laugh too! Nothing like a good chorus of "We are the Champions" to put you in a good mood.

Bedtime. Goodnight, friends.

EDITED: Thursday 11/5. The NY morning news show (I think on CBS) made a bet with their Philly affiliate that whichever team won the World Series got to choose a song for the loser to sing on air. Which happened at 5:30 this morning, and I was half-asleep listening to it, and it was hilarious. Of course they had to sing "New York, New York" but it was completely tuneless and everyone was just laughing the whole time. If you want to watch it (and you really should), go here, type in "morning" in the search box, and pick the first one-- Hu-phili-ation: CBS 3 in Philly loses bet to CBS 2.

All the News that Fits

Not much happening in the ol' Bk in the past few days (again, sorry about the pedestrian nature of this blog. I'll try to spice it up soon.) It was a really nice fall day, and I spent most of it in the library trying to plan grad school and life (clearly grad school requires more research and planning than moving to NYC, for that I just watched "The Muppets Take Manhattan" and hitched a ride out.) So I did that, and made lentil-tomato soup (Aunt Sue, I finally found a use for those hot peppers!) which was pretty tasty. It was less dramatic than the last time I tried to make soup, which some of you know about...a few weeks ago I was blendering squash soup and filled the blender too full and the blender exploded and spewed boiling squash chunks on my hair and arm and shirt, and the walls, floor, microwave, cookbook. It was like that scene in Bridget Jones' Diary when she's trying to cook, and then Colin Firth shows up (no Colin Firth this time though.) But the squash soup actually ended up being pretty tasty, too.

I was at the bookstore on Hallowe'en and helped hand out candy, and some of the kids were super cute. I saw too many Michael Jackson costumes, though. And a little girl came up and said to us at the Info Desk, "what kind of bugs live in cemetaries? Zombees!" so we gave her about 10 pieces of candy.

Tomorrow is Election Day, and I am pretty ambivalent about it because I am not registered here (and I actually forgot to request an absentee ballot from home. Bad citizenship award). But here are some more exciting news stories: 1. "Pink it's time to move: Technicolor house is for sale in Park Slope." On my walk to work, I pass through some stately brownstone blocks in Prospect Park West and Park Slope (picture where the Cosby's lived on "The Cosby Show".) But the other day, I went down Garfield Street and my retinas were temporarily damaged by a pepto-bismol pink house, still connected to all the other ones. It gives the cerulean and purple one (with a gold chimney, no less) on my parents street a run for the money. It's like in Chautauqua when they have laws about what colors you can paint your house, and what colors are acceptable for trim. (Bollocks, I say. But no one asked me.) Anyway, I think the neighbors are probably not happy with this, but it's certainly interesting. And 2. "Flatbush jobs listing mystery solved!" There are a lot of job postings on telephone poles on Flatbush Ave, which is a very long street that cuts through Brooklyn. Turns out they are placed there not by city employees, but by an older Carribean woman who prints them out at the library and tapes them up because she sees "so many young men wasting their lives," and this is how she wants to help. I just think it's nice.

P.S. M and P--Melis is sitting on the living room floor wearing her "Got Melk?" shirt and reading out loud from the Black's Law Dictionary that you two got her. I forewarned her that this might be going on the blog, and she said you'd be glad to know she was putting the Dictionary to good use. Now she is reading a Croatian children's book.
P.P.S. Now the Yankee game is starting--world series win tonight?!

Perks of Being an Art History Major

Art History? What are you going to do with THAT?!
--my dental hygienist (and about 50 other people in my hometown)

I always think you people are nice to have at parties. You bring a classy air to gatherings. I think art historians are good conversationalists.
--my OB-GYN

We can forgive a man for making a useful thing as long as he does not admire it. The only excuse for making a useless thing is that one admires it intensely. All art is quite useless.
--Oscar Wilde, Preface to The Picture of Dorian Gray

