Every person I tell to watch The Wire says almost the same thing: “There have not been any good cop shows since Homicide, Life on the Streets.” My response is that “Homicide” and “The Wire” are both creations of writer David Simon.
The truth is “The Wire” is just like the crack at the center of the story: the more you have, the more you want. It is the thinking person’s cop show that you mull around and want to talk about hours later. It shows the complexity of inner city life, unknown not only to many rural Americans, but arguably many urban Americans. The destructiveness of drugs, however, is a theme that many Americans can relate to.
The story revolves around the drug trade in Baltimore, Maryland and the various influences on this trade. The focus of Season 1 is the police and the drug gangs. The day-to-day life of both is explored, from the carousing “PO-lice,” as they refer to themselves, to the minor drug dealer with a heart. Both organizations are run in much the same manner: like the McDonald’s corporation, with the small fry franchises having little or no influence on those up the food chain.
What keeps you watching is not cliffhanger endings, because there really aren’t any, but rather the humanity in the show. Just when you start to have a hero, that person goes on a bender, or cheats on his wife. For example, at one point the viewer starts to root for Stringer Bell, one of the main drug dealers, because we see him taking business classes at the community college. We want him to get ahead. But instead of “going legit”, Bell is using his knowledge to bring together the main drug dealers in Baltimore, using Robert’s Rules in meetings, and teaching his corner guys about profit margins. And then three scenes later Bell is planning how to kill one of the corner guys doing time because he is worried he might snitch.
Season 2 finds the police investigating the longshoremen, the linchpins needed to get the drugs in to Baltimore. But as you watch, you are drawn into the drama of life as a longshoreman today, the loss of jobs, the difficulty finding honest work. Take, for instance, Ziggy, the adopted son of the head of the Longshoremen’s Union. Ziggy is an idiot, getting mixed up in every imaginable mess, selling drugs and flaunting the proceeds on a diamond studded collar for his blue-collar pet duck. We learn later on that Ziggy should have gone to community college to work in computers, but his dad could not afford to send him. So instead, Ziggy started working down at the docks without much success because of this small stature and his penchant for annoying everyone around him.
It’s the dark side of globalization, the part that’s destroying the possibility of the blue-collar middle-class, but doing so only inch-by-inch providing just enough hope for the players to cling to, but not enough to change the reality. The drug dealers play a less prominent role in the show, but you still check in on them every so often. The viewer also gets a glimpse of who the really big players in the international drug trade are, but not much more than that.
Season 3 finds us back in the thick of things with the drug dealers, but this time the politicians act as the counter balance in the story. The police are under extreme pressure to reduce the crime rate. One police major seeks to make a difference at the price of legalizing drugs in three central blocks of his district, an area soon named Hamsterdam. The crime rate does drop, but the cost is the creation of three blocks of Hell. In most parts of the district people are out on their front stoops again, children are playing, but a few blocks away the drug trade is plied and free market economics take hold, reducing the cost of drugs, while increasing the drugs’ efficacy.
The director Simon says that he is seeking to create a new kind of drama for the typical consumer, less Shakespearian and more Greek tragedy. In The Wire the characters, try as they may, cannot overcome the wishes of the gods: be they City Hall, globalization, or the Chief of Police. The world is less black and white. The cops aren’t always good, the drug dealers aren’t always bad, but the politicians behave as expected. Simon says they “create doomed and fated protagonists who confront a rigged game and their own mortality.” (The Believer, August 2007)
As a viewer, I can’t wait to get more of these flawed characters, even if they are not going to evolve. The characters are real just because of this lack of growth. We can see ourselves in their decisions.
Some critics of the show might find that it too violent, and I agree - the violence makes me uncomfortable. But the show becomes more authentic through the violence, jolting the viewer out of her complacency. We may be able to understand how difficult living and going to school are when your home is without running water, but what many of us do not understand is how difficult doing this is when bullets are flying through your house.
Season 4 of The Wire is out in December. But you can get your fix off the first three seasons from Netflix until then.
Every person I tell to watch The Wire says almost the same thing: “There have not been any good cop shows since ‘Homicide, Life on the Streets’.” My response is that “Homicide” and “The Wire” are both creations of writer, David Simon.
The truth is “The Wire” is just like the crack at the center of the story: the more you have, the more you want. It is the thinking person’s show that you mull around and want to talk about hours later. It shows the complexity of inner city life, unknown not only to many rural Americans, but arguably many urban Americans. The destructiveness of drugs, however, is a theme that many Americans can relate to.
The story revolves around the drug trade in Baltimore, Maryland and the various influences on this trade. The focus of Season 1 is the police and the drug gangs. The day-to-day life of both is explored, from the carousing “PO-lice,” as they refer to themselves, to the minor drug dealer with a heart. Both organizations are run in much the same manner: like the McDonald’s corporation, with the small fry franchises having little or no influence on those up the food chain.
What keeps you watching is not cliffhanger endings, because there really aren’t any, but rather the humanity in the show. Just when you start to have a hero, that person goes on a bender, or cheats on his wife. For example, at one point the viewer starts to root for Stringer Bell, one of the main drug dealers, because we see him taking business classes at the community college. We want him to get ahead. But instead of “going legit”, Bell is using his knowledge to bring together the main drug dealers in Baltimore, using Robert’s Rules in meetings, and teaching his corner guys about profit margins. And then three scenes Bell is planning how to kill one of the corner guys doing time because he is worried he might snitch.
