Upper West Side: Sober Version

Like I was saying . . . I spent a good chunk of the day on Wednesday exploring the Upper West Side. Forgive me while I sound pretentious, but I'm a sucker for architecture. I feel so snobby saying that, but I used the word "chunk" in my first sentence and "sucker" in the next, so I think it evens out. Fart. (Threw that in for good measure.)

I've always loved tall buildings every since I was a kid. My family has pictures of me as a toddler craning my neck ninety degrees backward to look upward at the skyscrapers of San Francisco. Before moseying on over to the buildings of Central Park West, I went to a residential area: Riverside Drive and the West End Historic District.  AKA: Brownstone heaven. If you don't know what a brownstone is (HINT: NOT A STONE THAT IS BROWN) you will by the end of this post.

Pockets of side streets in the UWS are lined with rows of brownstone houses that were favored by New York's 19-century middle classes (ironic, considering that now they're only inhabited by the richest of the rich). They were built using cheap, local brown sandstone, are usually about three or four stories high, and have short stoops leading up to the front door.

As far as Manhattan goes, West 88th Street is brownstone Mecca (for Brooklyn, it's Park Slope--post forthcoming!). It's very cool to walk down 88th and see  the different time periods that certain segments of brownstones were built. There are stark differences. For example, the brownstones to the right of the above picture were built in 1896--you can tell by their bow fronts.

These brownstones--on the opposite side of 88th--were built earlier (in the early 1890s). You can tell by their Roman brick and stepped gables (AKA: stair-steppy triangle thingy at the top).

This is the Yeshiva Ketana School--built in 1901 by Herts and Tallant. It's one of only two surviving mansions that once lined Riverside Drive.

After the West End Historic District, I took the subway back down to Columbus Circle to begin a self-guided walking tour of all the famous apartment buildings along Central Park West. On the way down, I made a quick stop at 71st Street to see the Dorilton: One of the most famboyant examples of the Beaux Arts era.

Isn't that breathtaking?! The vast, varying architectural styles of the city speak to so much history. I always feel like I'm wandering through an outdoor art gallery.

On to Central Park West, I made stops at the Dakota, Irwin Chanin's Century and Majestic, and Emery Roth's San Remo and El Dorado.

The Dakota is famous as the site where John Lennon was shot. Back in 1884, when it was built, it was thought to be so far west in the city that it might was well be in Dakota! Hence the name.

This is the Majestic (the Century looks almost exactly the same). I'm not a huge fan of Irwin Chanin's Art Deco (I think it looks boring) but to each his own!

Emery Roth's San Remo, built in 1930. You can see that it has some Renaissance influences near the top. The twin towers were actually built to hide water tanks! I like this interpretation of Art Deco better than Chanin's, but the Chrysler Building will always be my favorite!

I want to live in that house.

Roth's El Dorado, up Central Park West on 91st Street. It looks very similar to San Remo.
Marilyn Monroe and Groucho Marx once lived here!

Are you thoroughly bored yet? Hopefully not, because I've got a second architecture-ridden blog post coming at you later. AREN'T YOU EXCITED?!?!?!?

Between Anderson Cooper and all my goo-goo ga-ga'ing over buildings, my heart was happy on Tuesday. It must have shown because I was smiling like a fool the whole day. I love smiling in a big city because people don't expect it. A few days ago I decided to make a conscious effort to do this. I didn't want to be that girl  on the subway who gets fidgety when someone weird or scary gets on the car. People come off those ways for a variety of reasons--their size, their smell, their clothes, whatever. But--and I know this sounds corny--if you just look at that person and think "He/she is a child of God" you almost can't help but smile. You're not looking at a man in a turban, you're looking at a brother. You're not looking at a gothic teenager, you're looking at a sister. Seeing people smile back at me humanizes them. This little social challenge I put myself up to has been rewarding. It makes the big city feel small-town.

On the way home to Jersey, I picked up some cupcakes at Magnolia Bakery. They were, in a word, OVERRATED. Now, I know what you're thinking. Hahaha, oh Kristi. You idiot. You spend $3.50 on a cupcake and expect it NOT to be??

