Vituary: Nicole S.

Because of my selective memory, I often remember things more by the way they made me feel than exactly what happened. I remember feeling apprehensive about having quit my job and the move to New York. I realized immediately that I could not live without both friends and a TV. And since I had no friends yet, I went to the Kmart in White Plains, New York to get an electronic friend of sorts, a TV. Luckily, the TV was not my only friend for long. In the first week of law school I met my friend Nicole.

We have the same name. Her mom thought our voice mail for our house line should have said, “If you want to speak to Nicole, press one. If you want to speak to Nicole, press 2.” We were so poor when we lived together, we did not have a house line, so this was a moot point.

Our first road trip together could have ruined our friendship. I made her ride with me in my little Jetta to my storage unit in Maryland. We got caught in traffic on the New Jersey turnpike. You discover quickly how you really feel about someone stuck in traffic. I liked her a lot. She must have liked me too, because I think my car was so full of my possessions (read: crap), she had stuff at her feet and could barely move.

I have never seen her use her black belt in tai kwon doe, but I know she could kick my ass. But you can’t really tell that at first glance. Behind her glowing smile and vaguely Texan accent, lies a person of great depth with a unique way of seeing the world and processing it. I think this is one of the things that drew me to her, because I, too, often lack the ability to see the world like everyone else does.

The day I drove off in my car, planning to leave New York for a year, Nicole started crying. Sometimes I don’t realize, or try not to think about leaving the people I love. Nicole knew I would be gone for a year, and I appreciated her expression of this. I, too, would miss her, and our bantering, and her continued efforts to get me to eat better, and my continued efforts to get her to eat crap.

Last weekend she threw the perfect wedding shower for me. My close friends from law school came together for an afternoon of un-rushed enjoyment of each others company. No one had any place to be and we could talk and lounge around the pool to our heart’s content.

These are a few of the events we have shared. I know there were many more, even if the only real memory I have of them is of the feeling of comfort. That comfortable feeling that comes with friends who are more like family, who you don’t mind seeing you without your bra on, who you know will keep loving you wherever you are. This is the feeling I associate with Nicole: comfort.

I am lucky to have such a good friend to share my life with. Thank you Nicole. Love, Nicole

Movie Review: Mama Mia

Starring: Meryl Streep, Pierce Brosnan, Stellan Skarsgård, Collin Firth

I get why Meryl Streep did the movie Mama Mia: she gets to make out with Pierce Brosnan, and it all takes place on a beautiful island in Greece. What I don’t get is why it sucks. The idea was cute, but the movie lacked that zing, that thing that makes you feel all warm and fuzzy inside.

Maybe it was because the people playing the parts were too old. I know they are acting, but that only gets you so far sometimes. And boy can Meryl move. She does not look like she is 59. She looks great. But she is supposed to be playing the mom of a twenty-year-old. Mind you the movie never mentions how old she was when she had her daughter, but because her mom would not let her come home after she got pregnant, I would guess she was around 20. That makes Meryl, even in great shape about twenty years too old for the part.

I think the other thing missing from the movie was a little more back-story about the daughter. Ostensibly, all of her mom’s ex-lovers are in town because of the daughter’s wedding. (Neither the viewer nor the daughter know which one is her dad.) Then we learn she is only 20. Oh and her best friends have British accents while the daughter sounds like an American. And what about college? I guess I don’t know where the daughter is coming from or where she is going or why she is getting married.

And just one more horrible thing: the singing. Meryl can. Pierce can’t. And the painful thing is that they have Pierce keep going and going. The man has a terrible voice and even with support from Meryl, it is a flop. Oh and he starts singing at the end of the movie. Everything is resolved and everyone is having a nice dinner. This song should have been left on the cutting floor, which I gather from the Wikipedia site about the movie is where a lot of the other ABBA songs in the movie ended up.

The best part of the film comes when the credits are rolling: Meryl, Pierce, and Collin, with the other three adult characters, all sing ABBA songs on a stage wearing typical ABBA outfits. They all look great. In fact, Collin Firth turned out to be the one with the biggest gut, and he is the youngest!

I would only recommend the movie if you are going with a group of good friends and are interested in a good laugh, at the movie.

sniggle

snig·gle: [snig-uh l] verb, -gled, -gling, noun.
1. the act of inadvertent tickling of a partner while snuggling.
2. to lie or press closely, as for comfort or from affection; nestle; cuddle, coupled with inadvertent tickling.
[Origin: 2008, snickle.]