Season 2 finds the police investigating the longshoremen, the linchpins needed to get the drugs in to Baltimore. But as you watch, you are drawn into the drama of life as a longshoreman today, the loss of jobs, the difficulty finding honest work. Take for instance Ziggy, the adopted son of the head of the Longshoremen’s Union. Ziggy is an idiot, getting mixed up in every imaginable mess, selling drugs and flaunting the proceeds on a diamond studded collar for his blue-collar pet duck. We learn later on that Ziggy should have gone to community college to work in computers, but his dad could not afford to send him. So instead, Ziggy started working down at the docks without much success because of this small stature and his pension for annoying everyone around him. Ziggy ends up dead.
It’s the dark side of globalization, the part that’s destroying the possibility of the blue-collar middle-class, but doing so only inch-by-inch providing just enough hope for the players to cling to, but not enough to change the reality. The drug dealers play a less prominent role in the show, but you still check in on them every so often. The viewer also gets a glimpse of who the really big players in the international drug trade are, but not much more than that.
Season 3 finds us back in the thick of things with the drug dealers, but this time the politicians act as the counter balance in the story. The police are under extreme pressure to reduce the crime rate. One police major seeks to make a difference at the price of legalizing drugs in three central blocks of his district, Hamsterdam. The crime rate does drop, but the cost is the creation of three blocks of Hell. In most parts of the district people are out on their front stoops again, children are playing, but a few blocks away the drug trade is plied and free market economics take hold, reducing the cost of drugs, while increasing the drugs’ efficacy.
The director Simon says that he is seeking to create a new kind of drama for the typical consumer, less Shakespearian and more Greek tragedy. In The Wire the characters, try as they may, cannot overcome the wishes of the gods: be they City Hall, globalization, or the Chief of Police. The world is less black and white. The cops aren’t always good, the drug dealers aren’t always bad, but the politicians behave as expected. Simon says they are “create doomed and fated protagonists who confront a rigged game and their own mortality.”
As a viewer, I can’t wait to get more of these flawed characters, even if they are not going to evolve. The characters are real just because of this lack of growth. We can see ourselves in their decisions. Interesting.
Some critics of the show might find that the show too violent, and I agree the violence makes me uncomfortable. But the show becomes more authentic through the violence, jolting the viewer out of her complacency. We understand how difficult living and going to school are when your home is without running water, but what many in the public do not understand is how difficult doing this is when bullets are flying through your house.
Season 4 of The Wire is out in December. But you can get your fix off the first three seasons from Netflix until then.
11.20.2007
10.20.2007
Leaving Berlin
In the weeks leading up to my departure from Berlin all of my friends commented that they did not think that everything in my room was going to fit into my bags. I earnestly disagreed, to no avail. Packing one bag after every such discussion, I just did not believe that they could not believe that all of the stuff would fit. Eventually, of course, it all did.
Because of a knee surgery, I was using crutches. My American boyfriend, Brent, came to my rescue offering to help me return to the US in exchange for 5 weeks in Berlin. I told him to pack one bag, but bring two.
The morning of the flight, my friends Claudia and Matthias arrived in their VW. Brent and I had 8 bags between us and I could not help carry any of them down the three flights of stairs. I knew the bags exceeded every weight limit and felt guilty directing traffic.
At the airport, the airline employee thought all four of us were traveling because of all of the luggage. (The math works out this way: two travelers get two items of checked luggage each, plus one carry-on and one “personal item.” This, surprisingly, comes to a maximum of eight bags for two people.) The line to check in for the flight stretched almost to the entrance door of the airport. As we shuffled forward, an airline employee noticed me with the crutches and bags and motioned to us. She offered to send us through the extensive security check at the front of line, so that we could get through the line faster.
So, the baggage handlers hoist my 80 lb bag onto the table. The samsonite hard-sided luggage had to be sat upon the night before to get it to close. And now, under the pressure of the watching security guards it would not open. Here I am, crutches crashing to the ground, me standing on one leg, while pounding and simultaneously praying to the luggage gods to open the damn bag.
To my right Brent is opening his bags. The night before we had joked that if he put the condoms on top, then we would be checked by security. So there he is showing what seemed to be the whole world our contraception method of choice. The Germans cared not one bit.
Finally, I pound on my bag one last time, and flying out of the bag comes a glass of Slovenian facial mud I was bringing home for my sister. Glass and mud fly everywhere. I am embarrassed. They get it cleaned up and decide that they needn’t look through all of our bags.
Naturally, I have to re-sit on the bag to get it to close again.
We then step up to the German who is going to weigh our four pieces of checked baggage. Earlier in the year, the airline had lowered the weight limit for checked bags, and ours are well over the old limit, to say nothing of the new one. He says to me in English, “this is going to cost a lot.” I reply in German, “no it is not, because I purchased my ticket before the rules changed.” He sizes me up, and then says “50 euros.” Done. He then turns to Brent’s bags, one of which is filled with my belongings. These bags are equally heavy and Brent bought his ticket well after the weight limit was lowered. The German shakes his head and just lets it go.
Arriving in Newark, Brent and I parted ways. His ticket was to DC, but I was staying a night in Newark. I therefore had to figure out how to carry my four bags alone and with the crutches. Fortunately, asking a stranger to lug an 80 lb bag is not above me so this is what I did.
I stayed over night with friends in Newark. Finding the Amtrak station in the Newark Airport turned out to be an adventure itself. I had taken the train to the station a year previous so I knew it existed. We drove in circles, asked people, finally parked. Turns out you cannot drive up to it. You have to take the airport’s people mover. My friend Bob schlepped my crap onto the people mover, but I was on my own getting it off of it, and onto my eventual train.
This was a moment when I cursed my stuff and my friends for daring me to bring it all back to the States.
