School's Out For the Summer. Not.

Ah summer.  Is ending.  What a drag.  Here's a random selection of snippets from my summie-sum.

I went hiking only once during the two weeks that I was home in Colorado.  But we saw a moose standing literally 20 feet away from us.  He (she?) looked at us and then walked away.  Clearly we didn't look very scrumptious.  Also, we saw this lake.

Capogiro has the best lattes ever.  They even make little designs in the foam on the top.  One day, I got a heart.  That was the best day ever.

Tons of preptests.  The LSAT can suck it. 

Was the fruit this year better than normal?  I don't know, but I ate a lot of it.  And it was sinfully delicious.

I went to the flea market in Clark Park once.  It's basically a random assortment of crazy shit, including lots of VHS tapes.

Also, I got stopped by these people three separate times who asked me if I was aware that the Bible says there is both a father God and a mother God.  They said that I needed to come study with them because I wouldn't be able to find where it's written in the Bible by myself.  One time I talked to them for 40 minutes and told them they were employing copious amounts of logical fallacies to prove their points.  They didn't believe me.  My mom thought they wanted to steal my organs.

People Watching

I like people watching.  Especially when you're in Vatican City and most of those people are nuns and monks.

Statute Showdown

This image is vaguely related to this post.

An attorney that I'm working for this summer told me this hilarious story about when he was in law school.  Apparently, a couple of students were fed up with how serious all of their fellow classmates were, and during finals they decided to enter the library through opposite doors, dressed in full cowboy regalia, and have a fake shootout.  The defeated cowboy was dragged out of the library by his feet, leaving a trail of fake blood behind him.  All of the students studying in the library replied by briefly looking up and then returning to their books.

Aren't law students awesome?  Although, I can't say that Penn undergrads wouldn't do the same thing during finals.

Little Lord Fauntleroy

zen master

wait, what?

I didn't go to Penn's university-wide graduation, but I did watch the webcast.  Eric Schmidt, the CEO of Google, was the speaker.  As is to be expected, his speech was peppered with technological references, one of which was Wii's.  Penn's resident gossip column, Under the Button, tweeted the ceremony.  According to them, when Eric Schmidt said "waiting in line for Wii's", it was closed captioned as "waiting in line for weed".  Man, that's rich.

This is the end, my only friend . . .

I write this as an exercise in catharsis.  Tears stream down my face with each click of the keyboard, threatening to destroy my harddrive and my precious, precious files.  My friends, the Celtics have lost.  Their post-season run has come to an end, and with it, my every ounce of happiness.  While I loved every minute of KG's suited(!) sideline coaching, I can't help but think they might have made it a little bit farther if he weren't injured.  I'm pretty sure Leon Powe was missed as well.  

Ok, so it's not that bad.  The Nuggies are still in the running.  What was it that Mark Cuban called them?  Oh yeah, thugs.  Baller.

John Legend, I love you.

Tomorrow's Commencement for Penn's Class of 2009 is preceded by the myriad graduations for the individual schools of the University.  Graduation for the School of Arts and Sciences (the College, for those "in the know") was held tonight.  The only reason I risked ruining the enigma of a Penn graduation a year prior to my own expected graduation date is because John Legend was the speaker.  So I went because, well, I lurve John Legend.  For reals, for reals.    Sadly, he did not sing.  And though it would have been ridiculous if he had, I still had a more than faint glimmer of hope that he would.
Look at all those bottles of water under the students' chairs.  Now I know where my tuition money is going.

Johnny Boy gave a pretty sweet speech.  But honestly, I can't remember about 2/3 of the inspirational things he said.  I do remember that the crux of his speech functioned on finding the truth in the world, but somehow the last part of his speech transformed from a celebratory homage to the graduates to a condemnation of the Bush administration and a commentary on the waning economy and housing market.  It was relevant, yet kind of weird and preachy.  But whatever, he's still my homeboy. 

