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This is a picture from Petersburg, March 2005. I'm just testing to see if I can do cuts and insert images properly before I do so in a community.
( Full-size image )
That is all. |
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Two Bottles of Latvian Kvas or Prufrock at the Russian Grocery Store
It was a hot day in October, which I took as a personal affront. Not a week ago I’d been comfortably ensconced in three layers of clothing, shielding me from the delightfully nippy Ohio weather. Now, back in the Philadelphia suburbs, the temperature wouldn’t permit anything more than shorts and a t-shirt.. In St. Petersburg, I was sure, they were already wearing their sweaters, jeans, and leather coats.
I sat back from my half-finished itinerary, my e-mails, and my meeting schedules. I needed something to drink. And if it was warm, I might as well get something summery—once it cooled down, I wouldn’t be in the mood for summer beverages for too much longer. It was time, I thought, to go down to the Russian grocery store and get some kvas.
Besides, maybe the cute Ukrainian girl would be there.
I hopped in the car and drove the five minutes or so to the wasted shopping plaza. The fabric store where my mom used to buy the material for my Halloween costumes was long gone, as was the video store where we’d gotten movies for family evenings in, back when my brother and I were just little kids. There was nothing left among the empty storefronts except a rent-to-own place, a Western Union, a sketchy-looking Chinese take-out place, and the “European Deli Market,” whose sign also bore the shorter yet far more descriptive legend "МАГАЗИН." I pulled up to this last store and parked, making sure to lock the car.
I had chanced upon this store a couple of months ago, over the summer. I just happened to wander into the shopping center, looking for a place to buy beer, when my eyes passed over the МАГАЗИН sign. Already a year and a month removed from Russia, I still saw enough Russian on a daily basis that the fact of its Russian-ness didn’t strike me immediately. Then I did a double take and headed over to investigate. It was already closed, but I went back the next day. Inside, it was furnished like a typical Russian store in America, with Ukrainian ketchup posters on the wall and the usual assortment of vegetables, meats, Polish candy, kvas, pel’meni… I was thrilled that I no longer had to trek out all the way to Northeast Philly for Russian food. And the last time I’d been here, the square-faced, hairy youth with the suspicious tattoos on his hands had been replaced at the cash register by a beautiful young Ukrainian devushka, one who not only missed Ukraine, but even liked kvas.
I opened the door and walked in. There was no one at the cash register or the deli counter, but from the office I could hear the melodious Slavic chirp of devuskhas’ voices from the office. I walked back to the kvas, my raison d’être and my pretext. The Ukrainian Monastyrskyi Kvas, my usual brand, was absent, and a rack full of Latvian kvas stood in its place. I shrugged and grabbed a couple of bottles. I’m far from a connoisseur of kvas. The chirping grew louder and I looked over my shoulder.
She stood behind the counter, a latter-day Mokosh’ or Tatiana with blonde-and-brown-streaked hair and tight jeans. With her cell phone to her ear (“…Nu, ladno…po-tikhon’ku…”) she could just as well have stepped straight out of the Gostinyi Dvor metro stop or the Smolny computer labs. Loath to interrupt her birdsong (“…vsyo khorosho…da, normal’no…”), I feigned an interest in some pickled vegetables. After a few seconds, I turned around and headed towards the counter.
“Hello, how are you today?”
“How’s it going?”
we both began at the same time. I paused and smiled, waiting for her to continue.
“Okay, not bad.” She slid my two bottles of Latvian kvas over the laser. “That’ll be four eighty-five.” I silently handed her a twenty. She scanned the change drawer and called to her friend in the office. “Kopeechki nuzhny…” The other girl, a big-boned krest’yanka in sweats, brought a few pennies out, and Mokosh’ finished counting as I stood in awkward silence. “Here’s fifteen cents…” her fine feminine fingers brushed across my palm. “Thanks for coming,” she said, smiling with what seemed like genuine warmth.
“Have a good one,” I responded, returning her smile. I turned around to leave.
“Have a nice day,” she sang.
“Umm…bye.”
Walking out to the car, I kicked myself inwardly as lines from Pushkin flowed through my head.
Пустое вы сердечным ты
Она обмолвясь заменила,
И все счастливые мечты
В душе влюблённой возбудила.
Пред ней задумчиво стою,
Свести очей с неё нет силы;
И говорю ей: как вы милы!
И мыслю: как тебя люблю!
I deposited the bottles of kvas in the passenger seat and started the engine. Driving home along the narrow suburban streets, I worked the gears less precisely than usual, the engine’s high revs wailing at each shift until the clutch caught and brought it back to earth. |
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This week I was back on the road for Bard. Because of my Russian skills and Hamilton alumni status, they sent me on the "upstate trip" to Hamilton, Syracuse, and Cornell (who only let you into language classrooms if you speak the language). It was a long trip, and I was dead on my feet by the time I got home on Thursday night...600 miles and three days of rising between 6:30 and 7:30 will do that to you. Naturally, the Hamilton visit was the highlight of the trip. It was very much a bittersweet experience, and somewhat disorienting.
(Side note: rising so early has had an interesting effect on my beard. For the past few years, I have never shaved every day. I just figured that I was hormonally immature or something and incapable of growing a beard, but in fact, it grows quite normally when I shave at 6 AM instead of 10:30 or 11.)