To which I respond: FOOLS!!  Have you ever BEEN to Sprinkles?! $3.50 a pop and worth every penny. Brock and I have decided that we're never going to buy cupcakes from anywhere other than Sprinkles again. We've tried a LOT of cupcakeries--famous, mom-and-pop, indie (oh yes, there are indie cupcakeries), you name it. Nothing even comes close to Sprinkles. People don't like to admit that Sprinkles is the best because it's a chain. WELL TOO BAD. Go ahead and delude yourself and eat your sucky cupcakes, you counter-culture hipster wannabe. When you get over the Mumford and Sons background music playing at whatever vintage-couched cupcakery you patronize, come on over to Sprinkles with all the cool kids. You won't be served confectionery goodness by the frontman of a local alternative rock band, but what those peppy Sprinkles employees lack in tattoo sleeves they make up for in LEGITIMATE BAKING SKILLS.

And that's all I have to say about that. 

Upper West Side: Drunk Version

Yesterday morning I went to Columbus Circle yet again to claim my prime seating at Anderson Cooper's talk show. And guys. I WILL BE ON TV. Not because I interacted with Anderson Cooper at all, but because the roving crowd-cameraman was li-ter-ra-lly in my face for most of the show. As soon as he realized that I had an expressive face, BAM. All up in my grillz.

I tried to act as naturally as possible, but I'm new to the whole being world-famous thing. My hope is that when Anderson watches that recorded show, he goes Hey? Who is that girl in the audience? And the producers are all We don't know, but she left this glass slipper . . . and Anderson's like Holy hell she wears a size 10? and they're all Yeah, weird.

I'm glad I went back to the show because I actually enjoyed this particular episode a lot more. Plus, I got two free books! Cha-ching!  It wasn't Oprah's Favorite Things, but it was as close as I've come so I was pret-ty  jazzed about it.

The taping ended at around 12:30 so I had the whole afternoon sprawled out before me. Suggestively. HAHAHAHA what would an afternoon looks like if it sprawled out before you suggestively? Maybe something like this???

I work ouuut!! I work ouuutt!!

Guess that's why they call it AFTERNOON delight, ya'll. All this time you thought it was a euphemism.

Oh, guys. It's been a long day and I feel like I'm drunk-blogging. I think I'll just call it a night here and try for Take 2 tomorrow morning. Check back then ;)

Here is a picture of Steven Seagal looking constipated.

Also:

The White-Haired Fox

YUP. I'm talking about Anderson Cooper.

(What else  what "the white-haired fox" refer to?!)

I was so excited yesterday to go to a taping of Anderson Cooper's daytime talk show! I can't say anything about the show until it airs (I'll let you know when), but it was so fun. The studio is on Columbus Circle--a beautiful area located at the southwest corner of Central Park. You wouldn't believe the view! One wall of the studio is comprised entirely of glass windows that look out over Central Park, Columbus Circle, and the Upper East Side. Swoon. 

Anderson comes from a privileged background and it's funny to hear him say things like "when I was 17 and driving a truck across sub-Saharan Africa, I contracted malaria and had to be hospitalized in Kenya." I don't know how,  but he never comes off as pretentious in spite of this! I have a pretty fine-tuned radar for when somebody is a tool, so he must be really  down-to-earth in order to say things like that without me being annoyed. Or maybe it's just that hair of his. Or those eyes. Or EVERYTHING.

One of the best parts of the show is how much audience participation there is. Anderson is always walking around taking questions that audience members have for the guests, or just answering any question they throw at him during set transitions. He's very warm and personable, with a special knack for making the best of awkward situations--like when an elderly woman asks if he remembers her ("We met at such-and-such restaurant in Long Island in 2007!"), or when another woman asks if he's read the book she sent him, or when an audience member straight up asks him for a job and if they can exchange business cards! Anderson's reply: "Uh, I don't really have a business card," (translation: I'M EFFING ANDERSON COOPER) "but let me have one of my producers grab yours!"