If I were planning on making pots of money (which I'm not), I would be in the wrong line of work. I gravitate towards jobs in institutions which tend to have small or variable budgets (libraries, museums, liberal arts), which is not conducive to saving up, or buying things. However, a friend in high school (who went to college for violin performance) used to say that we wouldn't be rich, but we would sure be interesting, and I like to pretend that is true. And although my paycheck is tiny, the perks are sometimes big. Here are some things to tell people when they quiz you about what you are doing with your life:

1. Free Stuff. With my museum ID badge I can get into any NYC museum fo' free, which is actually pretty nice. Especially for MOMA, where the ticket takers tend to be snippy, and it costs $20. Granted, I should be willing to give money to these institutions, but it makes me feel less guilty if I just stop in for an hour or so. And I can sneak in guests. I also get half-price tickets at the Brooklyn Academy of Music, and discounts in all museum stores.

2. Solitude. For an art nerd, it is REALLY nice to be alone when looking at art. I'm one of those annoying people who is taking notes or getting really close to things and getting yelled at by museum guards, so really, you probably don't want to be there with me anyway. On Mondays and Tuesdays I really like walking to my office because I have the European wing to myself, and I can examine things like a loon and not have any witnesses.

3. Openings. Art show openings are not normally my scene, because I'm a terrible networker. The exception to this was at school, because then I always had my friends to talk to and it was fun and low-pressure, but now it's slightly different. I don't know much about contemporary anything, and if I have to talk to strangers (and offer opinions, ack) I tend to smile a lot out of nervousness and play with my hair. This is one of the many reasons why I do not want to be a curator! But I put on some mascara and went to one last night, which was actually pretty fun. A few co-workers and I went to happy hour first and then returned to the show, which is called "Who Shot Rock 'n Roll" and is a collection of rock photographs. The reception had dj's and drinks and food and a performance by Blondie, which was worth it.* Debbie Harry is 60ish now, but she is still a total rocker babe. And they performed for free, which is super nice. (A bit of self-promotion for them, too...her partner, Chris Stein, is also in the band and is one of the photographers featured.) And it was cool to see the paintings in context with all the swirling lights and swirling people around them.

If you like art and art history, then all of these things are auxiliary, but they are nice. And let's be honest, I have an easier time explaining myself to people than philosophy majors do (what DO you say if you're a philosophy major and people are quizzing you about your future plans? "I'm going to think." Maybe this is why I, too, find most philosophy majors I've met kinda insufferable.) And honestly, how many economics majors end up doing exactly what they planned? None. And I think that is how it should be. For me, not much beats seeing something or learning something interesting that I didn't know about before, and that is worth it.

*"for Blondie, some Blondie." Mom, I thought I would reference your fav movie.

Hop on the Bus, Gus

I just got home (it is 12:30 am) from work and took a cab. I say this with a slight sense of personal disappointment, because now that I've finally figured out the buses, I try and take them because it feels like a distinction between a REAL NYer and a tourist. Real NYers take the bus, or in my case, two buses, home when they work late. They are tough and hardy, and I did it last night, but the cards were stacked against it tonight: it was raining (I am a baby when it comes to standing ankle deep in water, and am willing to pay more money not to do so) and the bus was half an hour late!! Which has actually never happened to me before, but my co-worker J and I waited and waited and finally gave up and she called us cabs. When my cab pulled up and I got in, J banged on the cabbies window (J is about 5 feet no inches tall, and has an impressive array of berets which she always wears over her short dreadlocks. "Don't be charging her more than $10!" she yelled at him. Then, to me, "if he charges you more than $10, you can tell him where to stick it." He charged me $10. And I was home in 10 minutes, as opposed to my usual 50.