I got into Hamilton around 5:20...the drive was longer than I thought, owing in part to a "fully involved vehicle fire" on 476 that necessitated a 60-mile detour. First, I stopped at the campus safety office to get a parking pass. I have absolutely no knowledge of Hamilton as a motorist; after 4 years there, I had to ask where "Root Extension" was. Then I headed over to Babbitt to unload my stuff.
The first person I saw in the suite was Laura. She helped me bring my stuff in, then, in short order, I saw Debbi, Wex, Katherine, and Nancy. We spent some time getting reacquainted before dinner. Stepping into McEwen, I immediately lost my appetite. They had roast beef and mashed potatoes, a decent meal, but I've been spoiled by home cooking. At dinner, I saw Kyla, Pritchard, and a few new people.
After dinner people had work to do, so I took a walk around campus in the late evening twilight. Tired and alone, I felt very strange. It looked like I had never left: the campus looked the same, smelled the same, felt the same. The weight and angle as I pulled open the door to Beinecke was completely familiar, and when I walked up the steps to the third storey of the library to visit the Ukrainian history books, it could have been any night of any year. Except that all the stress and anxiety of the Hamilton years was worlds away. With no papers to write, no books to stay up all night reading, I was free to float around, but still not entirely comfortable. My friends may have gone from Hamilton, but they still haunt the Hamilton in my head, and probably will forever. It was very easy to believe, walking by the registrar's office, that Karen just wasn't working there that day, that she was sitting back in Major reading Foucault. Seeing Opus (Opus!) and the ceramics studio devoid of Adrienne was very weird...but if you'd suspend your disbelief for just one second, you might just glance over your shoulder and see her leafing through art history notes.
I went back to the suite and watched TV in Debbi and Kyla's room, where a bunch of other friends soon joined us. Eventually things wound down and we all headed to sleep.
The next morning I rose earlier than I ever actually did as a student, hoping to catch Bartle before his busy schedule kicked in. I was unsuccessful, but I did get to chat with Prof. Keller. As I sat in Opus, she walked by outside, and (like me) it took her a moment to fully process the reality of my graduation. She waved, smiled, and kept walking, then suddenly did a double-take, stopped, came over, and gave me a big hug. We ended up talking for about a half hour.
Next I headed to Beinecke to fulfill my professional duties. I set up the table and brochures, then sat back and watched the people come. One of the first was Prof. Sciacca. We talked for a bit, and I promised to stop by during his office hours. I only got a few people stopping by, but the time wasn't wasted. There is no more complete Hamilton experience than sitting in Beinecke or Martin's Way (the old one, not the new extended one) between classes. I met a lot of my casual acquaintances, former hallmates, Brass colleagues, and others.
I got some lunch from the diner (I had to specifically ask the cashier to pay in cash, since she recognized me and thought I was still a student). Then I went and hung out with Sciacca for over two hours in his office. Nancy was there most of the time as well, so we had a good time. Bartle called partway through and I got to talk to him for a while; unfortunately, this was the extent of our contact for the day.
Finally, I dropped by Heather Buchman's office. She was busy listening to music and working on an as-yet-unwritten paper that she needs to finish soon, but she seemed really happy to see me and gladly chatted for a few minutes.
After a quick trip with Nancy and Debbi, I went to dinner. Not quite like old days, but still very enjoyable. I spent the evening in the suite, watching movies with people until it was time to go to bed.
I enjoyed going back greatly, and was sad to leave--the only thing that made it bearable was the fact that I'm going back, soon. It also provided a fascinating insight into the power of friendship and respect; even though people were busy and stressed out, they gladly gave me their time, and we all left happier for it. Nonetheless, it was strange being in a home that's not my home anymore, except in my mind--and one I was quite glad to leave, at that. It makes me wonder about how it will be when I get back to Petersburg, a Petersburg that's much the same as the one I left, but still changed and populated by a different cast of characters. I'm sure it will be weird. Still, Petersburg is a city, a much more mature and perennial place than youthful, ephemeral Hamilton. It's got a lot more room to grow. |
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I just got a call from a director at Bard. She wants to take me on temporarily as a "quasi-staff member" to go around to various places and recruit people for Smolny and other programs. So, it's not a "real" job, career-wise, but it's a good start. And I get to travel around a bit, which should be interesting.
I'm happy with the feeling of progress. I'm no longer the only one of my friends who isn't doing anything. |
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Well, Adrienne is in Chicago, Karen's getting started with City Year. My brother's back at Drew, and the '07 people and so forth are back at Hamilton. Parisa is in Washington. Mike is in Seoul (as is Will, apparently). And Lucy's getting geared up to drive to California.
I really hope I get a phone call from Bard tomorrow. I'll take any progress I can get, however small, towards Russia and respectable, independent adulthood. |
| » The Official Hamilton Playlists: Part 1, Senior Year |
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Today is move-in day at Hamilton, with convocation and the official opening of the school year and "Carissima" and all that. Except this year, I'm not there. So, in honor of my alma mater, I've made a few playlists, one for each year I spent there. They reflect the music I listened to at that time, things that I associate with particular times and places. It's not necessarily music that came out at that time, nor will it necessarily resonate with everyone (although there should be something for everyone). Maybe I'll get drunk and belt out "Carissima" at 4 PM today during convocation. Maybe not. Anyway, I'll start with senior year, with others to follow in future posts.