I stayed a little longer after to the show to volunteer for a special segment on the next  day's show. It was me and about twenty other people. They only chose a handful to "use" for the segment, and I was not one of them (which, weirdly, I'm kinda proud of--again, I'll let you know when it airs!). I did,  however, get a free bag of Doritos and bottled water out of it, along with prime seating to the next day's taping. They had me at Doritos, but y'know, I'll take everything I can get.

I spent the rest of the day exploring the Upper West Side of Manhattan. I started with Pomander Walk--a double row of brick, stucco, and timbered Tudoresque townhouses tucked away on 94th Street. The develop of them, Thomas Healy, was inspired by set designs from a 1921 play called Pomander Walk. The Pomander Walk on 94th was his attempt to recreate the village atmosphere within the play. Gloria Swanson, Rosalind Russell, and Humphrey Bogart are among the past tenants there.

I then wandered down to Riverside Park--a woodsy stretch of green that curves along Riverside Drive for seventy blocks. Originally planned in 1873, it has since grown to include playgrounds, sports fields, a promenade, and monuments. It was a quiet refuge from the hustle-and-bustle of nearby Broadway Street: A few dog-walkers, squirrels scampering up tree trunks, children playing, and the muted rumble of Henry Hudson Parkway. I passed by a monument to Joan of Arc (aka SHE-BALLER) before running into the marble Soliders and Sailors Monument. Built in 1902 and dedicated to those who died to save the Union during the Civil War, it was modeled after the Monument of Lysicrates in Athens.

How gorgeous is Riverside Park?!

I was trying to snap a picture of the beautiful cherry tree near the monument (CAN YOU TELL I'M JUST A LITTLE OBSESSED WITH THOSE????) but the light wasn't cooperating with me. It was then that an older Jewish man--mid-fifties, rotund, and slightly disheveled--approached me. I smiled at him.

Smiles are hard to come by in the city, apparently, which is perhaps the reason why I spent the next ten minutes in conversation with him. His Yiddish accent was as thick as his waistline. I half-expected to hear a fiddler playing on a distant roof.

"Did jou know," he said, "zhere is a beautiful cherry tree just down zhe vay? Zhis von here doesn't smell, but zhe ozher von does. And zhis von's flowers are light pink--zhe flowers on zhe ozher tree are darker."

"Really?"

"Yes! It is maybe thrrree-minute walk from here." The r  tumbled down his tongue. "I'd show you, y'know, but I'm just heading to my home. But you must  visit it. Really. Before zhe next two, thrrree days, because zhen all zhe blossoms fall down. It smell so nice. You will see people grabbing the branches to smell zhe blossoms. And you will see ozher cherry trees, too! One with branches that touch zhe grrrround. I svear!" I couldn't stop smiling the whole time he spoke.

"So vhat do you do here in New Yorrrk? Are you actress? Model?"

I tried to repress a loud HA! and explained my being here.

"Oh, you know"--for a man seemingly in a rush to get home, he didn't mind chatting away--"zhere is a vonderful place downtown that you and your husband must go. It's for dancing. Sving dancing! You must do sving dancing. People are always smiling when they sving dance. In salsa, tango--no. No smiling. You must do the sving. They dance in eight counts, like zhis."

He took my hand and danced with me right there, counting the beats and twirling me around, bouncing from side to side.

"Yes, you must go. But I don't know if you vill like zhe place. Maybe it's not for people of your social class, just for schmucks like me."

**PAUSE** A Jewish man with a Yiddish accent used the word "schmuck" in conversation with me. Cross that off the bucket list.

Anyway, we continued on until he decided it was actually time to head home. He left me his business "card"--a thin strip of paper. ("I'm in zhe process of ordering real vons rrright now, with lines on zhe back for you to write down an appointment.") Apparently, the man has a PhD and has written an e-book called The Universal Meaning of Life and the Anatomy of Human Happiness. $2.99 on Amazon. His name is Alexander Jornitski--check out his website!

The business card reads: "Your fate has never put this kind of card into your hand before and will never do this again. Read the book; it is short, unique, and important."

This is the cherry tree he was talking about. He was right--it smelled amazing. (More than worth a three-minute walk.)