Vituary

This profile embodies to me what a Vituary should be all about. You have to use the down arrow to see more.
Click here: Days With My Father

Book Review: Nudge

Who couldn’t use a little help accomplishing a pesky goal every now and again? I know I need help sometimes to get going on a story or making it to the gym. Nudge, by Richard Thaler and Cass Sunstein (of the University of Chicago) wrote the book as a manifesto to “improve decisions about health, wealth, and happiness.” Seeking to foster what they call a new movement of “libertarian paternalism,” the idea of the book melds individual freedom with the promotion by government of socially optimal decisions, so that the citizen and the society both benefit.

If this sounds a bit different from the University of Chicago’s reputation as a libertarian, free-market school, the authors have no trouble admitting their lone-wolf status in the Economics department. According to them, because the people are only “nudged” into making better choices, their personal liberty (a paramount concern for economists) is preserved. The authors apply the Nudge model to a host of complex and seemingly intractable issues like Social Security, prescription drug coverage, and preserving the environment. For each issue, an alternative solution is explored and the reader is giving a glimpse of what life would be like if only we could be nudged into doing the right thing.

For example, how to get American workers to save more for retirement? Forget the intricate discussions on how people understand their disposable income or how America’s retirement system allocates costs to take care of the elderly; Nudge world simply makes retirement savings automatic, and forces people to opt out of the plans. Presumably, those too lazy to save (note the assumption) now would be too lazy to opt-out under the Nudge system.

The authors also show how people can use the Nudge model in their own lives. My personal favorite is their advocacy of the website stickk.com. It allows people to effectively nudge themselves. Say you want to lose 10 pounds and you think it will take a month to do so. Well, you go to stickk, sign-up for free, and set up your nudge. To motivate yourself, you offer to pay a friend of yours $10 week every week that you don’t hit your weight loss goal. After setting up a profile and putting $40 in your Stickk account, you weigh in once a week. If you make your goal, you get $10. If not, your friend gets a nice gift. Naturally, there are many permutations of this nudge. The key is making the nudge hurt enough so you feel beholden to it.

A quick read, the book offers some new and innovative ways at looking at public policy problems. Take this as your nudge to check it out from your library. For a counter view of the Nudge theory, check out Brent's blog at: LookBehindUsJane.

clouds over the garden state

this is actually looking down on

the Statue of Liberty.
Photo by: Fred R. Conrad/The New York Times

Driving

So this is one of the stories I want to use in my book...enjoy...

Pennsylvania is a big state. Really big. People don’t give it its due. New State Slogan: “Pennsylvania: It takes a long time to drive through our state.”

As I am driving, and possibly breaking the law by talking to my friend Ramona on the cell phone, I look down at my windshield and yell, “There is a mouse in my car!”

“There is a mouse in your car?!” she says rather calmly.

“Yes there is a mouse,” I say, sounding a bit like the mouse I bet.

“In your car?”

“In my car.”

“At your feet?”

“No.”

“Where in the car?”

“In the car.”

“Yes, but is it running around inside the car.”

“No, it is in the car.”

“Nicole, where is the mouse? Inside of the car?”

“No outside, on the windshield.”

“In your car or outside of the car?”

“Outside of the car.”


“Pull over.”

Right. I will call her back.

Who knows where this little guy came from. I started driving in Montana and now I was in Pennsylvania. The mouse was cute. It looked up at me while I was driving, turning its head around at me, and smiled with the wind rushing through his fur. Ralph the Mouse could not have been cuter, had he been in my car riding his motorcycle. The mouse then turned his head back around and, with ears back, looked happy to drive along sitting there. I swear he grabbed on. I wish I had a picture. No, no mice in the car, even cute mice.

I try to shoo it away.

I get back in the car. There the little guy is again, popping back up and looking up at me all innocent and happy to be sitting in my engine riding along.

I repeat the pull-over and try the shoo away exercise two more times. At one point a couple in a very large RV drive by and ask if they can help me. No, thank you, I have a cell phone, AAA, and it is only a mouse.

The reason I have AAA and a cell phone for driving across the country is not because I planned well for this trip or prepared at the beginning.

I had left Missoula around 4 in the afternoon three days earlier. I wanted to get on the road. My brother and sister tried to persuade me to stay home for another night: “you won’t get that far, just hangout with us.” I left anyway. The drive was not bad, even though I had not done much driving since I’d been in Germany and I therefore arrived in Billings late, around 9:30. It should have taken me only five hours. My Jetta was doing great. Before the drive someone had asked if I thought my eight year old, 125,000 miles already driven VW would make it across the country. Of course it would make it, why not?