SENIOR YEAR:
1. Leningrad, by DDT
Sort of a hold-over from the previous year. From the nostalgic period at the beginning of the year when I wanted to be back in Petersburg so bad it hurt, and really wasn't a fan of Hamilton.
2. Dragostea Din Tei ("The Numa Numa Song"), by DiscO-Zone.
3. Let's Get Retarded, by The Black Eyed Peas
4. Ignition (Remix) by R. Kelly.
Originally from sophomore year, I now think of rocking out to this with Karen on Friday afternoons. It's the freakin' weekend, baby...
5. Opening Band, by Paul and Storm.
They came to campus early in the fall. Fun concert.
6. Overture from Tannhäuser, by Wagner
7. Unfinished Symphony Movement 2, Schubert
Two pieces from the soundtrack to Häxan, the witchcraft movie I saw with Adrienne, Joe, and Emily one dreary mid-fall day. The semester was already a slog at that point, but not crazy.
8. We Will All Go Together When We Go, by Tom Lehrer
This apocalyptic song reflected my uncertainty about my path post-college and my inability to focus on my thesis.
9. Da Ya Think I'm Sexy?, by Rod Stewart
Increasing anger and frustration at being single.
10. Menya zovut Shnur, by Leningrad
11. Gorod, by Kino.
This song captured my feelings of frustration and confinement at Hamilton.
12. Oranzhevaya Pesnya, by ??
A fun little Soviet song. It was also in the Yulia Tymoshenko movie.
13. Lieutenant Kije suite, by Prokof'ev.
Reminds me of the orchestra's excellent Russian program.
14. Take On Me, by A-ha
15. The Mary Ellen Carter, by Stan Rogers
Inspirational song at the time when I was really fucking up academically for the first time in my college career. Rise again...
16. Something Good, by The Beach Boys (performed by the Buffers)
17. Sweet Caroline, by Neil Diamond (ditto)
18. The Internet Is For Porn, Avenue Q
Three songs that I listened to a lot while dating Debbi; the last one I got from her. Incidentally, according to iTunes I haven't listened to the first two since January 28, for obvious reasons.
19. Time Of Your Life, by Green Day
January. Breakup with Debbi. Didn't get the Fulbright. Angst.
20. When the Trickster Starts A-Pokin', by Gogol Bordello
21. Avenue B, ditto
22. Undestructable, ditto
Febfest. My new favorite band performs on campus. "Undestructable" becomes my anthem in a time of difficulty and academic uncertainty.
23. "Long Dance," by some Latvian folk artists with bagpipes.
Life imitates study.
24. Going Out Two Stepping Tonight, by Jackie Caillier and the Cajun Cousins
25. Drunk Alphabet song, by some drunk guy
26. Bananaphone, by Raffi
27. The Ultimate Showdown of Ultimate Destiny, by some internet people
A bunch of silly, fun songs.
28. Come On Eileen, by Dexy's Midnight Runners
Wex's song. Ubiquitous throughout the spring semester.
29. The Obvious Child, by Paul Simon
Increasing frustration with Hamilton, feeling that I've had enough of academic matters, but still have to devote all my time and energy to them.
30. On the Facebook
One of the realities of modern college life. Reminds me of going to Montreal to visit Parisa over spring break.
31. Tsonkinata, by some Bulgarian peasants
32. Pristanalata Ganka, ditto
Gogol Bordello inspiration. Dark Balkan music, to match the darkest days of academic stagnation and self-doubt during spring break.
33. The Final Countdown, by Europe
Spring break to graduation...time to pull it all together.
34. London Calling, by The Clash
More apocalyptic stuff.
35. She Has a Girlfriend Now, by Reel Big Fish
Finally 100% over Debbi and resigned to being single for the time being.
36. To Life, from Fiddler On the Roof
Ephemeral happiness and optimism with a deep, deep, dark, ominous undercurrent. Very appropriate to the time.
37. Ping Island, from The Life Aquatic
38. Oi z-za gory kreminoyi, by some Ukrainian peasants.
Dark, beautiful Ukrainian peasant music I scored from Prof. Sciacca. Sweet.
39. Carolina, by Taraf de Haïdouks
Good Roma music, a birthday present from the 'rents.
40. Gasoline, by Enter the Haggis
Another great band that came to campus.
41. Toccata, from Charles-Marie Widor's Fifth Symphony (for organ)
The organist played this at our last Easter gig at the Presbyterian Church. I always wondered what this song was.
42. Bondage, by Northern Harmony
43. Shaker Medley, ditto
44. Nanila, ditto
Two songs in an early American tradition and one Georgian lullaby by another group that came to campus. Nanila is one of the most beautiful things I've ever heard.
45. Moskau, by Dschingis Khan
Kyla showed me this. Delightfully kitschy German music about Russia.
46. Now You're a Man, from Orgazmo
We listened to this over and over again senior week while waiting for someone to show up so we could watch the movie. And what could be a better theme for graduation?
Aug. 27th, 2006 @ 02:12 pm
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| » My town sucks |
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I was chatting with my good friend Parisa the other night, and we inevitably got onto one of our favorite topics: how much we hate the suburbs. We're both suburban kids, from Wallingford, PA, and we've both spent a good deal of time at college and, more importantly, in cities. Post-graduation, we've both sunken back into a brief interlude of suburban life (although hers is considerably briefer, as she's in the process of moving to Washington, DC).