My final stop of the day was at Zabar's--a Jewish grocery store that is basically a foodie's paradise. Since 1934, its shelves have been stocked with every type of cheese you can imagine. From every country. A huge selection of oils, jams, jellies, vinegars, olives, sausages, exotic chocolates, and bakery breads. I'd never seen anything like it and could've easily spent hours  (and hundreds of dollars...) in there, but it was starting to get dark and Jersey is quite the commute from 80th Street. I grabbed a hunk of fresh Parmesan, a loaf of cinnamon bread from the bakery, and some chocolate chip cookies before heading home.

Yeah, I could definitely get used to the Upper West Side :)

Sakura

I remember playing this song on the piano when I was young. I would play it over and over (mostly because it was easy), thinking about what sakura--cherry blossoms--must look like. If someone took the time to write a song about them, they must be exquisite.

And that they are. Brock and I took the Bolt Bus down to DC this weekend to catch the last of the cherry blossoms. After navigating our way through an atheist rally (proper name: the "Reason Rally"), we meandered our way down with the masses toward the Tidal Basin (where we also saw the new Martin Luther King Jr. Monument--very cool!). It was the 100th anniversary of Japan's gift of 3,000 cherry trees to the United States, one hundred of which are still standing today.

There is something about cherry blossoms that makes you wax poetic; how delicate they are, how soft, how gracefully they hang from their branches, like ballerinas on a barre; how a small breeze is all it takes to wisk them away in flurry of fluttering pink snow. The life of a cherry blossom is rapturous--it isn't every day that millions flock to see anything, let alone a small pink flower--and, ultimately, tragic. How can something so timeless vanish so quickly? How can something so majestic be so fragile?

The cherry blossoms (or, as I like to call them, BL-AWESOMES!) weren't the only thing waiting for us in DC. Our dear friends Ryan and Tiffany were kind enough to let us crash at their place and we had such a fun time catching up with them. We ate way too much at Good Stuff Eatery (our beloved toasted marshmallow shake--how we've missed it!), moseyed around Eastern Market, poked around our favorite bookstore with our favorite crotchety old bookkeeper, enjoyed delicious sandwiches from Potbelly, had a fun movie night with All The President's Men,  gorged on Reubens at a Jewish deli, and sat around talking for hours (I'm pretty sure that's how you know you have good friends).

One of the highlights of the trip was a visit to the DC 3rd Ward on Sunday--where we went to church when we loved there. I can't even tell you how happy I was to see old friends there. It really felt like home. Halfway during Sacrament Meeting, Brock looked over at me and saw me crying. "I know why you're sad," he said, "because I feel the same way, too. You don't want to leave here, do you?" I was so choked up that all I could do was shake my head back and forth. I looked out the window and watched the wind carry cherry blossoms off the tree outside.

Once per month, Mormons fast on Sunday and donate the money they would  have spent on meals to the needy. It's a time for self-reflection and spiritual rejuvenation. On Fast Sunday, Sacrament Meeting takes a special form where--for most of the meeting--anyone  in the congregation is welcome to step up to the pulpit and bear their testimony of the gospel.

There is nothing like Fast and Testimony Meeting at the DC 3rd Ward. So many of the members come from storied pasts--many of them are new converts who come from immigrant families (many from West Africa) or have battled addictions to various substances. Having grown up in other churches, many of the nuances of Mormon culture are lost on them. And I love it! There is such a soulful, Southern evangelical feel to the DC 3rd Ward. Everybody who gets up to the pulpit greets the congregation with "Good Afternoon!" and everybody replies "Good Afternoon!" in return. Instead of the standard "I would like to bear my testimony..." opening that most members give, many say things like "Dear Lord, I would like to thank You for a beautiful day and for the beautiful opportunity to share my testimony with You."

You can always count on Sister Mack to be the first one up to bear her testimony every month. She's an old, short black woman with no teeth who always wears a hat to church. And she always says the same thing when she bears her testimony: I'm gon sing my testimony in a song, but I ain't very good at singin' and so you all need to sing along. And every month, we all sing the same song with Sister Mack:

You got to stand your test in judgement

You got to stand it for yourself

Ain't nobody else can stand it for you

You go to stand if for yourself

The testimonies you'll hear in that ward are simple, pure . . . filled with love and faith so strong you can feel their souls on fire. The speakers, many of them poorly educated, are not eloquent; their thoughts are jumbled and at times incoherent. Despite this, rarely am I not moved to tears by their words. Let me share one story that a sister in the ward recounted to us last Sunday. For context, know that this sister has overcome hard addiction in the past and has a very difficult time keeping her head above water financially.