Mission accomplished. I got to DC, got the stuff off of the train, and there awaiting me was Brent. He had asked at the train station if he could meet me on the platform and had been turned down. Yet while he was waiting in front of the very large doors guarding the entrance to the platform (that he assumed opened only outward) he noticed an Amtrak employee walk right through them. She had no keys, no electronic pass-card, and no alarm went off. Telling himself, “this is exactly the sort of thing Nicole would do for me,” he barged through the doors towards the platform. His realization that the escalators from the platforms below ran only in one direction (up), did not deter him and before any passengers got to the escalator he ran down it backwards so he could meet me on the platform. I had already charmed (or conned) an Amtrak employee to take the bags off the train and loading them on a motorized cart.
The moral of the story: a good man is hard to find, but you can surely test his dedication with 320 lbs of luggage.
Because of a knee surgery, I was using crutches. My American boyfriend, Brent, came to my rescue offering to help me return to the US in exchange for 5 weeks in Berlin. I told him to pack one bag, but bring two.
The morning of the flight, my friends Claudia and Matthias arrived in their VW. Brent and I had 8 bags between us and I could not help carry any of them down the three flights of stairs. I knew the bags exceeded every weight limit and felt guilty directing traffic.
At the airport, the airline employee thought all four of us were traveling because of all of the luggage. (The math works out this way: two travelers get two items of checked luggage each, plus one carry-on and one “personal item.” This, surprisingly, comes to a maximum of eight bags for two people.) The line to check in for the flight stretched almost to the entrance door of the airport. As we shuffled forward, an airline employee noticed me with the crutches and bags and motioned to us. She offered to send us through the extensive security check at the front of line, so that we could get through the line faster.
So, the baggage handlers hoist my 80 lb bag onto the table. The samsonite hard-sided luggage had to be sat upon the night before to get it to close. And now, under the pressure of the watching security guards it would not open. Here I am, crutches crashing to the ground, me standing on one leg, while pounding and simultaneously praying to the luggage gods to open the damn bag.
To my right Brent is opening his bags. The night before we had joked that if he put the condoms on top, then we would be checked by security. So there he is showing what seemed to be the whole world our contraception method of choice. The Germans cared not one bit.
Finally, I pound on my bag one last time, and flying out of the bag comes a glass of Slovenian facial mud I was bringing home for my sister. Glass and mud fly everywhere. I am embarrassed. They get it cleaned up and decide that they needn’t look through all of our bags.
Naturally, I have to re-sit on the bag to get it to close again.
We then step up to the German who is going to weigh our four pieces of checked baggage. Earlier in the year, the airline had lowered the weight limit for checked bags, and ours are well over the old limit, to say nothing of the new one. He says to me in English, “this is going to cost a lot.” I reply in German, “no it is not, because I purchased my ticket before the rules changed.” He sizes me up, and then says “50 euros.” Done. He then turns to Brent’s bags, one of which is filled with my belongings. These bags are equally heavy and Brent bought his ticket well after the weight limit was lowered. The German shakes his head and just lets it go.
Arriving in Newark, Brent and I parted ways. His ticket was to DC, but I was staying a night in Newark. I therefore had to figure out how to carry my four bags alone and with the crutches. Fortunately, asking a stranger to lug an 80 lb bag is not above me so this is what I did.
I stayed over night with friends in Newark. Finding the Amtrak station in the Newark Airport turned out to be an adventure itself. I had taken the train to the station a year previous so I knew it existed. We drove in circles, asked people, finally parked. Turns out you cannot drive up to it. You have to take the airport’s people mover. My friend Bob schlepped my crap onto the people mover, but I was on my own getting it off of it, and onto my eventual train.
This was a moment when I cursed my stuff and my friends for daring me to bring it all back to the States.
Mission accomplished. I got to DC, got the stuff off of the train, and there awaiting me was Brent. He had asked at the train station if he could meet me on the platform and had been turned down. Yet while he was waiting in front of the very large doors guarding the entrance to the platform (that he assumed opened only outward) he noticed an Amtrak employee walk right through them. She had no keys, no electronic pass-card, and no alarm went off. Telling himself, “this is exactly the sort of thing Nicole would do for me,” he barged through the doors towards the platform. His realization that the escalators from the platforms below ran only in one direction (up), did not deter him and before any passengers got to the escalator he ran down it backwards so he could meet me on the platform. I had already charmed (or conned) an Amtrak employee to take the bags off the train and loading them on a motorized cart.
The moral of the story: a good man is hard to find, but you can surely test his dedication with 320 lbs of luggage.
10.08.2007
Eve's B & B
This was my first assignment in my writing course.
We arrived at Eve’s Bed and Breakfast just after nine in the evening. Tired from a day of work, the flight to St. Louis, and a kampf with the car rental agency, we were ready to be pampered. And this is just what awaited us, as we stepped into what seemed to be an earlier time and place.
We walked into Eve’s home, which is outfitted in varying shades from white to beige. The sitting area to the right featured four mid-century, almost rectangular white chairs, perfect for relaxing over a coffee and a book. The low teak wood table brought memories of conversation pits from the 60’s to mind.
Eve knew we were coming and had prepared a home cooked simple casserole of “Mexican Fiesta.” The baked dish’s ingredients—ground beef, zesty cheese, enough jalapeños to make you notice them, and salsa—harkened back to an earlier time. The dinner table, dressed in linens with huge glass goblets of ice water, featured one lit candle.
The next morning we lazed around in bed and awoke first to the smell of coffee from the kitchen and then to the smell of bacon. We sat down to candle light again for breakfast. The scrambled eggs were airy having been whipped in the mixer.