Anyway, why do I hate the suburbs? I haven't always done so. In fact, it's a pretty good place to grow up. As a little kid, I enjoyed having a yard and a swingset in the backyard. The schools here are good, and it's safe and quiet. My high school marching band was excellent, and one of the best experiences of my life.
But as a sort-of-adult, I find this place incredibly stultifying and somewhat offensive.
First, it's difficult to live morally in the suburbs. In an ideal world, I would walk, bike, or use public transport as much as possible, as much as I like cars and enjoy driving. When I was in St. Petersburg, I went almost everywhere on public transport. In the city, I used the Metro or, occasionally, the bus or trolley. For long distance, I took the train. Once in a while, I would use a cab, but that was expensive and, frankly, it's often a lot quicker to take the Metro than to sit in traffic. But the American suburbs were built in the light of postwar optimism, when the oil was plentiful and in friendlier hands and technology could accomplish anything. Everyone has their big lawn and nothing is within walking distance. I have to walk about 20-30 minutes to the nearest commuter train station, probably about 15 minutes to the nearest convenience store, restaurant, and grocery store. There's a bus stop nearby, but I don't know how often it runs and I suspect it wouldn't take me anywhere I'd want to go. This means that, for shopping, congregating with friends, running errands, whatever, I have to get in the car and use gasoline. The bike will get you there, but it takes longer, can't carry much, and you get too sweaty on the hills.
I'm lucky that there are two small, independent grocery stores right near me that sell fresh, local produce. Thank Providence for Swarthmore. Sanctimonious a place as it is, it has its good points.
Second, the suburbs isolate you. At college, you are constantly surrounded by other people. You can choose to surround yourself with your friends: they might live right next door, down the hall, or at worst a few minutes' walk away. The city also immerses you in people. You can lock your apartment door as tight as you want, but once you go outside, there are people walking down the street, selling things, riding with you on the subway or the bus. There are dozens of cafes and other places you can meet and hang out. In the suburbs, you ride alone in your own car. In my town, there are no sidewalks. There is no town center: we have a Wawa on Providence Road and that's pretty much it. You can drive over to the Starbucks or one of the restaurants in Media, or to the Borders in Swarthmore, but there is nothing in Wallingford, proper.
I never really had close friends on my street. There was one kid in my grade down at the other end of the street, but he ended up being a dick. Ditto for the kids two houses down. I had good friends, all right, but we would get together on the weekends, when our parents drove us to each others' houses. There are no playgrounds nearby: all the elementary schools are a 20-minute or so walk away along busy roads. I think that blaming the suburbs for my stunted social skills is going a bit too far, but there's got to be some connection there.
But really, the biggest problem with the suburbs is the general lack of beauty. I think the streets on my house are okay, have some character...but maybe that's just me making the typical exception for myself, or maybe it's just because they've acquired a patina of respectability in their 60-odd years of existence. But newer suburban homes, particularly those odious "mini-mansions," disgust me. For one thing, the size and poor use of space are ridiculous, especially considering that they probably house typical 2- or 3-child suburban families. The conspicuous consumption aspect is also disgusting...buying such a house is a very clear, very public declaration of one's wealth. A couple years back I read about the "cool new ZIP code," out in West Chester somewhere. One couple, a pair of up-and-coming executives who were starting a family, bought a home in the area and were dismayed to discover that they'd bought just outside the "cool" ZIP code. They actually begged the local post office to let them move their mailbox across the street so that it would have the right ZIP code. I have no sympathy for them--in fact, I'll momentarily leave aside my agnosticism to hope that they burn in Hell. Naturally, the area in question was one of those sprawling new developments where they tear down all the trees, bulldoze any uniqueness and character out of the land, and erect a homogeneous rank of neo-suburban-ugly-classical starter castles with pretty siding, high ceilings, gaudy chandeliers, and ostentatious loggias with fake pillars. They build them at odd angles so that the windows won't face each other, since there are no trees for privacy.
These edifices are "beautiful." I use this term in quotes, because it denotes a certain quality that I don't think is beautiful at all. I think it might be better characterized as the aspiration of small minds. I think it's fair to say that this idea of beauty is equivalent to the Russian concept of "poshlost':" it fulfills, without art or imagination, a certain common expectation of its time and place. It's the current manifestation of the American dream: work hard, be successful, and you can live in a sterile, gaudy building that looks just like everyone else's. With central air. Personally, I find these houses nauseating, but obviously, there's plenty of people out there, with plenty of money, who would describe these "homes" with complete sincerity as "beautiful."
In this respect, houses are like women. Look at any "men's magazine," and you'll see it full of "beautiful," "perfect" women. You know the type: blond, skinny, with flawlessly smooth white skin, large and probably fake breasts, probably in a bikini. And they do nothing for me. Sure, they're nice to look at, unchallenging, but incapable of provoking anything beyond a rote, programmed reaction. I see women on the street, all the time (well, not in the suburbs) that I find much more attractive. Real women have shape and substance, imperfections and blemishes, physical and mental. Individually, those aren't too attractive, but collectively, this is what makes them interesting. So far in my life, I've dated two women. Neither one would have been on the cover of any "men's magazine," but as far as I was concerned, they were beautiful. They were unique, distinctive, and most importantly, had a substance and intelligence that animated and illuminated them. But he of the small mind goes for this, Exhibit A:
View img #220823
Note the cliche "come hither and fuck me" gaze, the excessive makeup, the lower back tattoo that "swoops titillatingly towards the nether regions," and the fishnet stockings that scream "PORN! SEX!" like a Las Vegas neon sign.