Every week, I make tuna fish sandwiches for the homeless. But this past month was tight, so I couldn't buy the sandwich spread that I normally put on them. (She holds up a jar of Kraft Sandwich Spread and starts to get teary-eyed.) So I prayed to God that he would help me. Help me find money to buy the things I needed to make these sandwiches. Well, I go to church the next Sunday, and there's a family with a trunk full of that exact same sandwich spread. I couldn't believe it! And they were just giving it away, they had too much. I didn't want to be greedy, so I only took four. Each jar costs $2.65, so I figured I saved about $10 right there. So I used that $10 I saved to go buy five loaves of bread and some more tuna. From all of that, I was able to make about 25 sandwiches. And I just KNOW God is lookin' out for us because He helped me find a way to make those tuna fish sandwiches!

Can you see why I want to move back? :)

Brock left Sunday night so he could make it to work the next morning, but I decided to leave Monday afternoon so I could have time to visit old friends in Congressman Chaffetz' office! 

Early Monday morning, I bid adieu to Ryan and Tiffany and headed for the Tidal Basin again. I wanted more pictures of them since Saturday was overcast and rainy. When I got there, I couldn't believe how bare the trees were! Only a few blossoms left! I was happy have have them all to myself.

As it turns out, Monday also marked the opening debates of the Affordable Care Act at the Supreme Court!  I got in line about an hour before everything was set to start, hoping to get a front-row seat to the action. It was fun to be there and watch/listen to all the demonstrations outside--democracy is so freaking rad. I even got interviewed by NPR! Don't know that I made it on air, but it was still cool (and nerve-wracking!) to talk about my opinions with a major news source.

The time came to hand out red tickets--those going to the people in line who got a seat inside for the full 90-minute argument. There were 120 red tickets. I was the 121st person in line. Suuuuuuuck!!!!!!! I couldn't believe it! Such a bummer! If only I'd caught that one metro that pulled away from me at the last second . . . maybe I could've gotten there three minutes earlier and been #119. ARRRRGHHH. Oh, well. That's life.

As much of a drag as that was, it meant that I was the first person in line for a yellow ticket, which entitles you to a sit in on the case for 3-5 minutes. So I did get in! What an amazing mental picture I'll have for the rest of my life: All nine Supreme Court justices sitting on the bench, listening to the Solicitor General Donald Verrilli's opening statements. Amazing! There was even a funny moment when Justice Kagan asked Verrilli what exactly was being challenged: The constitutionality of the individual mandate or the sanction? To which he responded, "Well, I will not argue that this statute is a perfect model of clarity." The courtroom hummed with chuckles! 

After sitting in on history, I stepped back into my past: 1032 Longworth! I spent about fifteen minutes catching up with everyone there: Tanner, Troy, John, Fred, Justin . . . all the women in the office had left for motherhood! Things in the office had changed a lot, but personalities were the same. Just like old times, it wasn't long before conversation devolved into base humor :) Hey, it's not my fault that I happened to be holding giant rubber band balls and that someone in the office made a comment about it. (It is  my fault, however, that I couldn't refrain from a slew of raunchy innuendos thereafter.) MAN, I miss those guys! 

Not a bad weekend. Not bad at all.

Move Over, Snooki

Brock and I have settled ourselves in Jersey City--a beautiful town just across the Hudson from New York. We're about ten minutes away from Hoboken: The place where America's favorite dysfunctional pregnant woman calls home.

A lot of New Yorkers have moved to Jersey City and Hoboken in order to save on rent. And who wouldn't want to? It's got just enough of a surburban feel to it (I can see a Best Buy, Home Depot, JCPenney from my bedroom window), New Jerseyens are friendly, you don't have to deal with tourists, it's quieter, has a beautiful boardwalk and lively downtown, and you're only a fifteen-minute commute from the Financial District.