If you look closely, you can see that the closed captioning under the image of John Legend speaking says something about insomnia.  Yeah, I don't remember ever hearing that word.

a walking fashion faux-pas

People in France are particularly fashionable, as is to be expected, I suppose.  They always wear really cute scarves, sassy boots, designer jeans, and gorgeous tops.  The click-clack of high heels is ever-present as I walk along the streets, admiring the natural grace and style of all the young, hip Frenchies...

Then, there's me... I walk around in tattered, ill-fitting jeans, plain tee-shirts, ugly beat up sneakers, not to mention the obnoxiously bright orange beanie that is practically a permanent fixture atop my head.  That's how I look almost every single day. 

One day, I decided to change it up a bit, so I traded in my ill-fitting jeans for an old, ill-fitting skirt, kept the sneakers and wore a camisole and cardigan.  But given my lack of style, it's no wonder I got dirty looks as I traipsed around in ratty sneakers and a dowdy skirt.  No joke, I looked like this little kid, but less cute.    

Oh well... I guess I'll never learn...

La quête continue...

I really don't understand why there are so many paperclips here, but I can tell you that finding them is actually really wonderful.  It seems strange, perhaps, but finding a 'trombone' on the street really lifts my spirits.  It's as if the universe has an unspoken agreement with me- when I'm feeling down, I find at least one without fail.  Once, I found four in a single day.  The current count is now 55.  

4 from Paris

1 from Namur, Belgium

1 from Amsterdam 

1 from Maastricht, Netherlands

The rest are from Nancy, Metz, and Toul

Now, let us never think of the various diseases I may have received from picking up random paperclips off the dirty streets of Europe. 

Droplets

It rained this morning, leaving delicates droplets of water on these beautiful flores.  

Connections

Why is it that most of us go through life connecting with so few people, acting like strangers are a different species?  The other day I was walking out of my room and down the hall to go down the steps.  This girl that lives on my floor walked out of her room behind me, so I held the door to the stairwell for her.  She looked at me, and instead of smiling she actually grimaced, didn't say hello even though I said hi to her, and walked as slowly as possible to catch the door.  What is the point of this?  Here in Philly a lot of people act this way.  And then there are some people who are inexplicably kind.  I won't even pretend to understand why this juxtaposition exists.  At home in Colorado I don't think people act this way, at least not to this extent.  Could it be the Colorado air?  Generally, when hiking in Colorado hikers say hello to other fellow hikers.  It's way cool.  Solidarity.

the early years

Generally, I have no problem not participating in the social norms of collegiate wasteland.  At this moment I can hear some drunk girls outside, celebrating the final day of classes by playing Marco Polo.  It's 12:38 am.  Bitch, please.  Count me out.  

But sometimes I have these thoughts when it comes to participating in these little activities.  Not partying, per se, but just ridiculous things that are usually accompanied by drinking and so end up becoming stupid- social gatherings in a sense.  And I think to myself "Why not go have fun?  It's just life."  And apart from the realization that nothing is that fun when you're the only sober person in a group of lushes at 11 am, I generally think "Oh my God.  It's life."  And life is finite.  And teetering on the cusp of an existential crisis, I usually just decide to watch tv.

frozen lies

Have you heard the latest episode of "This American Life"?  Part of the program was about a man, Bob, who rather accidentally became the president of a cryonics group in the 1960s.  The program looks particularly at a young french girl named Genevieve with a terminal illness, whose father asked that she be cryogenically frozen, which she was.  Cut to a few years later.  The capsule that Genevieve was in had malfunctioned when Bob was out of town, and the liquid nitrogen inside that was keeping her frozen had become hot.  It had been hot for at least a couple of days.

Now here's the crazy part.  Bob says he met with Genevieve's father at the Montreal airport to tell him what had happened.  And he says that her father told him to just put more liquid nitrogen in the capsule and start it up again.  Bob then flew to another airport to meet another man, whose parents had been in the same capsule with Genevieve.  This man also asked that the capsule be started up again.  So Bob put more liquid nitrogen in the capsule, and started it up again.  No big deal, except that the bodies had been sitting in hot liquid nitrogen for a few days.  