Lunch that day consisted of ham and cheese sandwiches on a mild rye bread, with old-fashioned potato chips. With potato salad and oriental cabbage salad rounding out the meal, we were ready to hit the town.
After partaking in the American pastime by doing a bit of consuming for the economy, we returned to take a nap before dinner. Two twin beds in ecru featuring starched and ironed sheets awaited us.
Dinner that night consisted of pork chops basted with apricots, applesauce, green beans with white onions and bacon, baked carrots, and one very large baked potato. The simple meal hit the spot. For desert we had apple brownies with fresh whipped cream on top.
To finish out our weekend we awoke again to fabulous smells, this morning of bacon and pancakes. The pancakes, while almost fried, were moist and airy. The fruit salad consisting of strawberries, peaches, bananas, mandarin oranges, and blueberries and came to the table in the same elegant glass goblets from the day before.
Eve’s B & B has been open for years, but unfortunately only to friends and family. I fall into the latter category, as I am her granddaughter. Continuing to work as a child-care provider, she “keeps the body moving” as she would say, keeping house and enjoying houseguests. Even though she is in her eighth decade, she still drives and lives alone. Her first husband died in WWII, and the second was relieved of duty some time ago.
The presentation and quality of the comfort foods served at Eve’s Bed and Breakfast cannot be beat. However, don’t go visiting Eve expecting to count calories or to find excitement. Do go there expecting a charming hostess, almost decadent sleeping quarters, and a weekend spent relaxing.
Apple Brownies Recipe
1/2 cup butter or margarine
1 cup sugar
1 egg beaten
2 medium apples chopped
1 cup flower
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 chopped nuts
Cream butter and sugar. Add egg and chopped nuts and apples. Sift together flower, baking soda, baking powder and, and cinnamon. Add to other mixture. Pour into greased pan. 8 x 5. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes.
We arrived at Eve’s Bed and Breakfast just after nine in the evening. Tired from a day of work, the flight to St. Louis, and a kampf with the car rental agency, we were ready to be pampered. And this is just what awaited us, as we stepped into what seemed to be an earlier time and place.
We walked into Eve’s home, which is outfitted in varying shades from white to beige. The sitting area to the right featured four mid-century, almost rectangular white chairs, perfect for relaxing over a coffee and a book. The low teak wood table brought memories of conversation pits from the 60’s to mind.
Eve knew we were coming and had prepared a home cooked simple casserole of “Mexican Fiesta.” The baked dish’s ingredients—ground beef, zesty cheese, enough jalapeños to make you notice them, and salsa—harkened back to an earlier time. The dinner table, dressed in linens with huge glass goblets of ice water, featured one lit candle.
The next morning we lazed around in bed and awoke first to the smell of coffee from the kitchen and then to the smell of bacon. We sat down to candle light again for breakfast. The scrambled eggs were airy having been whipped in the mixer.
Lunch that day consisted of ham and cheese sandwiches on a mild rye bread, with old-fashioned potato chips. With potato salad and oriental cabbage salad rounding out the meal, we were ready to hit the town.
After partaking in the American pastime by doing a bit of consuming for the economy, we returned to take a nap before dinner. Two twin beds in ecru featuring starched and ironed sheets awaited us.
Dinner that night consisted of pork chops basted with apricots, applesauce, green beans with white onions and bacon, baked carrots, and one very large baked potato. The simple meal hit the spot. For desert we had apple brownies with fresh whipped cream on top.
To finish out our weekend we awoke again to fabulous smells, this morning of bacon and pancakes. The pancakes, while almost fried, were moist and airy. The fruit salad consisting of strawberries, peaches, bananas, mandarin oranges, and blueberries and came to the table in the same elegant glass goblets from the day before.
Eve’s B & B has been open for years, but unfortunately only to friends and family. I fall into the latter category, as I am her granddaughter. Continuing to work as a child-care provider, she “keeps the body moving” as she would say, keeping house and enjoying houseguests. Even though she is in her eighth decade, she still drives and lives alone. Her first husband died in WWII, and the second was relieved of duty some time ago.
The presentation and quality of the comfort foods served at Eve’s Bed and Breakfast cannot be beat. However, don’t go visiting Eve expecting to count calories or to find excitement. Do go there expecting a charming hostess, almost decadent sleeping quarters, and a weekend spent relaxing.
Apple Brownies Recipe
1/2 cup butter or margarine
1 cup sugar
1 egg beaten
2 medium apples chopped
1 cup flower
1/2 teaspoon baking soda
1/2 teaspoon baking powder
1/2 teaspoon cinnamon
1/2 chopped nuts
Cream butter and sugar. Add egg and chopped nuts and apples. Sift together flower, baking soda, baking powder and, and cinnamon. Add to other mixture. Pour into greased pan. 8 x 5. Bake at 350 for 40 minutes.
9.23.2007
Vituary: Carol F.
1. My first memory of Carol, possibly a memory acquired after hearing Carol tell the story years later: I marched right up to Carol, stuck out my little hand and said, “Nicole Harkin, nice to meet you.”
2. Carol’s description of me at that time: The oldest 5 year old she had ever met.
3. Actual memories of Carol from my childhood: Carol visiting our house every weekend with her dogs. She visited the lake to help my mom with me and the kids.
4. Number of Children Carol has: four, by acquisition.
5. Best Childhood Memory of Carol: Going with her to work in downtown Atlanta. It was take your daughter to work and she took me. I stayed at her architecturally inspired home, with its modern furniture, overlooking the Chattahoochee River. I think we went to a diner for breakfast, and maybe even had coffee. Oh the joy. I could almost taste how fabulous it would be to be an adult.
