Monthly Archives: March 2016
They say the drive to grandma’s house is always longer than the way home.
We live in a world where we think everything worth learning should be Google-able, but the truth is that we use easy answers as a crutch to support us as we fumble along on legs that aren’t strengthened by the workout routine of inquiry.
Unfortunately, my triage mindset has leaked out into my personal life, and I now do this with men. Yup, it’s true: I triage my dates.
The server, now finishing up her closing work, stopped all of a sudden and said to me, “Oh my gosh, you don’t have a phone or anything to look at?” I held up my LG. She literally put her hand to her mouth.
But make no mistake, ‘Do unto others as you would have them do unto you’ is a flawed statement. It would only work in a dreamlike utopia, where every person exhibits an identical preference and attitude—a scenario I truly believe would bore me to death.
So every week, but especially during this weekend, we hold both at the same time. Sin and grace. The already and the not yet. Death and resurrection.
During Plead the Fifth, Andy asks his celebrity guests three questions, one at a time, and he tells them that they may only choose not to answer (“plead the fifth”) to one.
It should be noted that the entirety of Shaw’s has gone sitcom quiet again. You get the feeling they’re waiting for their elder statesman to pass a type of judgment.
With so many cynosural queens clawing to be the center of attention, watching Drag Race can feel like attempting to view fireworks through a kaleidoscope.
There were so many unknowns I couldn’t control or explain, so I just avoided them. All of them. Everything. I avoided everything.
In contrast with games like Mafia, which lives and dies upon its players’ intuition, Secret Hitler introduces a mechanic that brings reason (or maybe reason’s bastard, hunch-prone son) to the table.
Since moving to Ann Arbor, I’ve encountered more panhandlers in two years than I’d seen in the preceding twenty-three. And every time, no matter how bedraggled or desperate they appear, I always truck right past.
How much further from home is the 40-year old tailor from Afghanistan who lacks the native words to ask for his family’s daily bread?
I’m twenty-four and should move somewhere far away and then move again once I’ve grown familiar enough to know exactly where to find packets of yeast in the store.
One of the pleasures of listening to a new band is creating an image of who the singer is. What do they look like? What kind of life do they live when they’re not playing?
But where do our clothes actually come from? Before they get to the mall or the boutique or the bargain bin, before we buy them for their comfort, style, or perceived necessity in our wardrobe. Sure, the tag lists a country, but what does that really mean? Who are the people who make them? What are their working conditions like? Are they paid a living wage?
It’s Saturday morning and I’m back at my old high school, preparing for a day full of those meta sort of moments when you get to sit on the other side of the table. Those times when you get a totally new perspective on something you’ve done a hundred times.
There is power in naming our fears, so here it is: I fear that sort of adulthood. The knowing sort. I fear it because it is a foolish and finite sort of adulthood.
February 21, 2016, 4:15 p.m. Crate & Barrel, 777 Boylston St, Boston, Massachusetts. We are standing in front of a flatware display with an iPod scanner, bickering about the price of forks.
There’s beer in the fridge and it doesn’t say, “Kirkland Signature.” (No hate.) There’s bourbon in the liquor cabinet. There’s a liquor cabinet. There’s a cabinet. I’ve never lived in a cleaner place. I’ve never used more sturdy cutlery.
But I brushed it off—I was having fun, and it wasn’t like I was going to live this way forever. I could stop whenever I wanted. Until I couldn’t.
The last leap year was 2012. That was the year I told myself I would take a photo every single day and create a chronological collection of three hundred and sixty-six snapshots.
I don’t do anything for the man who bangs on the church door and tells me about his probation and court date in Bremerton an hour and a half away and the company that let him go after thirty years to save themselves a retirement plan and the chronic pain in his shoulder and the botched knee surgery and how he just needs eight dollars and ten cents for the ferry or else they’ll throw him back in jail over a lousy eight dollars and ten cents and could I please, please, I know you’re good guy, please just give me eight dollars and ten cents for the ferry?
There was definitely no dancing, underage drinking, etc. And the truth is, even if the setting was different, I’m more Rory and Paris than Madeleine and Louise. Pizza and The Power of Myth sounds way better than staying out late dancing and drinking… or whatever it is people do on spring break.
If I were a man of principle, I would have shouted, “GET THIS DEVIL STICK AWAY FROM ME” and thrown it into a tree.
We aren’t who we should be, and that’s not ok. And try as we do, we can’t fix our ugliness. But that doesn’t mean we’re not loved, and it doesn’t mean we’re alone.
If I sound whiny, forgive me. I’m cloistered amongst literal stacks of books with an academically sanctioned excuse just to read. That’s gotta be one of the most bourgy complaints imaginable.
“Say nice things to me,” I pleaded with him once in desperation. “You’re beautiful,” he told me, which had once been enough, back when he was the first to ever tell me, “…and smart?” I felt myself slipping away.