We haven't done anything terribly exciting the past few days--just getting our bearings a little bit. Last night we went to Hoboken for pizza at the famed Grimaldi's. It was good, but I seriously think people here overrate their pizza. Have they ever been  to Chicago?!

Tonight we're taking the Bolt Bus down to DC to see our friends, Ryan and Tiffany, and the beautiful cherry blossoms! I'm very excited--by the time we'd arrived in DC last April, we'd missed them by about two weeks.

Anyway, I haven't got much to say or report, but here's a video tour of our apartment. The New York adventures begin next week! Brace yourselves.

UPDATE: I should probably tell you why  we're in NJ, huh? Sometimes I assume that when I share news with my immediate family, it just MAGICALLY gets out to everyone. Kind of how like sometimes I look at a text, mentally respond to it, and forget to actually  respond to it. Anyway, we're here in NJ for four weeks because Brock has training here. We move back to SLC in mid-April. Our apartment is corporate housing, with Brock working just down the street at GS's NJ HQ (using three acronyms in a row to form a coherent sentence . . . ten points for Gryffindor!).

Moab

My family spent their spring break in Moab, and I went down this past weekend to join them for a couple days (Brock had to work). On the way down, I took a wrong turn that added over an hour to my travel time---not cool when gas is nearing $4/gallon! I can't complain too much though, seeing as how it was a pleasant drive that meandered down through all the little podunk towns on US-89.

On Friday we woke up early and headed out for a hike up Negro Bill Canyon toward Morning Glory Bridge. Mojo had a ball running back and forth on the soft, sandy trail and through stream-crossings. The hike was about six miles total, but I'm sure that dog logged fifteen when all was said and done! 

Camouflage Dog

Morning Glory Bridge

My mom insists that she doesn't like Mojo, but if that were true, would I catch her having CONVERSATIONS WITH HIM???

Goofies.

This guy was strumming Pink Floyd's "Wish You Were Here" as we came out of the canyon. It was ethereal.

Later that day, we picked up our ATV rentals and headed for the White Wash Sand Dunes. On the first ride of the day, Kiana and I were cruising along over a small hill with a very unexpected steep drop. The ATV flipped over and we laughed and laughed . . . until we saw the front right wheel. It looked like we'd completely bent the axle (YIKES), but luckily the tire had just slipped off its fitting. It still took a good forty-five minutes to get it fixed and re-inflated (Dad = Conquering Hero), but all things considered, it was only a small hiccup in the day.

Like it never happened!

I believe that would be Connor driving an ATV solo with his EYES CLOSED?!?!?

Mom found a heart-shaped rock for pops . . . Caden and Connor found Fruit Roll Ups for their tongues.

Totes adorbs.

Cruisin'.

We spent Saturday morning zooming through the beautiful Mill Canyon and capped off our ATV rentals with a picnic in the desert. Moab is one of the funnest places for families to go exploring and this weekend played to that reality. Thanks Mom and Dad for such a great time!

The Mean Reds

Holly Golightly: You know those days when you get the mean reds?
Paul Varjak: The mean reds, you mean like the blues?
Holly Golightly: No. The blues are because you're getting fat and maybe it's been raining too long, you're just sad that's all. The mean reds are horrible. Suddenly you're afraid and you don't know what you're afraid of. Do you ever get that feeling?

***

• Brock started work last week and it freaked me out a little. For the past six years, being students was an integral part of how we identified ourselves as a couple. You'd think that not having that label would be a welcome reprieve from years of trudging our way to diplomas, but it shook me because I don't have a game plan for the Whenwheres that come along with this new phase of life. When/where I'll pursue a graduate degree, when/where I'll have kids, when/where I'll work, etc. The pressure to have answers for those things feels a lot more acute now that I don't have the excuse of studenthood to fall back on.

• The prospect of living in Salt Lake City excites and worries me. I'm obviously excited to be near family, friends, and mountains--but the vast majority of work that I've developed skill sets for is located east of Eden. (A rather funny euphemism for DC, now that I think of it.)