I pulled up to the fuel station, went to put in some fuel, and noticed the gas cap cover needed a key. While in Germany for the year, I had loaned my brother Montana my car. I looked at the key chain, no key to the gas cap. Hum, not good, I think. He must have lost the gas cap over the year someplace. So I go inside and look to see if the fuel station sells these gas cap covers.

I ask the girl at the counter, “Do you sell those gas cap covers with the keys? I have lost my key and want to try one.” She replies, “No, but I have an idea, why don’t you just use your key?” I am not making this response up. I ask the biker dude and truck driver outside having a beer if they have any ideas. Biker: “Well, I would take a flathead screwdriver and jam it into the key slot and turn really hard while doing it. That might work.” I’m not making that up either.

I call my brother who had been driving the car for the year.

“Montana did you forget to give me something when I left today?”

“No”

“Something to do with the gas?”

“Gas money?”

“No”

“Oh Shit! Oh SHIT! Oh shit!”

“Ok, so we need a new phrase,” I tell him.

“Call me back. I will look on the internet for a solution.”

I drive on to the Flying J Truck Stop. Very cool places, for the uninitiated. You can shower, eat, buy a TV and do just about everything else you might think of at this chain of truck stops found throughout the US. One of my friend’s truck driving stepfathers wanted to setup their driveway to look like one.

No gas cap covers with keys there, but I am offered a phone book. I call AAA and decide to join, at the pay phone. I’m at the pay phone because I did not think the sales rep at the cell phone store in Missoula, Montana was giving me a good enough deal. I wanted a free phone, she said they did not give out free phones anymore. What did she know? So, I don’t have a cell phone for my drive across the US with the early model VW. What could go wrong?

I finally get an AAA guy on the phone.

“Hi, I am in Billings, Montana and I need to join AAA and get a locksmith.”

“Ma’am, what is your address?”

“Which address?”

“Your billing address.”

“Stevensville, MD”

“I am sorry ma’m, I believe that office is closed, this is the national office and I do not think we can sign you up right now.”

“I need to join AAA and get a locksmith.”

“I am really pretty sure we cannot sign you up right now.”

“I really need to join.”

“Don’t you think calling to join AAA right now is a lot like trying to get homeowner’s insurance when the house is on fire?”

“Well, now I need to join AAA, get a locksmith and talk to your supervisor, because what I don’t need right now is a lecture.”

This was one of the few times in my life when the snappy response came to me when needed. Nice.

After a moment on hold, I am signed up and a locksmith is on the way. The locksmith mentions that I do not look like a big city attorney. Because I am not. He put law student with New York together and noticed right away that I did not seem to be what should have come out of that equation.

I get back on the road the next morning and everything goes well all the way to St. Louis. Yes, this is a detour. My grandmother lives there. I am shifting, not 15 miles from my grandmother’s house, when the car dies on the interstate. I pull over and notice the huge approaching summer storm. Thinking someone will stop to help, I sit there…watching the storm get closer. Realizing no help is on the way, I get out, a guy in a car stops. I hesitate for a moment, reminded of my mom telling us over and over never ever to get in the car of a stranger. I take the ride to the Cracker Barrel near by, and pray that if it comes to it, my mom can pull some strings to save me if this dude is an axe-murderer.

The tow truck driver is a trip. Young, nice, portly. He tows my car to a Ford dealership where the AAA people told me they could fix the Jetta. I paid $45 extra because it was outside of the 3 mile free AAA towing range.

I call the next morning, and the conversation with the Ford dealership goes something like this:

“Hi! Nicole Harkin here. I dropped off my Jetta. So how long will it take you to fix it up.”

“Well, we can’t fix it. This is a Ford dealership. But even if we weren’t a Ford dealer, it would be awhile, because all of the mechanics in St. Louis are on strike.”

“What?”

“The mechanics are on strike.”

Right. Right. AAA comes through once again. Why didn’t they mention this problem on the phone? And who has ever heard of unionized car mechanics?

I call around, finding the one VW dealer open. AAA pays to tow Jetta there. The general manager tells me he will try to work me in. I mention law school starts on Monday and, as this is Friday, I really need to go.

I get the call late Friday night that the car is done. I pick it up the next morning with Grammy. Naturally, the Jetta has a flat tire. It is sitting there on the lot with a flat tire. It did not have a flat tire when I brought it to them. After waiting two hours they fix that too, but for free. Oh and by this time, Grammy has decided that I cannot drive any further without a cell phone. I get one because she is mostly correct.