Everything in the suburbs is like this. Go to a chain restaurant, look at the interior of an Applebee's or a TGI Friday's or a Bertucci's. Rows and rows of "memorabilia," designed to look unique and upscale while it's actually the same crap you'll find in the next franchise. That Italian peasant pitchfork on the wall at Bertucci's? There's one just like it at the Bertucci's across town, or in Topeka, Kansas, or in the office park by the highway near the airport in New Jersey. Your typical Russian Chinese restaurant won't be very pretty, polished, or even necessarily very Chinese-looking, but at least it looks the way it does for a good reason, not because some marketer in a central office decreed that it be so.
I can't claim that all is unique and beautiful in the city. Where the suburbs are fake pillars and white siding, modern cities are metal, concrete, and endless plate glass. Newer Soviet cities are all identical 5, 9, or 11-story brick or concrete apartments. And even great cities have their ugly neighborhoods. But any good city should have at least a solid core of buildings that change, however subtly, that stand out, that were built with some attention to detail by someone who gave a shit. In St. Petersburg, or Moscow, or Berlin, Regensburg, beauty is only a train ride or a short walk away, at the most.
The suburbs are too comfortable. Perhaps I'm wrong, and someone can answer me on this, but what great art has ever come out of the suburbs? It's a place for stagnation. With neither oppression nor inspiration, what can they produce? Bad, angsty teenage poetry, angry music with lots of drums, guitars, and weird clothing, adolescent boys blowing things up in the street (Exhibit B: YouTube), and creatively frustrated stay-at-home moms with art degrees pushing colored glass into wet sidewalk concrete together with their toddlers. But how can you expect more, when their homes, their workplaces, their restaurants, and they themselves are just fitting into a narrowly defined, preconceived, and unlovely mold of "beauty?"
Aug. 21st, 2006 @ 12:58 am
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| » There are places I'll remember all my life, though some have changed... |
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"I will never say the word 'procrastinate' again,
I'll never see myself in the mirror with my eyes closed."
--They Might Be Giants, "Flood"
This weekend was the annual family reunion at my aunt and uncle's house in Herkimer, NY, near Utica. The reunion was a lot of fun, although I don't think I've been so active in a long time. I rode over with my dad in the morning, about 13 miles of seemingly endless uphill. Then I hung out with my cousins most of the day, ate a ton of food, played in the pool, and demolished a couple of pairs in doubles badminton with my cousin Kevin. No rockets were launched this year, but that's okay...times change.
It was a bit weird being back in the area, though. It was the first time I'd been up there since graduation, and the first time I've really confronted the fact that I'm not going back in the fall. Not to mention the fact that my grandmother's house, while completely intact in my mind, is essentially gone, sold, her things moved to Connecticut. I always thought it was a bit weird being in central NY as a college student, amidst all the places I'd gone as a child on family trips: the Sangertown Mall, the Children's Museum, and so forth. Now it's the other way around: on my first post-graduation family trip, I'm surrounded by things that remind me of my years in college: driving down the arterial, seeing the IHOP where we used to eat after Brass Ensemble gigs, the exit where I'd get off (or, more accurately, Adrienne would drop me off) to go to the train station, or the fabled Peepers. I went bowling with all my cousins after the reunion, and of course we went to Pin-O-Rama, as in previous years. Except this time, my most recent memory was of bowling there with Karen. On Sunday morning, we dropped by Hamilton on the way home. It was brief; we just drove up the hill and through the Dark Side. I didn't really want to stay any longer. It was very strange: the campus was deserted, but it looked just the same. As if I could, for example, walk into Opus and see Adrienne sitting there, or go into my room and sit amidst my Soviet posters. But it's empty; my flags are gone from the window and my map of St. Petersburg is leaning against the wall at home. Other friends will be going back soon, and next year won't be much different from this year, but it's not my place anymore, and soon it will change practically beyond recognition, even as it looks almost the same.
Summer is the perfect amount of time to develop nostalgia for college. It happened every year: I'd come home burned out from finals, nauseated by the food, and glad for a change of pace. By the end of the summer, I was itching to get back to a place where my friends lived right next door and I could see them and eat with them every day, where life had structure and purpose, where lunch, even if it wasn't very good, at least changed every day.
The same is true this year. Last year was kind of a second-rate year: readjustment trouble, loads of stress, academic stumbles, a shifting social landscape with mixed results, and so forth. Hamilton had been the perfect place for me for two years, but I'd outgrown it. All year I was fuming at the frustrations of academia, the limited social options and small pool of dateable people at Hamilton, the atmosphere of irony, pettiness, and immaturity, and the mustache racers and other assorted freshmen and sophomores with a too-high opinion of themselves. But now, as summer begins to wane, all I can think of are my friends, late-night diner runs, early-semester weekend afternoons on Minor Field, lunch on the Dark Side quad, Brass Ensemble practice, walks in the Glen, and hot wings. Except this time, I'm not going back, and if I stop to think about it at all, I sure as hell don't want to.
Fare thee well, Hamilton College. It will be a nice place to visit, but I wouldn't want to live there.
EDIT: By the way, if anyone is interested, the giant black phallus and other assorted works of art are still standing proudly.
