Thursday, May 29, 2003
sleeping my brain:
Five minutes ago I had not the energy or the drive to blog, perhaps ever again.
Dipping my brain in sleep always sparks thought, so I'm here briefly to state where I've been and where I'm going.
I've been to Boston, and treaded about every street on foot. It's small and legit-patriotic. Their main art gallery, the MFA, is decent. Their collection of Copley's is the best part, including his now-beer-famous portrait of Samuel Adams; they also have his large canvas depiction of a boy being attacked by a shark in Havana harbor— I only mention this because it's an image I've had in my memory since second grade where I oggled it daily in this Readers Digest book all about sharks that my parents had given me to help deal with my addiction to Jaws (an addiction that has only mellowed and matured with time, but has not fallen away).
I also witnessed a Yankee victory over the Red Sox while in an actual Boston bar. HA! But the most depressing thing I saw was the 1912 World Champions banner hanging sheepishly from the rafters of Fenway Park.
So I drove back to LI with Lauren for a tour of The School (glorious day), followed by dinner at Baja Grill and more mutual sharing of relationship woes and aims. Then, I actually braved the task of driving in Manhattan and dropped her off at Port Authority. Yes, I who was once bugged out by the traffic patterns of Utica have now handled going cross-town and back to the Midtown Tunnel sans problems. I am not ashamed of my pride in this.
An idea occured during all this driving about my blog. What is its purpose? It's growing stale; it needs a reason to live besides being good writing-practice. Here's what I project: a collection of sketches, observing those I encounter or witness this summer. Some will be lucid character unravellings of people I've known for a while, some will be extrapolations of a face in a crowd based on the scantest of data. I'm inspired by the brilliant skill with description found in the Salinger I've been reading, most noteably "Seymour - An Introduction."
And tomorrow I head out again, this time for New Hampshire and beyond (beyond being possibly Burlington). Woo hoo.
Five minutes ago I had not the energy or the drive to blog, perhaps ever again.
Dipping my brain in sleep always sparks thought, so I'm here briefly to state where I've been and where I'm going.
I've been to Boston, and treaded about every street on foot. It's small and legit-patriotic. Their main art gallery, the MFA, is decent. Their collection of Copley's is the best part, including his now-beer-famous portrait of Samuel Adams; they also have his large canvas depiction of a boy being attacked by a shark in Havana harbor— I only mention this because it's an image I've had in my memory since second grade where I oggled it daily in this Readers Digest book all about sharks that my parents had given me to help deal with my addiction to Jaws (an addiction that has only mellowed and matured with time, but has not fallen away).
I also witnessed a Yankee victory over the Red Sox while in an actual Boston bar. HA! But the most depressing thing I saw was the 1912 World Champions banner hanging sheepishly from the rafters of Fenway Park.
So I drove back to LI with Lauren for a tour of The School (glorious day), followed by dinner at Baja Grill and more mutual sharing of relationship woes and aims. Then, I actually braved the task of driving in Manhattan and dropped her off at Port Authority. Yes, I who was once bugged out by the traffic patterns of Utica have now handled going cross-town and back to the Midtown Tunnel sans problems. I am not ashamed of my pride in this.
An idea occured during all this driving about my blog. What is its purpose? It's growing stale; it needs a reason to live besides being good writing-practice. Here's what I project: a collection of sketches, observing those I encounter or witness this summer. Some will be lucid character unravellings of people I've known for a while, some will be extrapolations of a face in a crowd based on the scantest of data. I'm inspired by the brilliant skill with description found in the Salinger I've been reading, most noteably "Seymour - An Introduction."
And tomorrow I head out again, this time for New Hampshire and beyond (beyond being possibly Burlington). Woo hoo.
Tuesday, May 27, 2003
Roadblog the Deuce:
New England Freedom Tour, May/June '03!
With possible stops in Boston, New York, New Haven, and various New Hampshirian locales!
New England Freedom Tour, May/June '03!
With possible stops in Boston, New York, New Haven, and various New Hampshirian locales!
Sunday, May 25, 2003
Still Hazy After All These Beers:
I have witnessed some of the highest quality partying ever fueled by a half-keg of Rolling Rock (or any intoxicant for that matter). Call it a teachers' end-of-the-school-year release shindig if you want, but I call impromptu BEER PONG with co-workers of varying ages and varying capacities to handle "power drinking" simply fucking amazing. As the night wore on, people were actually cheering and screaming with each toss. I never would have predicted any of this.
We were silly adults. We caterwauled older songs, destroying our voices on the high notes. We attempted to toss ping pong balls into large blue plastic cups even after it grew dark and I (like a fool) re-angled my car to provide a light (we were playing out on the Teehop's side lawn on a table improvised from the wooden base of a bunkbed), and now my battery is definitely dead. I also drained the batter by playing tunes through my system for much of the night (I'd say the party ran from about 5:30pm 'til late/drunk o' clock, and my car died around 11:30), at first I tried to play energizing party-ish music for everyone—Hepcat, Bim Skala Bim— but later it got more not particularly party-perpetuating (but good to me) — Bowie, Miles Davis, Jeff Buckley. And here I am, still pretty dizzy at noon, doing funny balancing tricks like looking up "caterwaul" in the dictionary on one foot.
Of course, the kids had all left and the campus was empty, but we filled it with noise pollution. I don't dare attempt to remember how many Colgate mugs of beer I drank. At one point, I filled it with raspberry vodka-tonic (thanks Jon), too. A lot. It was maybe the thickest, most evenly saturated with alcohol I've ever been. I say this because I never encountered nausea despite constant intake over six hours or so, and little to eat besides an ear of grilled-corn. I regret not partaking of the slathered bbq ribs.
This should become a tradition.
When more of the night comes back to me, I'll add.
I have witnessed some of the highest quality partying ever fueled by a half-keg of Rolling Rock (or any intoxicant for that matter). Call it a teachers' end-of-the-school-year release shindig if you want, but I call impromptu BEER PONG with co-workers of varying ages and varying capacities to handle "power drinking" simply fucking amazing. As the night wore on, people were actually cheering and screaming with each toss. I never would have predicted any of this.
We were silly adults. We caterwauled older songs, destroying our voices on the high notes. We attempted to toss ping pong balls into large blue plastic cups even after it grew dark and I (like a fool) re-angled my car to provide a light (we were playing out on the Teehop's side lawn on a table improvised from the wooden base of a bunkbed), and now my battery is definitely dead. I also drained the batter by playing tunes through my system for much of the night (I'd say the party ran from about 5:30pm 'til late/drunk o' clock, and my car died around 11:30), at first I tried to play energizing party-ish music for everyone—Hepcat, Bim Skala Bim— but later it got more not particularly party-perpetuating (but good to me) — Bowie, Miles Davis, Jeff Buckley. And here I am, still pretty dizzy at noon, doing funny balancing tricks like looking up "caterwaul" in the dictionary on one foot.
Of course, the kids had all left and the campus was empty, but we filled it with noise pollution. I don't dare attempt to remember how many Colgate mugs of beer I drank. At one point, I filled it with raspberry vodka-tonic (thanks Jon), too. A lot. It was maybe the thickest, most evenly saturated with alcohol I've ever been. I say this because I never encountered nausea despite constant intake over six hours or so, and little to eat besides an ear of grilled-corn. I regret not partaking of the slathered bbq ribs.
This should become a tradition.
When more of the night comes back to me, I'll add.