To anyone who is parentally or grandparentally related to me and is concerned about buses in the middle of the night, all I can say is: don't be. There have been a few weekend nights when I felt not super-comfortable, so I took a cab then, too. Probably the most different thing about all of this, apart from the fact that I have no experience with public transport, is that I am usually the only white person on the bus. As someone who grew up in the vast majority, it's an interesting feeling. It makes you think about the tiny population of African-Americans where I went to college, and the 5 Asian kids in my high school. I knew I stuck out last night when waiting for my second bus with two off-duty security guards, one who was Haitian and one who was Venezuelan. (I know this because they talked the entire time we were waiting. I could tell you how many siblings they have, what kind of hair products they use, and what kind of earrings they think look dumb. I'm not even kidding.) At one point, one said, "well, you know, I'm not prejudiced at all. My sister married a guy who was as white as her." (the "her" being me.) I looked up and they were both looking at me, so I did an awkward wave (I'm a master of the awkward wave) and they laughed and then I was included in their conversation by unspoken agreement. (they also know what hair products I use.) This sense of difference was particularly striking coming back from the opera, when I went from being the only white person on the subway wearing turquoise tights to being the only white person, period. (it says something about perceived social class and certain cultural activities--the exact same thing happened when I went to the ballet--but I'm not going into that now.)

But I've gotten used to the maps and one-way streets. The downside to this is I've almost ended up missing my street because I was falling asleep, or texting and not paying attention, whereas before I'd be too hyped up and staring out the window, so I would prematurely signal a stop and get off a few blocks early. At any rate, I'm home, I'm going to bed, and I have tomorrow off. Whooo!

A Night at the Opera

And now, on with the opera. Let joy be unconfined. Let there be dancing in the streets, drinking in the saloons, and necking in the parlor.
--Groucho Marx, A Night at the Opera, 1935


(thanks to wikipedia for the Lincoln Center image)
On Thursday night I went to the Metropolitan Opera and saw Richard Strauss's Der Rosenkavalier. Every other opera I've seen has been at Chautauqua, and some have been really good (The Marriage of Figaro) and some have been quite not good (Little Women...I may have said, "if Beth doesn't die soon, I'm going to get onstage and kill her myself.") But Der Rosenkavalier was unlike anything that I've seen before.

An Opera Maven that I know recently told me about 200 rush tickets that are set aside for sale on the day of the performance. They are orchestra level tickets (which run $275-$175) which are priced for $20 instead (a donor pays the rest of the ticket.) I decided to try this, because a normal $20 ticket is up in the light green section on this map, with an "obstructed view." The $20 ticket I got, after waiting in line for 3 hours in the basement/parking garage of Lincoln Center was in the grey section on the first level, over on the left hand side, about half-way back. SO WORTH IT. If you don't mind waiting in line (which has some good people watching opportunities, incidentally), I would highly recommend doing this.

The plot of Der Rosenkavalier is minimal at best. Act 1 opens with the Princess von Werdenberg, called the Marshchallin, in bed with her 17 year old lover, Count Octavian Rofrano. The Marschallin's boorish, lecher of a cousin Baron Ochs shows up (Ochs = Ox, good one Strauss!) and Octavian quickly dresses up like a maid named Mariandel, to escape detection. The Baron asks his cousin to supply a knight to deliver a silver rose to his betrothed, Sophie Faninal, who is much younger than he is. She suggests Octavian to be the Knight of the Rose, which is what Rosenkavalier means. And then Ochs flirts with all the maids, etc, and Marshchallin starts to feel old, and she expresses to Octavian her conviction that he will end up leaving her for someone younger. The thing is, she's not bitter about being older, she's just realistic about her fate. It'd be a cool role to sing, I think. The Times describes her as a Cougar, which is a phrase I try not to use, so pretend I didn't.

In Act 2, Sophie and Octavian meet in her father's home when he presents the rose, and they fall in love. He ends up wounding Ochs in a duel, and there is a lot of running up and down stairs and singing loudly and drama. The Marshchallin isn't in Act 2 at all. In Act 3, Ochs meets "Mariandel" (Octavian in drag) at an inn, which "she" traps him into seducing her, which gives Sophie's father a bad impression, and then Sophie is released from her engagement and Ochs has to run away from the innkeeper, who he owes money to. It's nice because he gets his comeuppance. Finally, the Marshchallin shows up, wearing about 100 pounds of fabric in an insanely beautiful white dress and wig, and gives her blessing to Sophie and Octavian, and they sing a trio that is well worth the price of admission. Curtain. For a better plot summary and pictures from the Met's 2005 production, see Opera News here.