6. Hours my Mom and Carol Spoke on the Phone per Week: at least 3, if not more. Therefore, they spoke on the phone at least 150 hours per year, or 6 days. With four children, my mom needed adult contact. Thank you Carol.
7. Concerns my mom had about Carol’s new love, then: that he was going to take our friend and family member for all she was worth.
8. Reality: He loved her. Thank you Don.
9. Years Carol and Don have been married: around 20 I think.
10. My re-entry into Carol’s life: After college I worked for my Senator. Two days before moving to DC, and with no place to live, mom suggested we call Carol. Carol put me up then and many times there after.
11. Biggest lessons learned from Carol: A. Protect the environment. B. Women can do anything men can do. C. True friends are like family. D. Create the life you want to live. E. Retire early.
12. Favorite activities with Carol: A. Shopping and talking. B. Going to see the band, Her, Him and I in Annapolis, MD.
13. Most recent gift from Carol: Photographing my brother Montana’s wedding.
14. Previous gifts from Carol: A. Managing my mail for me while I was out of the country for two years. B. Half of my camera. C. Major car repair bill paid.
15. Proudest moment: When Carol decided to run for public office, and won to the surprise of few who know her well.
2. Carol’s description of me at that time: The oldest 5 year old she had ever met.
3. Actual memories of Carol from my childhood: Carol visiting our house every weekend with her dogs. She visited the lake to help my mom with me and the kids.
4. Number of Children Carol has: four, by acquisition.
5. Best Childhood Memory of Carol: Going with her to work in downtown Atlanta. It was take your daughter to work and she took me. I stayed at her architecturally inspired home, with its modern furniture, overlooking the Chattahoochee River. I think we went to a diner for breakfast, and maybe even had coffee. Oh the joy. I could almost taste how fabulous it would be to be an adult.
6. Hours my Mom and Carol Spoke on the Phone per Week: at least 3, if not more. Therefore, they spoke on the phone at least 150 hours per year, or 6 days. With four children, my mom needed adult contact. Thank you Carol.
7. Concerns my mom had about Carol’s new love, then: that he was going to take our friend and family member for all she was worth.
8. Reality: He loved her. Thank you Don.
9. Years Carol and Don have been married: around 20 I think.
10. My re-entry into Carol’s life: After college I worked for my Senator. Two days before moving to DC, and with no place to live, mom suggested we call Carol. Carol put me up then and many times there after.
11. Biggest lessons learned from Carol: A. Protect the environment. B. Women can do anything men can do. C. True friends are like family. D. Create the life you want to live. E. Retire early.
12. Favorite activities with Carol: A. Shopping and talking. B. Going to see the band, Her, Him and I in Annapolis, MD.
13. Most recent gift from Carol: Photographing my brother Montana’s wedding.
14. Previous gifts from Carol: A. Managing my mail for me while I was out of the country for two years. B. Half of my camera. C. Major car repair bill paid.
15. Proudest moment: When Carol decided to run for public office, and won to the surprise of few who know her well.
9.15.2007
Video Vituary
Last year, when we went to the DC Short Film Festival, we signed up for the email list. They emailed a few months ago asking if anyone could host some film makers. Brent agreed, so we have Josh Flowers and his girl friend staying with us for the weekend.
One of Josh's videos is like a visual vituary. Check it out by clicking this sentence.
One of Josh's videos is like a visual vituary. Check it out by clicking this sentence.
Bosch Foundation Applications
Wanted to alert everyone that the Bosch Foundation is accepting applications now through October 15. (Click previous sentence for a link to more information.) Basic run down of the program: Spend a year in Germany, first learning German and then working in two different “Stages” or work placements in your field of expertise. You have to be between 24 and 34 years young at the application date and most applicants have a graduate degree, but this is not required. Spouses and children are welcomed. You receive a monthly stipend which should more than cover your expenses and health insurance is paid for by the foundation. During the year the whole Bosch group makes three longer seminar trips around Europe meeting with leaders. I can’t say enough good things about the program. Please let anyone you know who might be interested.
9.11.2007
Directions
My friend Jessica sent me the greatest horoscope...she does this from time to time:
Others are amazed by your innate ability to plan for the future. You have the skill to make your dreams become real while theirs remain too unrealistic to come true. Your greatest strength is how your ambition is fed by your sense of organization and planning.
Today you feel a bit limited in your options. Nevertheless, you can still break through old patterns and set the stage for your future.
September 10, 2007
And one of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle passed away this week. I learned about her from my good friend and pen pal Annie S. back when we had first moved to Montana. This quote at the end of her New York Times obituary really struck a cord with me:
“Why does anybody tell a story?” she once asked, even though she knew the answer.
“It does indeed have something to do with faith,” she said, “faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.”
~ Madeleine L’Engle
Others are amazed by your innate ability to plan for the future. You have the skill to make your dreams become real while theirs remain too unrealistic to come true. Your greatest strength is how your ambition is fed by your sense of organization and planning.
Today you feel a bit limited in your options. Nevertheless, you can still break through old patterns and set the stage for your future.
September 10, 2007
And one of my favorite authors, Madeleine L'Engle passed away this week. I learned about her from my good friend and pen pal Annie S. back when we had first moved to Montana. This quote at the end of her New York Times obituary really struck a cord with me:
“Why does anybody tell a story?” she once asked, even though she knew the answer.
“It does indeed have something to do with faith,” she said, “faith that the universe has meaning, that our little human lives are not irrelevant, that what we choose or say or do matters, matters cosmically.”