But when Genevieve's father and this other man, the son, were interviewed by "This American Life", they both said they never met with Bob in an airport-in fact, he never even contacted them about the failure of the capsule.  When asked about this by "This American Life", Bob is steadfast in his conviction that he met with both of them at different airports, and that both of them asked that the capsule be started again.  From his voice, you can tell that he absolutely believes it.

 I have this absolutely vivid memory that I went to Red Lobster with my dad when I was about six.  I remember the restaurant being somewhat empty, the lighting was dim.  I ate a whole lobster tail.  It was awesome.  But as it turns out, I've never been to Red Lobster in my whole life.  I have been told this over and over, but I just can't reconcile that that was a dream and never actually happened.  All I can say is, at least the outcome of my Red Lobster "memory" wasn't malpractice and a lawsuit.

image from here

trombones

Paper clips in France are actually called trombones. I find them on the street all the time, so I just decided to start a collection.

Current count: 22

if you want to sing out...

I cultivated a love for Cat Stevens as a kid.  My dad used to play "Tea for the Tillerman" in the car as my sister and I made the weekly migration from my mom's house to his apartment, and I fell for his peace-loving lyrics and happy go-lucky sound.  His words spoke to me then, and have never ceased to enchant me.  

If you've ever seen "Harold and Maude," you might recall that Cat Stevens' music plays a pretty dominant role throughout.  I was thinking about that movie last week, and I was reminded of one of my favorite songs called "If You Want to Sing Out, Sing Out."  It has a good message and it always makes me feel a little better about myself.  So, if ever you're feeling a little down, I suggest listening to Cat Stevens.

little voice

Sometimes, I get this melancholy feeling that no one really knows me. I sometimes feel that not even my closest friends or relatives fully understand me. If I were to use a dorky and imperfect comparison, I’d say it’s a bit like the difference between savoir and connaître. They both mean “to know”, but connaître implies something more profound- more significant. To a certain extent, I’m not sure that anyone can really connaît another person- humans are just too complex and the interconnected web of emotions, intellect and mannerisms that make up any given person is just too complicated for anyone to fully understand.

In a way, I find it a little lonely knowing that I might never connaît another person and that another person might never really me connaît. It only really bothers me, however, when I think that maybe I don’t even know myself. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately, in part because of a recent discussion in a French class. We listened to an interview of author Nancy Huston who rejects entirely the old adage connais-toi, toi-même, and believes instead that it’s impossible to really know oneself. The whole thing was sort of discouraging.

The more I think about the problem of identity, the more it becomes a crisis in which I question things I had previously considered fundamental. It is perhaps the penultimate worse thing I’ve experienced, which is rather unfortunate because it happens with particular frequency.

But during those moments of sheer terror - when the world as I know it seems lost amidst my heightened insecurities - I usually find comfort in something quite small. The conscience, Jiminy Cricket, borderline insanity- call it what you’d like, but I like to think of this little voice in my head as my inner self. When I find myself in times of trouble, not Mother Mary, but rather that little voice comes to me- speaking words of wisdom…


It might seem sort of cliché and unoriginal- but I think that this little voice doesn’t get as much credit as it deserves. We might talk about it in passing sometimes, but when was the last time you stopped to think about that little voice? I mean- that voice says what we mean, feels all the emotions we hide, understands what we can’t vocalize. That little voice is the voice of reason- assuring use that we're not failures, but reminding us of our vices. But more than that- I find the little voice is my real voice- the one I don’t use enough in everyday life. If only I had enough courage as my inner self does, to say the things that shouldn’t be left unsaid.

When no one in the entire world can relate to me- that little voice understands- and it’s comforting to think that maybe I really do know myself.

Who's Your Favorite Supreme Court Justice?