Aug. 14th, 2006 @ 10:23 pm
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| » No Right Turn On Red |
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While puttering around Wikipedia this morning, I discovered that The Bloodhound Gang hails from Quakertown, just about a one-hour ride up the Blue Route from my own Wallingford. Not only that, but they actually have a song entitled "Pennsylvania," which illustrates life here pretty well. The lyrics are as follows:
We are "Cop Rock," we are Screech
We are Z. Cavaricci
We are laser-removed
Tasmanian devil tattoos
We are third string, we are Puck
We are Special People's Club
We are the half shirts with
Irreverent spring break top ten lists
We are munsoned, we are squat
We are flashing "twelve o'clock"
We are spread out butt cheeks
Pulled apart so just the air leaks
We are "Ishtar" we are Tab
We are no right turn on red
We are the moustaches
The Beatles grew when they dropped acid
You are the heart dotting "i"
In the word "apologize"
Scribbled drunk on a postcard
Sent from somewhere volcanoes are
I am the heart with no name
Airbrushed on the license plate
Of a Subaru that was
Registered in Pennsylvania
We are Zima, we are barf
We are cinderblock yard art
We are Baldwin brothers
Not the good one, but the others
We are Amway, we are Shemp
We are Sir David of Brent
We are the queef after
A porn star breaks the gang bang record
You are the heart dotting "i"
In the word "apologize"
Scribbled drunk on a postcard
Sent from somewhere volcanoes are
I am the heart with no name
Airbrushed on the license plate
Of a Subaru that was
Registered in Pennsylvania
Do you even know what a Wawa is girl?
Do you even know what a Wawa is?
Do you even know what a Wawa is girl?
Do you even know what a Wawa is?
I'm in a state of P fuckin' A
--------------------------------
Yeah, that pretty much covers it. The good news is, I'm making progress on my job search. I've got some networking letters out, and already have an interview scheduled. Not a job interview, but an "informational interview." One step closer to the Motherland, and out of Pennsylvania.
Aug. 1st, 2006 @ 11:09 am
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| » Kukushka |
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I just watched "Kukushka" ("The Cuckoo") again, and I think it's fair to say that it's rapidly becoming my favorite movie. I love everything about it. Russia. Lappland. The dark north. Wasted, inhospitable, rocky, yet achingly beautiful lands. Rough peasant huts. Indecipherable Finno-Ugric languages. Mystic folkloric religion. Not to mention Anni, the gorgeous, take-no-shit Saami peasant woman. I want to marry this woman: resourceful, mature, no-nonsense, beautiful in her layers of wool and felt. She cooks. She sews. She herds reindeer. Everything about her is wonderful, with the possible exception of her diet: I could do without the fish soup and reindeer-blood-and-reindeer-milk mixture.
http://i.imdb.com/Photos/Ss/0308476/bw_3.jpg
I want to hop on a plane to Finland right now and start learning Saami and building my own peasant hut.
Jul. 27th, 2006 @ 01:03 am
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| » Horrors |
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After four years of faithful service and physical integrity, my beloved Powerbook has suffered a major injury. The left hinge for the monitor broke, leaving it rather fragile and compromising the (very expensive) cable inside. So it's in the shop right now. The top section is going to be replaced with a part scavenged from another computer, and some of those were pretty beat up. So the once-pristine top of my computer may end up looking like Jango Fett's helmet. For the first time since my trip to Ukraine, I am separated from my computer. Luckily, I've still got my speakers and iPod, so I still have music. However, for everything else, I have to rely on my parents' machine. So, if you need to get in touch with me, telephone is probably the most reliable way to do so. In the meantime, I'll just have to soldier on without constant access to weather, Wikipedia, Russian news, and videos of stupid people hurting themselves.
Jul. 23rd, 2006 @ 02:24 pm
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| » У нас-- квас! А у вас? |
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Yesterday I finished off my Blue Moon, drinking the last remaining bottle from the case I bought a few weeks ago. It ably complemented yesterday's delightful summer meal (Jersey corn, baked potatoes, and a big ol' slab of marinated and grilled meat). I would have preferred to complement the meal with two glasses of beer, rather than one, so I went out yesterday before dinner to look for more Blue Moon. Unfortunately, this was not to be. But every cloud has its silver lining.
Since it was after 5 PM, the store where I got the Blue Moon before was closed. At my mother's suggestion, I headed to a store in Woodlyn, which is the closest thing to a ghetto that you'll find in my quiet suburban existence. The big beer distributor was closed, and in the coolers of the sketchy cheesesteak joint, there was no Blue Moon to be found among the 40s of Budweiser. So I headed out, deciding to check one more plaza before heading home.
As they scanned the storefronts, my jaded eyes almost missed the fact that one sign, in addition to the English-language "European Deli," also read "МАГАЗИН"--Russian for "store." It was closed, but this discovery more than made up for my lack of beer.
This morning I drove over there while running my errands. Inside, it looked reasonably Russian, except for the obvious newness and cleanliness. It's a typical Russian store in America, with Ukrainan ketchup posters adorning the walls and carrying the usual smorgasboard of Russian, Ukrainian, and Polish foods, candies, and tea. There's also a deli. There were only a couple of other people there.
They seem to have all my favorite things. I grabbed a bottle of kvas and a bag of pel'meni, and talked briefly with the guy at the counter as he rang me up. He's a Russian who immigrated at age 2 (he speaks perfect, unaccented English, but speaks Russian at home).