~ Madeleine L’Engle
8.29.2007
Montana
Yes, I am still updating the blog, but we have been on vacation in Montana and I have been working on a little writing project. :)
Please check out my new Polaroid pictures at my other account (you can just click the sentence to go there.)
More soon...
Please check out my new Polaroid pictures at my other account (you can just click the sentence to go there.)
More soon...
8.02.2007
Dirty Underwear and Parents
The Second to Last Meeting
A high school classroom filled with anxious teenagers and anxious parents listening to a teacher go on and on about a trip to Germany over the upcoming Christmas holiday. It is not the most interesting meeting, but to me it seems important.
Then my Dad gets up and walks out. I thought it strange when he brought the book to the meeting, but then this behavior.
I get up to find him after having waited 5 minutes to make sure he had not just gone to the bathroom. The meetings were mandatory after all.
I find him on the floor leaning against the lockers reading his book.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“Reading my book. What does it look like I am doing?”
“Why?”
“The meeting was boring.”
He had a point. But the meetings were mandatory and it was mandatory that my Dad behave because the guy I took German for, my high school crush, is in the meeting with his dad.
“Let me know when the meeting is over.”
Thanks Dad. Will do. And no more meetings for you.
The Final Meeting
Thinking that things could not go any worse at this meeting, I am relaxed.
The teacher asks if there are any final travel tips anyone wants to share before the trip. Linda, aka Mom, raises her hand. Yes, this is my chance to redeem myself. My Mom was a flight attendant for 15 years, my Dad is a pilot. We are part of the travel industry. This will be good.
Let me say now, that my Mom would oftentimes tell people that I was adopted.
“Mom, tell them the truth, I am not adopted.”
With a hand in front of her mouth, “She is a little sensitive about it.”
And with her at 5’11” with red nails and platinum blond hair - we did not look alike.
So, Linda raises her hand. I think, “This is good. She will redeem me from the fiasco Dad created.”
“Linda, what is your tip?”
“Well, when our family goes on vacation,”
Let me interrupt her now and also say at this point, that since 3rd grade I packed my own bags.
“Mom, you did not pack my bags the right way.”
“Well then you can pack the bags yourself from now on.”
Now on being the rest of my life. The woman was nothing, if not consequential.
Back to the travel tip:
“we take all of our old, ratty, stained underwear, and wear them one last time. Then we throw them away at the hotel so we have more room to bring back souvenirs.”
Yep, this is what she says to all of my friends and their parents. I try to crawl under my desk and think to myself “maybe I am adopted. How could she do this to me?” Oh, the laughs.
Years later, when I told this story as my most embarrassing story, she felt horrible. She still thought it a good tip. I pointed out that you cannot really save that much room with underwear, our asses were just not that large.
A high school classroom filled with anxious teenagers and anxious parents listening to a teacher go on and on about a trip to Germany over the upcoming Christmas holiday. It is not the most interesting meeting, but to me it seems important.
Then my Dad gets up and walks out. I thought it strange when he brought the book to the meeting, but then this behavior.
I get up to find him after having waited 5 minutes to make sure he had not just gone to the bathroom. The meetings were mandatory after all.
I find him on the floor leaning against the lockers reading his book.
“Dad, what are you doing?”
“Reading my book. What does it look like I am doing?”
“Why?”
“The meeting was boring.”
He had a point. But the meetings were mandatory and it was mandatory that my Dad behave because the guy I took German for, my high school crush, is in the meeting with his dad.
“Let me know when the meeting is over.”
Thanks Dad. Will do. And no more meetings for you.
The Final Meeting
Thinking that things could not go any worse at this meeting, I am relaxed.
The teacher asks if there are any final travel tips anyone wants to share before the trip. Linda, aka Mom, raises her hand. Yes, this is my chance to redeem myself. My Mom was a flight attendant for 15 years, my Dad is a pilot. We are part of the travel industry. This will be good.
Let me say now, that my Mom would oftentimes tell people that I was adopted.
“Mom, tell them the truth, I am not adopted.”
With a hand in front of her mouth, “She is a little sensitive about it.”
And with her at 5’11” with red nails and platinum blond hair - we did not look alike.
So, Linda raises her hand. I think, “This is good. She will redeem me from the fiasco Dad created.”
“Linda, what is your tip?”
“Well, when our family goes on vacation,”
Let me interrupt her now and also say at this point, that since 3rd grade I packed my own bags.
“Mom, you did not pack my bags the right way.”
“Well then you can pack the bags yourself from now on.”
Now on being the rest of my life. The woman was nothing, if not consequential.
Back to the travel tip:
“we take all of our old, ratty, stained underwear, and wear them one last time. Then we throw them away at the hotel so we have more room to bring back souvenirs.”
Yep, this is what she says to all of my friends and their parents. I try to crawl under my desk and think to myself “maybe I am adopted. How could she do this to me?” Oh, the laughs.
Years later, when I told this story as my most embarrassing story, she felt horrible. She still thought it a good tip. I pointed out that you cannot really save that much room with underwear, our asses were just not that large.
7.11.2007
Thoughts
“People pay for what they do, and still more for what they have allowed themselves to become. And they pay for it simply: by the lives they lead.”
I was walking home the other day trying desperately to find this quote. I had read it in “Before We Get Started” by Bret Lott the night before. He did not say it; it is a quote from James Baldwin. But this quote renewed my introspection and review of my current job. To sum things up: Not only do I not believe in the mission, I actually believe that the work we are doing might be harming the mission; I love my co-workers but hate the management; I feel under valued, under utilized, and under paid.