Back on the road.

Oh and I finally ended up using the windshield wiper fluid to encourage the mouse to get out of the car. I never saw him again, but felt bad. I hope nothing happened to him.

dad's vituary

This has been a hard week for me. My dad had a heart attack and his brain went without oxygen for 15 minutes. He is brain dead.
…
I remember him driving us skiing on Saturday mornings, turning off the heat half way up the hill so we could be come “acclimated to the cold.”
…
Like most children, I love my father very much. But in the past 12 years we have not gotten along. That is my euphemism which seeks to encompass the actual state of our relationship, or lack thereof. He got a second chance at life all those years ago and for various reasons we stopped talking.
…
I remember sitting by his bedside holding his hand and praying to God that he would live so my brother Montana would get to know him.
…
That does not mean that I stopped thinking about him or did not miss his presence in my life. I did. I do. A few years ago a work colleague told me that he did not talk to his dad. I felt so sad for him. And then I realized that I did not talk to my dad either.
…
I remember him driving me and my best friend to school – our first day of high school –with the windows down and Dire Straights’ “Money for Nothing” playing really loud, to embarrass us.
…
I look a lot like my dad. He looks like a mixture of William Shatner and Fred Flintstone. Once I realized this I told him. He did not find it as funny as I did. But in telling you this I realize I must bear some resemblance to both of those characters as well, since we share the same features.
…
I remember navigating on our trip across the country and barely rolling into the fuel station on fumes because I was in charge of calculating how far we could go on one tank of gas, and I miscalculated.
…
I think like my dad as well. He is a critical thinker, largely self educated, and extremely likeable. I don’t know any person when they first meet him who did not immediately fall under his spell. And he can lie really well. I can do the same, though I have sworn it off for the most part.
…
I remember the time I opted not to take my last ride on his shoulders, preferring to save that last chance until later. I grew too fast to ever use that last ride.
…
These are the things I know to be true about my dad: He is deathly afraid of spiders. He does not drink because if gives him really bad headaches. He loves flying and Garfield. He is beloved by many people. He loves pepperoni and green pepper pizza. He cannot suffer fools easily. He loves chocolate chip cookies and chocolate cake.
…
I remember he and my mom sewing the ski racing uniforms for my siblings together.
…
I wondered if the people in his life knew I existed. My photo was no where to be found in his house, save his wallet. I wonder if he told people about me or the kids, my siblings. We are all so successful; John is a pilot married to a great wife; Erica is a mom and a pharmacist; and Montana is a computer scientist also with a great wife. We love each other and support each other and would have given anything to be a complete family again. But please don’t feel that we are not a family, because we are a strong family made up of disparate parts scattered throughout the country.
…
I remember calling him in college because I could not find my wallet, and he being at his wits end with this eldest daughter and finally explaining to me that he was 2000 miles away and I would have to find the wallet myself.
…
I regret not having instant messaged with my dad last week when he tried to talk to me. I was busy at work. And I regret not having written his Vituary before he got sick.
…
I remember waking up to him making us frozen Pepperidge Farms raspberry turnovers on Sunday mornings.
…
I admire that he lived his life on his terms. He lived out of town because he did not want to be in the city. He decided not to get a pace maker and defibrillator implanted in his chest because he wanted to keep flying gliders. A day before he died he was soaring.

We never finished a conversation without telling each other we loved each other. And I do love him. Very much. And I miss him.

pet worms

This is another piece I wrote for class...it is funnier now...

I woke up around midnight with the thought that my bum was itching and I had no earthly idea why such a thing would be happening because I was up until then unacquainted with my bum.

Now how could that be asks the reader, don’t we all go to the bathroom everyday? And isn’t she part of everybody?

And to the reader I say yes to both questions, with the caveat that my bum and I had a don’t ask, don’t bother me relationship which until now had served us well. But unfortunately, my bum had taken this midnight moment to break our truce.

It was not long after noticing my bum that I realized that our relationship had escalated quickly. My bum needed a lot more of my attention at that moment than I really felt ready to give to it. But to anyone who has ever had an itchy mosquito bite much less an itchy bum you will realize the immediacy of my need to scratch vigorously and find some alternative relief.

We moved into the kitchen, where I scooped a very large glob of white yogurt onto a wash cloth, which I then proceeded, post haste, to sit down on. With the yogurt in place, the itching assuaged for the moment I turned to that great equalizer, the internet, for more information about what could be causing this inconvenience at two in the morning. There, I learned with the help of the masses that three possibilities existed: yeast infection, hemorrhoids, or pin worms.