I'm thrilled. I had no idea that there was an East Slavic community right next door...and now I don't have to drive all the way to northeast Philly to get my Russian fix. I may not have Blue Moon, but I've got kvas.
Jul. 17th, 2006 @ 03:08 pm
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| » Perspective |
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Several years ago, my uncle Carl married a woman from Beirut. Now they're in the process of divorce due to her immaturity and selfishness, but that's immaterial. In the intervening years, he helped raise and became, essentially, a father to her three kids (the divorce has apparently not harmed their relationship). I'm not terribly close to them, but I saw them at family gatherings and such growing up.
Two of them have been over in Beirut visiting their biological father. I guess the youngest one saw which way the wind was blowing, and got on a plane out of Beirut at 1:30, about half an hour before the airport was bombed.
Her brother, on the other hand, decided he'd be a tough guy and stick it out, so he stayed over there. His father got out of the country, so he's with his grandfather in south Beirut, which (my father informs me) is being bombed at this moment. Apparently he has forged documents to extend his visa, and he could be conscripted if the government so chooses. He's calling to check in every couple of hours or so.
This comes just after my uncle had (successful) emergency abdominal surgery.
I feel pretty damn lucky right now. I hope things turn out okay for Amin.
Jul. 13th, 2006 @ 09:41 pm
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| » One year ago today... |
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...I was in Kizhi, in northern Russia. The farthest north I've ever been, the brightest I've ever seen it at night, and the most refreshing swim ever (skinny-dipping by the monastery). Ahh, good times...
Jun. 18th, 2006 @ 02:21 pm
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| » Suburban Idleness Mix |
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Here is the first of what I hope will be many mixes on this journal, reflecting a specific theme or mood. The theme is, autobiographically enough, "Suburban Idleness." In keeping with the theme, the songs aren't presented in any particular order.
1. Gogol Bordello, "Punk Rock Parranda"
"In this kind of town, sociological balance is upset
And in this kind of town, the women never get wet."
2. Billy Joel, "Captain Jack"
"Saturday night and you're still hanging around,
Tired of living in your one-horse town."
3. Beck, "Devil's Haircut"
"Something's wrong, 'cause my mind is fading
And everywhere I look, there's a dead end waiting."
4. Avenue Q soundtrack, "What do you do with a BA in English?"
"Four years of college, and plenty of knowledge, have earned me this useless degree,
I can't pay the bills yet, 'cause I have no skills yet..."
5. The Offspring, "Why don't you get a job?"
"...na na why don't you get a job?" 'Nuf said.
6. Enter the Haggis, "Another Round"
7. REM, "(Don't Go Back to) Rockville)"
8. Billy Joel, "Blonde over Blue"
"In Hell there's a big hotel where the bar just closed and the windows never open..."
9. The Beatles, "Nowhere Man"
"Doesn't have a point of view, knows not where he's going to, isn't he a bit like you and me?"
10. Styx, "Too Much Time On My Hands"
"I'm so tired of losing, I've got nothing to do, and all day to do it,
So I go out crusing, but I've no place to go and all night to get there."
11. ДДТ, "Мы из Уфы"
"Наш город это, здесь живём, весной гуляем, спим зимой
И если, вдруг, когда умрём, схоронят тут же, за рекой."
12. Ленинград, "Бляди"
"Мысли нет и денег нет, только хуй работает.
Хочется ему тепла, хоть одна бы мне дала."
13. Green Day, "Longview"
"Sit around and watch the tube, but nothing's on
Change the channels for an hour or two
Twiddle my thumbs just for a bit
I'm sick of all the same old shit
In a house with unlocked doors
And I'm fucking lazy."
In other news, I got new glasses today. I think they make me look sexy. Well, they're an improvement over the old ones, anyway. I'm happy with them.
Jun. 17th, 2006 @ 02:51 am
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| » Job Search...blah |
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The road to Russia is a twisty one. Kind of like a maze, in fact.
I just called Middlebury's human resources office, and they told me that the resident coordinator job was filled. Which is a bummer. But that's life.
I've been poking around the job listings at expat.ru. They've got quite a bit of stuff for teachers, a little bit of translating stuff...now I just need to get my ass in gear and start writing letters and so forth.
It seems like most of the positions I look at require years of experience or at least some sort of ESOL certification, which makes me feel, despite my Russian skills and four years of college, rather unqualified. Well, there's got to be something out there. I've barely entered the maze, let alone explored all of its twists and turns.
Jun. 15th, 2006 @ 03:47 pm
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| » (No Subject) |
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Not much new around here. I've settled into a peaceful, uninteresting suburban existence for the moment. At some level I'm conscious that I need to get out of here, but I need to connect that with actually doing job search stuff, and I need to be more desperate in general.
In one sense, I am my own jailor. I've never been too adept at finding my own boundaries. I'm sure there is a lot more I could be doing here, but being back home I fall into the patterns of yore, like when I was in high school or earlier. It's the same when I'm driving: I can drive vast distances over all kinds of roads by myself with no problem, but as soon as my dad is in the car, I revert. Not even his fault, necessarily--it's just the dynamic that forms. So here I sit, bumming around at home all days and nights of the week, making worst-case assumptions about car schedules and waiting for completely unnecessary parental initiative to do anything.