As a sage co-worker pointed out to me however, most people feel under paid and under appreciated their entire career. (Read: get over it.)
But after reading this quote, I realized that my working at my job meant that I was becoming toxic. And I was going to have to pay for this or get out.
As is often the case, just when I was at my wits end, I was offered another position. And while I am not as enamored with my new position as I would like to be, I know that my new job has something to teach me, the people are nice, and after 11 months of work I finally received a compliment on my work. What a little positive reinforcement will do to the ego.
If you are so inclined…please leave me a note about your thoughts on the quote.
I was walking home the other day trying desperately to find this quote. I had read it in “Before We Get Started” by Bret Lott the night before. He did not say it; it is a quote from James Baldwin. But this quote renewed my introspection and review of my current job. To sum things up: Not only do I not believe in the mission, I actually believe that the work we are doing might be harming the mission; I love my co-workers but hate the management; I feel under valued, under utilized, and under paid.
As a sage co-worker pointed out to me however, most people feel under paid and under appreciated their entire career. (Read: get over it.)
But after reading this quote, I realized that my working at my job meant that I was becoming toxic. And I was going to have to pay for this or get out.
As is often the case, just when I was at my wits end, I was offered another position. And while I am not as enamored with my new position as I would like to be, I know that my new job has something to teach me, the people are nice, and after 11 months of work I finally received a compliment on my work. What a little positive reinforcement will do to the ego.
If you are so inclined…please leave me a note about your thoughts on the quote.
7.03.2007
Book Review: The Omnivore's Dilemma
Wow, what an interesting, scary, and fact filled book. Only three hours into the 12 hours long audio book, I feel like I need to reorder my eating habits.
Having lived in Germany for two years, I recognized that the act of living in Germany led me to lose weight. But now I think I understand why: corn, or the lack there of.
45,000 products in the American supermarket are made out of corn. So whether corn is good for humans or not, I think we are eating too much of it, especially the form that we use to sweeten everything. A summary of the book's thesis (I think) can be found in the article he wrote about it in the New York Times a few months ago (click here to link to the article).
Pollan also explains in a succinct manner why making ethanol from corn to fuel our cars does not make sense: it is the fertilizer. To make the fertilizer, you need natural gas, and more natural gas than you end up producing thorough from the ethanol.
More on this as I listen...
Having lived in Germany for two years, I recognized that the act of living in Germany led me to lose weight. But now I think I understand why: corn, or the lack there of.
45,000 products in the American supermarket are made out of corn. So whether corn is good for humans or not, I think we are eating too much of it, especially the form that we use to sweeten everything. A summary of the book's thesis (I think) can be found in the article he wrote about it in the New York Times a few months ago (click here to link to the article).
Pollan also explains in a succinct manner why making ethanol from corn to fuel our cars does not make sense: it is the fertilizer. To make the fertilizer, you need natural gas, and more natural gas than you end up producing thorough from the ethanol.
More on this as I listen...
6.28.2007
Vituary: Walt
Sometimes you don’t appreciate someone until
you mature.
Walter has been a part of my whole life, regardless of whether I wanted him in it. I can remember telling him that he was not my dad from a very young age.
What a telling thing to yell at an adult. Just the act of thinking it and verbalizing it means that that person plays some approximate role similar to your father.
Uncle Walter, as we called him before he became Papa, loves to tell the stories of me walking around as a little girl with grapefruits in my blouse saying that I was going to look like Dolly Parton one day. He still threatens me with twins…or I should say curses me with twins.
But Walt is a loyal, trusted, and much loved part of our family and has been for years.
It all began with a glider port he and my father owned. He and my mom became fast best friends soon after meeting. He was there for everything from then on. He came up to the lake on weekends to help my over wrought mother with her four children. He attended all family events. He even became a Girl Scout.
Originally from Kentucky, he went to military school, served in Vietnam, and then worked as a machinist for Delta until he retired. He read the whole Wall Street Journal every day he worked there before work.
When we moved to Portland, he visited on all holidays. And when my parents finally divorced he helped support my mom and my siblings during the divorce going back to work after having retired to help his family.
Eventually moving to Montana to be with his family, he and I shared shifts taking care of my mom as she battled cancer. He had nights, I had days.
After my sister had Tanner and my mom died, Walt became Papa to Tanner. Tanner is the only kid from Montana who sounds like he is a Confederate. Walt continued to support Erica, helping her raise Tanner, effectively the fifth child’s diapers he has changed.
Once in college, I had gotten in over my head in credit card debts. My mom was broke, so I was forced to call this person who was not my father, with whom I often fought with, to ask for a loan. He did it without hesitation. He saved my ass.
John went to flight school in Oklahoma. He arrived broke to start school, but Walt was not far behind, making sure that John had food and money to focus on school.
To this day, whenever anyone of us has needed him, he has been there for us. I hope he knows that I am there for him too.
6.24.2007
Book Review: Eat, Pray, Love
Eat, Pray, Love
By Elizabeth Gilbert
I read a blurb about this book in the Economist a few months ago and saved it. The book, read by the author in the audio version, tells of a year spent abroad by the author. She fills in the back story about why she spent the year abroad, telling us about her road to a more spiritual being and about her horrible divorce. (He wanted kids and a suburban life, she didn’t, things get messy.)
What I find interesting about the book revolves around her found spirituality. While I too feel as though we were created and are not a product of evolution entirely, I feel even more strongly, that if there is a God, she/he/it has much more important stuff to do than worry about what we are eating and which curse words we have used.
Given this point of view for reading the book, I went along on her journey to Italy (where she ate), India (where she prayed in an Ashram), and Indonesia (where she went because an ancient medicine man told her she would go, oh and there she loved.)