(thanks to NYTimes online for the pictures of Renee Fleming)
Some people waited in line since 10 am, because this was a powerhouse cast: Renee Fleming as the Marschallin and Susan Graham as Octavian (in comedic fashion, the young male lead is sung by a woman, in a "trouser role"). The main chatter in line and in the lobby was whether Fleming was losing her touch, and if her best days are behind her (not unlike the Marshchallin, actually). Beats me. I have zero knowledge about different singers, and she seemed very, very good to me. It wasn't even so much the singing as her expressions or gestures--I was close enough that I could see pain or amusement on her face, or in her shoulder shrugs.

As good as the singing was, I was even more impressed with the sets. Act 1 takes place in the Marschallin's bedroom, which is all gilt and pink curtains and a ceiling fresco, with little spindly tables all over. Act 2 is in Faninal's estate, which actually elicited clapping from the audience--it was rows and rows of windows and elaborate staircases and chandeliers. Act 3 was set in an inn, so it was much different: smaller, dark, with a lot of candles. And the Metropolitan Opera building itself is crazy, with long red-carpeted staircases, muted lighting, and spiraling chandeliers. Very cool.

What was also cool was that the girl who was next to me in line for tickets (I say "girl" but we were about the same age; compared to everyone else there we were whippersnappers, though) also got the seat next to me in the theater, so we became Opera buddies. We hung out during the intermissions and talked about super nerdy musical stuff and never asked each others names. So I will probably never see her again, which actually seems like a very New York-y thing to do. I like it.

For two real reviews, see here and here. Both have good audio from this performance, particularly the second one.

And for a clip from the Marx Brothers A Night at the Opera, which is a totally hilarious movie, see here (they are trying to mess up the opera for a variety of reasons). The movie also has the late (and great) Kitty Carlisle Hart in it, so you know it's legitimate.