I must admit, I think Justice Scalia is the shit.  I don't always (ever?) agree with him, but you have to love a justice who regularly makes comments like this during oral argument or in opinions:

"Like some ghoul in a late night horror movie that repeatedly sits up in its grave and shuffles abroad, after being repeatedly killed and buried, Lemon stalks our Establishment Clause jurisprudence once again, frightening the little children and school attorneys of Center Moriches Union Free School District."

But Justice O'Connor runs a close second in my book because of this little nugget in one of her opinions.

"The requirement that dancers wear pasties and G-strings is a minimal restriction in furtherance of the asserted government interests, and the restriction leaves ample capacity to convey the dancer's erotic message."

vive la bise

Have you ever experienced a very acute need to be touched?  As one of the fundamental human senses, touch is perhaps the only one for which I actively pine.  Some days it becomes a craving, and I pursue excuses to touch people.  I graze someone's hand as I pass them a pen or feign obliviousness so as to bump someone on the street - hopeful that they might offer an apologetic hand on the shoulder.  I feel as though I were living a Regina Spektor song, "I'm so lonely...I went to a protest just to rub up against strangers..."

It's funny how this absence of physical contact creates such a physical void within me.  It becomes so palpable sometimes that I think I feel it corporeally.  It's sort of like that horrible pang of heartache.  You know - the sort of heartache that actually feels like a solid weight?  The one that comes to be when all the loneliness you've ever felt manifests itself in your thoracic cavity?  

Yeah - that one.

It's strange how a lack of physical interaction can create such a corporeal pain, and yet I know I'm not the only one who feels it so viscerally.  I am, however, convinced that some have found a way of combating it.  Now that I've been in France an entire month, I have been witness to such a remedy on a daily basis.  I've even been the subject of it on occasion!  

So what is it exactly?  Well, it's that adorable little thing French people do when they greet friends - the double cheek kiss - and it's called the bise.  It's not really kissing so much as brushing cheeks, and yet it fulfills an inner need for human contact.  Feeling the warmth of another person so intimately is more rewarding than you might expect.  A simple gesture, and yet it can stave off even the most desperate longing.  Outside of Europe, people aren't comfortable with that sort of affection, and yet it is such a beautiful action.  Being so close to someone else, feeling another's presence mingling with your own - that is the sort of thing that makes us human.  And I, for one, find such familiarity refreshing in a day and age in which frigid glances and steel handshakes are becoming the only acceptable means of acknowledging fellow beings.  

Moral of the story:  Go forth and faire la bise!

(image came from this lovely website)

Conan=Love

Conan had an ongoing joke on his show featuring the "Walker Texas Ranger Lever", which was surely one of his best recurring segments.  But there was one clip he showed that stood above the rest.

These photos from this blog.

tiny ghosts

Tiny ghosts is a sort of web "comic" I stumbled upon some time ago.  Sometimes it's funny and sometimes it's tragic.  But most of the time, it's very profound.  

Sunday

There's nothing quite like that first cup of coffee on a Sunday morning.  Coupled with a little Bill Evans, it can't be beat.  

muddled murmurs

On the way to school each day, I pass through a graffiti-covered tunnel.  Walking through, I can see the eagerness- the panic even - in each drawing and proclamation.  Every layer is a message - a voice desperately seeking acknowledgment, validation, understanding.  In an effort to be heard, these fervent voice conflate, resulting in an incomprehensible mass.  Layer builds upon layer until the whole is incoherent. 

Though many are muffled, the stories persist.  We may never know the profundity that lies hidden beneath the build-up, but I'd like to believe that these anxious voices will not go completely unheard.  

There is always a chance that someone will come along- someone with patience and determination- someone who is willing to look and listen.  And when that person comes... maybe the voices will be satisfied.  Maybe their endless pursuit for validation will cease to be in vain, and maybe all the pain that has built up over the years will be washed away.  Maybe. 

lovely noise

I love this cover by Sara Bareilles.  Good listening for those angsty days.  

Bebop

My mom has a BeBop action figure perched atop the medicine cabinet in her bathroom.  He stands amid soaps from Scotland and vintage Chanel perfume bottles.  I love juxtaposition.