The structure of the book gave you a definite sense of forward motion and of impending conclusion. She met vivid characters, my favorite being her friend from Texas who called her Groceries, because she was carrying so much shit around.
The book also lets you watch as she transforms herself from a depressed, harried, and skinny divorcee to a contented, beautiful, and well fed whole woman. At the end she knows who she is and she knows why she is here. And how often do you get to see such a journey without being a parent?
After ending the book, I wanted to know more. After a bit of internet research, I found out that the author is not only happy today, but she is also the author of Coyote Ugly.
Highly recommended
By Elizabeth Gilbert
I read a blurb about this book in the Economist a few months ago and saved it. The book, read by the author in the audio version, tells of a year spent abroad by the author. She fills in the back story about why she spent the year abroad, telling us about her road to a more spiritual being and about her horrible divorce. (He wanted kids and a suburban life, she didn’t, things get messy.)
What I find interesting about the book revolves around her found spirituality. While I too feel as though we were created and are not a product of evolution entirely, I feel even more strongly, that if there is a God, she/he/it has much more important stuff to do than worry about what we are eating and which curse words we have used.
Given this point of view for reading the book, I went along on her journey to Italy (where she ate), India (where she prayed in an Ashram), and Indonesia (where she went because an ancient medicine man told her she would go, oh and there she loved.)
The structure of the book gave you a definite sense of forward motion and of impending conclusion. She met vivid characters, my favorite being her friend from Texas who called her Groceries, because she was carrying so much shit around.
The book also lets you watch as she transforms herself from a depressed, harried, and skinny divorcee to a contented, beautiful, and well fed whole woman. At the end she knows who she is and she knows why she is here. And how often do you get to see such a journey without being a parent?
After ending the book, I wanted to know more. After a bit of internet research, I found out that the author is not only happy today, but she is also the author of Coyote Ugly.
Highly recommended
6.22.2007
Movie Notes
We just returned from seeing Oceans 13. What a hoot. Lots of fun, nothing but fun for a Friday in the summer. The cute boys are nice to look at as well!
6.16.2007
Grammy's Vitauary
In the last week two people near me have lost two people near them, completely unexpectedly. Adding to this loss, are two friends who have relatives who have advanced stages of cancer and one once again realizes the shortness and precarious state of Life.
So I am embarking on the anti-obituary. It struck me at some point in the last year that waiting until a person is dead to tell the world how great they were is absurd. I will begin with my oldest friends, in chronological order and work my way to the youngest.
This means I begin with Eve M. and end with Erin R., with the many people I know along the way.
Eve M. is my grandmother. She has many names: Kay, Eva, Molesworth, E., just to name a few. Her names seem to have marked the stages of her life as well as her address have. Married twice, once to a soldier who died in World War II and to mister miserable, she bore three children. Her daughter, Linda, my mom, died almost seven years ago. Her next child, Ed E. is a professor and was so big when he was born that Gram had to sit sideways for months. And her youngest daughter, Kate H., is an actress in Chicago.
I can’t imagine having been married at 19 and widowed at 21 with a baby. She delivered my mom just before my grandfather shipped out, being one of the first induced labors ever.
She grew up in the depression, spending time in a children’s home. On Fridays, if their home economics room was cleaned up quickly and they ran to catch the trolley in St. Louis, one driver would give her and her friends a free ride downtown. Then they would have one ride left on their ticket for the return trip. I love the vision of Kay running in her last pair of “real” stockings to catch the street car.
After the war she worked in people’s homes and then meet Ed E. senior. They married and had a pleasant life in O’fallon, IL. They were happy. Ed was an accountant and they had a few stores. As Gram says, she worked in retail for many years. She owned a children’s store. And then Mr. Miserable was sent to the slammer.
After a few years and some time spent in California and a divorce, she changed her name to Eve M. and moved to Georgia. Her daughter Linda was pregnant with me. She then became my nanny while my mom continued to work. We spent five years together. I remember watching Phil Donahue and the Price is Right every morning while she had toast and coffee in bed. We did everything together.I also remember spending hours waiting for her to get ready…she was fixing her hair piece I later learned.
We went to Disney World and Disney Land together. I loved being with Gram. When my brother John was born, she moved to Houston, TX with Cliff, an architect.
I visited her one summer for a month when I was six. That was my first flight alone. We played and had so much fun. I cried the whole way home. I was so sad to leave Gram.
In high school, after we had moved to Montana, I used to drive by her apartment to check on her. One time, her car was there but I could not seem to get her on the phone. I wigged out. I ran up to her apartment and knocked on the door. No answer. Then I went to the neighbor’s door. When I got to the third door, I was a crying mess. “Hi, my name is Nicole. I am Eve’s granddaughter. Have you seen her? I can’t get into her place.”
I still worry about her though. A few years ago I called the police because I would not reach her. She lives in St. Louis again now. She had gone fishing and not told me…what a spitfire.
6.14.2007
practice
Turns out, that I would really like to be a writer and a photographer. So this is a space for me to practice in.
One recurring "columns" will be an animauary or vitauary. This is the opposite of an obituary. So it is a notice celebrating a life while the person is living rather than celebrating a life after the death of the person.
I will also post comments about books, exhibits, what have you when the feeling strikes me.
Enjoy.
One recurring "columns" will be an animauary or vitauary. This is the opposite of an obituary. So it is a notice celebrating a life while the person is living rather than celebrating a life after the death of the person.
I will also post comments about books, exhibits, what have you when the feeling strikes me.
Enjoy.
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