• I hate that I hate gender-jobs. (Y'know, low-level positions like "administrative assistant" or "office manager" that often go to women.) I shouldn't hate them because any one of them would give me $9 more in my pocket per hour than what I'm currently making, but I just do. Curse that pride of mine.

• Speaking of gender issues, being home during the day gives me a huge feminist chip on my shoulder. For example, if I make dinner and Brock says "Mmm, this is good!" I can't just take that for the innocuous compliment that it is. I start thinking What--did you EXPECT this to be good? Do you EXPECT me to cook dinner? What else do you "expect" me to do? Are you secretly relieved that now I'm the one being domestic? Is that where my worth lies to you? and blah blah BLAAAAAH. Naturally, I am incapable of expressing these thoughts in a healthy way because of the guilt I feel for even thinking them in the first place.

• The GOP race is beyond messed up and I've completely lost interest in it. After a certain point, it's a ridiculous waste of energy to expend so much effort analyzing current events because it's not like anybody will listen to sanity anyway. Especially from a nobody.

• Maybe that's the heart of it all. My fear of being a nobody and the guilt I feel over having that fear to begin with (isn't it silly?). Forgive me while I wax existential, but do you know the name of your great-great grandmother? I don't, and that terrifies me. I am four generations away from being forgotten.

***

I'm nobody! Who are you?
Are you nobody, too?
Then there's a pair of us — don't tell!
They'd banish us, you know. 

How dreary to be somebody!
How public, like a frog
To tell your name the livelong day
To an admiring bog!

Where Ms. Dickinson and I differ is that I don't  think it would be dreary to be somebody. I mean, at least you'd probably have your life figured out and  a voice that people would listen to. Because nobodies only listen to themselves, which inevitably leads to wasted Sundays spent over-analyzing irrational mixed feelings of guilt, jadedness, worry, jealousy, sadness, insecurity, anxiety, and fear.

I need to learn how to be satisfied with where I'm at and to just accept  things, but that's difficult because I have this paranoia of satisfaction turning into complacency. In any case, gettin' to The Whenwheres is a helluva lot harder when you've got The Mean Reds, I can tell you that much.

Why Kony2012 Is A Good Thing

Meet Kiana.

Kiana is my 15-year old sister. Sometimes I forget that there's nearly a decade between us, because in a lot of ways, Kiana is not a regular teenage girl. She is unselfish, compassionate, and I've never heard her say a mean thing about anybody.

Yet in a lot of other ways, Kiana is a regular teenage girl. She's obsessed with The Vampire Diaries, wears extensions, loves manicures and shopping, and can play a mean game of Temple Runner on her iPad (which, by the way, she bought with her own money). On March 6th, all she talked about was one thing:

"Have you heard of Kony?"

***

The next morning, I watched the Kony2012 and couldn't help but feel moved. I shared the link on Facebook and Twitter, changed my profile picture, and donated to Invisible Children.

Is this "slacktivism?" Absolutely. Is there much else I'm capable of doing to help the situation? Not really. Hate on slacktivism all you want, but sometimes it's the all people have to offer. I think it's wrong and mean-spirited to berate people for trying to use what little philanthropic power they have.

One of the biggest charges against Invisible Children is its paternalistic approach to international development. Paternalism encompasses the idea of privileged Westerners thinking "Aw, look at all these poor people in ____. I'm going to save them." Rather than helping others help themselves, Westerners often approach development with a messianic view of their stewardship (see also: the White Man's Burden). This often worsens problems rather than fixing them. Take, for example, TOMS. Buy a pair of shoes, give a pair to a person in need. What could be so bad about that? Well, nothing, if it didn't run local shoemakers out of business. It's good marketing, but bad aid.

The Kony2012 campaign by Invisible Children is much of the same. Cute little blonde-haired boy is sad because Kony is a "bad guy." Pictures of Ugandan children as child soldiers. It's poverty porn at its finest. People complain that the video was simplistic--watering down an extremely complicated regional issue into viral clickbait.

The list of grievances goes on: From solutions that Invisible Children is advocating for (like military intervention and allocating resources to the Ugandan Army), to its intellectual shallowness, on and on and on.

You know what's crazy? I agree with all of this criticism. You know what's crazier? I still love the campaign.