A yeast infection is a rather common occurrence for women and causes itching in the general “privates area.” And while I had experienced my share of these infections, I tried to convince myself that I did indeed have a yeast infection, mainly because the other two options were unthinkable: hemorrhoids was something only people in commercials ever got and worms coming out of my bum was the only thing I could think of that would be worse than actually having an itchy bum.

I proceeded to read more about the potential worms. Pinworms are often traded among small children who go to kindergarten and the worms live out their lives in the darkest and possibly most un-inviting (unless you are into that kind of thing) part of a human body: your anus. At night the worms leave their cozy abode to come out and lay eggs. This is typically when a person begins to notice that the worms have begun to co-habitate with you in your private areas. Typically children scratch themselves because of the itching caused by the worms and thereby the pinworm eggs find their way under the fingernails of these children. Unless the kids are treated, this cycle continues and often adults working with children also get them.

The fact that my 18-year-old roommate worked at a kindergarten came to mind slowly, as I was falling asleep.

The next morning I wasted no time in calling the English-speaking doctor. Her receptionist only spoke German. Below is my side of the conversation I had with her about my little problems:

“Hi, my name is Nicole Harkin. I am experiencing a minor discomfort in my private area and would like to see the doctor as soon as possible.”

“Um no, three weeks from now will not do. I would prefer to see the doctor about my private privates problem today. Would that be possible?”

“Perhaps I can come in and just wait in the waiting room?”

“I would prefer to talk to the doctor about it.”

Upon arriving at the doctors office and waiting the requisite three hours to see the doctor, I informed her that I had pinworms. As any self-respecting German doctor would do, though, she sent me home not with a prescription, but with a roll of scotch tape. To make sure I actually had pinworms, I was to tape this to my private areas to see if I caught any worms that night while attempting to sleep.

I was less than pleased with this outcome, needless to say. Luckily, about an hour later there was a worm sighting. I will not bore you with the details, but suffice to say I called the doctor’s office as soon as possible and picked up the prescription equally quickly.

The rest of the day was spent washing everything I owned in very hot water, as directed by the internet. I scrubbed the kitchen, and cut my fingernails, very short.

Even now, writing this story, I sometimes notice my bum again, and th en start to get worried that I might be having a re-occurrence. The symptoms are rather like psychosomatic pinworm symptoms.

Luckily, with the prescription the pinworms moved out quickly and my only advice to the reader is to remember to wash your hands very thoroughly, especially if you spend anytime near children or near people with children.

Artomatic

Come out and see some of my art and some art from all over DC!
My pictures will be on the fourth floor of the building.
I have checked out the art of other artists and much of it is very cool.
Let me know when you are going, and we can meet you there!

Artomatic 2008 (click here for more info!)

Updated Fri, 04/11/2008 - 11:06am

May 9 – June 15, 2008
Capitol Plaza I
1200 First Street, NE
Washington, DC 20002
Metro: Red Line, New York Ave., M St exit

Events every day! For more info check here:
http://www.artomatic.org/event

we captured part of this little guy's life.
go forth and eat leaves.

Language lesson in New York:


This is a mini-Statue of Liberty at the Brooklyn Museum.

Nicole: Writing Assignment

In my new writing class we were given the assignment to write our life up in 150 words, 30 words, and then six words. Here was my response:

150 Words
Green: The color of falling in love. Added to wardrobe because of adorable black leather purse with Kelly green stitching. Worn on the day Brent and I fell in love walking around Berlin.

Red: The color of the lamps, pillows, nano, bike, and duvet in my life. Added to Dupont Circle home after moving in together with Brent. Both Brent and red have had a long stretch.

Orange: The color of my favorite clothes before law school and Linda’s death. “Where do you find so many orange clothes?” she once asked. No longer present in wardrobe.

Yellow: The color of my first new car, a geo Metro convertible, almost perfect for a teenager in Montana. But for the snow…

Black: The color of my clothes since I read a book in law school about simplifying my life. Always looks good and goes with everything. Wait, did I get the idea from the book or from living in New York?

Blue: Reserved for future life periods.


30 Words
She grew up in Montana, fell in love in and with Berlin, has a job in Washington DC, and yearns to work fulltime doing what her personal business card says: Nicole Harkin, writer/photographer.


Sentence
Note: life was/is not a burden.

The Wire Review

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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

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...

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.

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.

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...