At least, thus far, I have two claims to using my time effectively. First, I've been riding my bike a bit. I've been putting in about 50 minutes/7 miles every day for the past three days. I'd gotten a nice start last weekend, with about 4 straight days of biking or swimming, then the bad weather hit and put paid to both my exercise alternatives. Then I got a bit sick, which I'm convinced was connected. After just one day of getting back on the bike, I felt much better.
Second, I've been reading good stuff. I finished "Lolita." It was a delightful book; my mom, who's also read it, didn't understand why I liked it so much, but she's not a fan of structural weirdness, so it's not so much her thing. But this is now a contender for "favorite book ever." I'm sure I'll read it many more times. I also got out a book of essays by Stephen Jay Gould, which is pretty good so far. I like this idea of "popular" writing. It makes me feel intelligent and intellectually curious without boring me.
Today I read in the paper that GM is opening a new factory outside of St. Petersburg (in Shushary, which I have thus far been unable to locate on a map). So I went online and put together an online resume. We'll see what happens.
In any case, I can take comfort in my first significant post-college purchase: a whole case of Blue Moon.
In cleaning out my room today, I found a book of German poetry from high school. Fortunately it has translations, since I can't (never could, to be honest) read the stuff in the original. But, since German makes everything funnier, here are a couple of my favorites:
kühlschrank
er onaniert
ununterbrochen.
es zittert das ganze haus.
abhilfe:
man schleicht sich an,
reißt die tür auf
--sofort
hört er auf.
man schlägt die tür zu;
einige zeit bleibt ruh.
__________________
refrigerator
it masturbates
incessantly.
the whole house shakes.
remedy:
you creep up to it,
rip open the door
--at once
it will cease.
you slam the door;
for a while there is peace.
*******
die milch
die milch ist am boden
was hat die milch dort zu suchen
sie hat nichts zu suchen
aber sie zahlt es dir heim
was denn
sie rächt die kuh
--
the milk
the milk is on the floor
what business has milk to be there
it has no business
but it's paying you back
for what
it's avenging the cow
--Ernst Jandl, translated by Michael Hamburger
Jun. 14th, 2006 @ 05:21 pm
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| » You can't masturbate in the media library! |
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Well...maybe you can. (see c. 2:10 into the video)
By the way, the former FBI agent interviewed looks almost exactly like my history professor in Russia.
http://www.thatvideosite.com/view/2517.html
And while we're on the topic, here's a webcomic, courtesy of Debbi, that concisely illuminates the male mind:
http://www.nekothekitty.net/cusp/daily.php?date=040102
Jun. 5th, 2006 @ 07:05 pm
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| » The First Days of the Rest of My Life |
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Hello.
This is my new post-Hamilton livejournal. It was fun keeping the last one while I was in Russia, but that was more of a PG-rated, family-friendly travelogue. Last year, my final year at college, I figured nothing interesting would happen in my life, so it wasn't worth writing about. By and large, I was right; while last year was obviously interesting to me and those around me, there was nothing inherently unique or unusual about it. No travels to exotic locales, misadventures with police, or seduction attempts by 62-year-old Marxist psychologists.
This is intended to be a more typical LJ, with the dual goals of keeping in touch with people and of being a place for self-expression. It will necessarily be somewhat self-centered and, at times, angsty. You're not obligated to read it completely or at all.
Life after graduation has been, thus far, pretty boring. Back in the suburbs, it's like I've regressed back to childhood. I'm stuck in the old cycles of family life. Tonight, I was actually watching a gardening show with my parents. I should take advantage of the nearby city more, but like I said, the inertia is difficult to break. Especially when you're in the suburbs and need a car to get anywhere, which imposes limits on both one's schedule (since one needs to coordinate one's car use with the rest of the family) and one's alcohol consumption. Back in Petersburg, you could get drunk, stumble onto the Metro, and get home safely.
The rest is nice, though. I've started reading for pleasure again. I read "Everything is Illuminated," which was a fun, if weird, book. Imagine "Slaughterhouse Five" meets "Fiddler on the Roof." Now I'm reading "Lolita," which is delightful. I'm not much for pedophilia, but Nabokov's grasp of the language is amazing, considering that English isn't even his native language. I'm used to reading with a dictionary by my side, but not in my own native tongue. Not that it's pedantic or dense; it's beautifully written. I want to read the Russian translation next to see how he managed the wordplay there.
I picked up my knitting again, and made some progress on one scarf I've been working on, but now it's too hot to knit. The thunderstorm tonight cooled things down nicely, but that's surely temporary. It's been too hot to drink tea, too. My energy level has plunged as a result.
I've been downloading a lot of music, mostly classical, but other stuff as well. I got a bagpipe medley of "Minstrel Boy," "Scotland the Brave," and "Johnny Scobie." Reminds me of graduation. I also got a bagpipe version of "Amazing Grace," so now I have the whole bagpipe repertoire covered. I found a fascinating article on the history and derivations of the song "Apache." You can read it here:
http://soul-sides.com/2005/04/all-roads-lead-to-apache.html
I highly recommend "The Incredible Bongo Band's" version of the song, which you download off the site. "Boiling-over organ" indeed.
Having spent four years raising my blood pressure, I'm now trying to lower it, and get in shape in general. I've been riding my bike a good bit, and I'm going to try swimming laps regularly. The weather defeated this plan today, but I'll get back on it.
So far I've sent resumes to Middlebury and BBC Monitoring. I haven't heard back from either yet. I need to step up my job search, now that I've rested up a bit.
Jun. 2nd, 2006 @ 11:54 pm
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