10 Commandments of Retail

Gentle Readers,
As someone who is employed in retail, and who has many friends employed in retail, I am offering a helpful list of rules that everyone should follow. Commandments, as it were. (feel free to add your own...my dogma is pretty fluid!)
1. Thou shalt not assume that anyone working in retail is inferior to you.
What we do is harder than it looks. It's a lot of standing, a lot of emotional grunt work, a lot of smiling when you don't feel like smiling, and a LOT of politeness, papercuts, and being helpful, all for very minimal pay. And by and large, everyone at the store where I work is very good at what they do: cashiers, booksellers, and managers alike. Most of us are there because we like books, and like telling people about books. When I help someone find something, and they are excited, it actually feels pretty good. Except when people treat you like you are an idiot, which happens too often. College degrees don't equal intelligence (the more time people spend in school, the less common sense they seem to have, I find), but we are (recent) grads from Columbia, Northwestern, Arizona State, Oberlin, U Iowa, NYU, Brooklyn College, CUNY Manhattan, and, ahem, William Smith. We know about a lot of different things, we speak many languages, we have kids, we have other jobs, and we really want you to read things. Conversely,
2. Thou shalt not assume we are mind-reading geniuses.
If you come into a bookstore looking for something, it is awesome if you know most of the title, or the authors last name (or if you are AWESOME, the ISBN.) If you come in and tell me you want the new book with the guy on it (this happened today), I might have trouble helping you. (I actually found the book, by the way.) Also, I have had people give me the wrong title AND the wrong author over the phone and then yell at me when I can't find what they are looking for. This does not endear you to me.
3. Thou shalt not talk on thy cell phone when at the register.
I want to help you. I am paid to help you. I cannot help you if you are talking to someone else. I do not care if your son is failing math, I do not care about the cost of your prescription pills, and I really do not care about your sex life. Common courtesy would dictate that you have have one conversation at a time, but you might be surprised at how many people ignore common courtesy.
4. Thou shalt not discuss thy political views.
In a similar vein to the third commandment, I just do not care who you voted for. It's not something I discuss with people unless I am friends with them (ditto for religious views) and frankly, it is really annoying. You can wear a Nobama button if you really want to, but don't go on about how he is socialist to me (this also happened to me today.) And it works both ways: when I was working in a bookstore last summer I had an aging academic-type liberal say to my (one) African-American co-worker, "well, I certainly hope you'll be voting for Obama!" Because they have a similar skin tone so they automatically think the same? Again, annoying, and pretty offensive at that.
5. Thou shalt not complain about the high price of books (shirts, groceries, etc.) while buying them.
We all have to eat, wear clothes, and read, and no one is forcing you to shop where you are. I know books were significantly cheaper 50 years ago, but there's not much I can do about it. There are alternate means of purchasing things if you are worried about prices (go online, buy used, use a library, etc.)
6. Thou shalt be patient.
When I am cashiering I am going as fast as possible, but if I make a mistake, it is very bad for me, and for you in the long-run. It is your fault if you double-park, and I won't rush so that you don't get a ticket. I would rather make sure you are charged the right amount, and that your merchandise doesn't get bent, and that you get the correct change. Bear with me.
7. Thou shalt control thy offspring.
The bookstore where I work is located in a yuppie, baby-heavy area (coughcough*Park Slope*coughcough) and there are some holy terror children, particularly when with their parents and not their nannies. I know it is impossible to "control" kids, but there are ways to discipline and minimize tantrums, screaming, whining, and running. Stop making empty threats, and stop, for goddesses sake, buying them stuff to stop them from crying. Learn to say no. Then your child will be adorable, and I will be happy to help you.
8. Thou shalt not abuse gift wrap.
I really like gift wrapping, but it's kind of something we do to be nice. Asking me to wrap 20 individual books, at 5:30 when the store is packed, is a little indulgent. Fortunately our security guards are also good gift wrappers, so we split it up. But at the very least, offer to help.
9. Thou shalt wash thy hands.
I'm not asking for constant handwashing, but if people could stop giving me damp, sweaty, sticky money, I would really appreciate it. I have started to over-use the hand sanitizer, since I am sans health insurance. I actually had someone hand me their dirty kleenex last week. Please do not do that.
10. Thou shalt be remembered--for good or bad.
If your kids are cute, I will remember. If you compliment my scarf, I will remember. If you are terrible, snappy, and condescending, I will remember. If you swear at my co-worker (this happened today), I will remember. And chances are good that I will mention it to my co-workers. One thing about retail is that you commiserate about good things and bad things, because that makes the time go faster, and makes you feel better if something really bad happens.

90% of people are nice, friendly, and fine. 10% might be sociopaths. Don't be in the 10%! And thus endeth the public service announcement for the day.

Don't you love New York in the fall?

Don't you love New York in the fall? It makes me wanna buy school supplies. I would send you a bouquet of newly sharpened pencils if I knew your name and address. On the other hand, this not knowing has its charms.
--You've Got Mail, 1998

Happy Saturday morning! We just made omelets and I'm going to work in a bit (blargh.) But I would just like to say: New York in the Fall is something pretty great. True, it is certainly not as pretty as upstate (there are not as many trees, for one thing.) There is a smell in the air that I love (honestly, it's probably the mustiness of dying leaves...pleasant.) That plus the coziness of being inside and drinking tea just makes me feel like humming. I once had a professor who described Edvard Munch and his art as having a "morose Northern temperament," which is kinda ridiculous, but it could be applied to me as well. Probably in two months I will be browbeating the cold, but for now it is ok. Besides, anyone who knows me well knows that I LOVE scarves, so any opportunity to wear them, I am happy with.

And You've Got Mail is an awesome movie, and it's like a New York City valentine (well, Manhattan anyway.) Plus, Tom Hanks and Meg Ryan are just cuteness. And it's about bookstores!! Except in this scenario, I am allied with evil Fox Books, the superstore that crushes indie bookstores in its wake of cheap books and cappucino. My parents actually refer to where I work as "Fox Books." Ah well. It's a delightful movie regardless.

Nostalgia

The problem with going someplace really lovely, and having a really lovely time, is that eventually you have to leave. I guess that is a problem with vacations in general, but I've never gone on vacation and had to come back to "real life," ie job(s), chilling weather, and missing my friends like I would miss a limb if it was cut off.

To recap: I have been on hiatus since I went to Geneva last weekend for 4 days and have been not in the best mood since being back here. The fact that I have to consider Geneva (and by extension the Finger Lakes, and Western NY in general) as a vacation spot and not my home is creeping me out. I had a massive sleepover with 5 of my best friends, who I hadn't seen since May (we missed you, Jersey girl!!). I watched quality chick flicks, ate about 900 pounds of candy, talked and talked, had tea, saw a lot of people I care about, and now I am missing it terribly. I hate transitions, probably like everyone else does. So to preempt my current one-person pity party, I am going to make two lists. Enjoy.

5 Rad Things about Geneva, NY
1. Community. Yeah, yeah, I know communities are everywhere. And I really haven't been here long enough to create one. And I hated Geneva when I first moved there (I wanted to transfer my first semester of college, but I think that was probably more homesickness than any major problem with the school.) But it is that comfortable way of being that I miss the most, and I miss it about my hometown, too. It was the nicest part of the visit. I think I saw someone I knew everywhere I went (which has its bad side..at one point we were costumed for an early Hallowe'en celebration and were outside the art department, and I should really know by now not to be traipsing around in butterfly wings because someone is ALWAYS there.)
2. The Food. I really like The Coffee House, which has the best scones, outside of England, that I've ever had, and the Red Dove Tavern is just groovy (shoestring fries = major mmm), and there is a Wegmans, which I maybe went to every day I was there. Plus, APPLES.
3. Watkins Glen. Technically this is half an hour from Gtown, but it's gor-ge-ous, especially this time of year. And here we are, thanks to Karen's super awesome camera (and super awesome photog skillz!)

(lots of smiling went on this weekend..and laughing so hard that I felt sick. And does that shot of one of the Falls remind you of the Mines of Moria?!)
4. Hobart and William Smith Colleges, particularly Houghton House. For those of you not in the know, Houghton House is where the art department at WS&H resides, and let me tell you: it is a cool place to be normally, but it is SUPER nice when you don't have work to do. (I spent freakish amounts of time there my last year of college, and got kind of grumpy about it. Not anymore.) And the people there are some of my favorites anywhere, speaking of community. Besides, I just like to learn stuff, and I like places where I can do that, and where there are people willing to teach me.

5. The way Seneca Lake looks at any time of year. It's pretty in the Fall with the leaves, it's pretty in the winter (at least, I think so) when it's grey and the snow geese hang out on it, it's pretty in the spring (when my top picture was taken) when everything smells green and growing, and the lake is astonishingly blue in the summer.

5 Rad Things about Brooklyn, NY (in the past 5 days)
1. My cousin got some really, really good dark wheat bread from a bakery by her school and I just ate some with honey. (Honey, incidentally from Geneva. One of the people I housesat for last year has started beekeeping--hi Nan!)
2. En route to Brooklyn, we stopped by the relatives and got some squash, green peppers, hot peppers, onions, a pumpkin, gourds, and carrots from my aunt's garden (HI AUNT SUE!!). Not to go all Michael Pollan on everyone, but it's nice to know where your food is coming from.
3. I have gotten 3 pieces of mail in the past 2 days, which is always, always, always wonderful. Except when it's from Sallie Mae. Then it's not. But this was good mail.
4. I just found out that the chain bookstore I work for lets its' employees "rent" out any hardcover book with a dustjacket for two weeks. They keep the dustjacket and loan it out to you, so I now have Nick Hornby's newest in my possession. It's good so far. And I like that they do that.
5. Today while at the Brooklyn Museum (I am interning there...have I mentioned that on here?? More on that another time) I cut out of work early (whoops) and walked through the American Art floor, and they have a new Native American exhibit up, and that was neat.

Well, I don't feel that much better. But back to our regularly scheduled programming next post, eh?

Oh, and more importantly:
HAPPY BIRTHDAY MOM!!!!!