Because I am talking about it right. now.

Yeah, we've got some bad advocacy going on with the Invisible Children campaign. But look at the discussion it's spurred! We're not just talking about the LRA and Joseph Kony, but development and aid in general. What is good aid? What is bad aid? How do we satisfy our desire to be altruistic without being paternalistic? What should you know about an organization before you donate to it?  What do we need to know about Uganda and the area around it before coming up with solutions? What would a good solution achieve? Who needs to be involved and how do we involve them? In the era of "development 2.0", these are critical questions.

***

My 15-year old sister can do something today that she couldn't do three days ago: Albeit however simply, she can articulate an issue of crimes against humanity that is happening half a world away from her. She is feeling a sense of responsibility--an awakened conscience telling her that being a member of this planet means looking out for our global family.

When I asked Kiana some nuanced questions about the Ugandan situation, all she could say was "You just have to watch the video." And who cares if that's all she could say? She's freaking fifteen. Hate on awareness campaigns all you want, but if you want teenagers to grow up into people who make a difference, awareness is the first step.

Brock asked a question that was really telling:

"Kiana, if your friends had the option of reading a short article about the LRA or watching a half-hour video, what do you think they'd choose?"

"Um, they'd probably watch the video because they don't want to read."

That's life, people. These are teenagers. And now, a word for Kiana.

Kiana, I love the fire I've seen in you the past few days. It's a good thing, and don't you dare let people try to make you feel stupid or naive for it. But if you're truly passionate about the situation in Uganda--and I believe you are--I hope you won't let the Kony2012 video be the extent of your knowledge. Read. Start with Wikipedia and work your way up. And don't think you'll only need to learn about Uganda. You'll need to study the theory and history of development assistance in Africa, the International Criminal Court, the history of crimes against humanity, Ugandan politics, African geography, colonialism, etc.

Reading will open up a web of learning where you'll encounter questions that you didn't even know you had. The more you know, the more you know you don't know. It seems daunting, yes, but guess what? Knowledge is the best weapon.

Arts Wrap: February 2012

Book--Fiction: N/A

I totally slacked on fiction this month. My non-fiction book was quite the beast--I learned more from it than I probably would've from a semester-long college class on the same subject. Forgive me, I'll read some fiction in March.

***

Book--Non-Fiction: Rule and Ruin

This will be future required reading in college political science classes, mark my words. After six years of researching in the Library of Congress (along with extensive interviewing), Geoffrey Kabaservice has created a historical masterpiece. It kills me that so very few people will read this book, since it is so very good (yet appeals to an extremely tiny audience). In Rule and Ruin, he details the downfall of moderation in the GOP, starting from Teddy Roosevelt in the early 1900's up till the present day, with much of his focus placed on the presidential elections of 1964 and 1968.

Rule and Ruin gives an unbelievably rich and detailed account of how the Party of Lincoln morphed into what it is today. I got tired of reading newspaper articles on the subject--everybody has an opinion, but I wanted history. Boy, did I get it.

I used up four  different highlighters throughout the course of Rule and Ruin and spent endless hours on Wikipedia brushing up on my 20th century American history. What's remarkable to me are the modern-day parallels that we can draw from the GOP's past experiences. History is repeating itself in more ways than you know.

***

Television: Out of the Wild: Venezuela

I came across this show while searching in the O's on Netflix (I was looked for The Office). Nine average people are dropped off on Mount Roraima in Venezuela (think Angel Falls...or those flat-top mountains from the movie Up) and must traverse 70 miles through the wilderness back to civilization. There's no prize money at the end. There is no "winner." People don't get voted off.

The nine people are given three days of survival skills training, some backpacks with basic supplies (mosquito nets, machetes, flint for making fires, water purifiers, etc) and that's it. They traverse down mountains, through jungles, swamps, savannas, and down a river. Each person has a GPS device attached to their backpack, and they can press the "come-and-get-me" button at any time, at which point a helicopter comes and carries them away.

Despite hiking with 50-lbs packs all day, every day, the average contestant ate approximately 1000 calories per week. You'd think the lush Venezuelan climate and landscape would provide much more sustenance than that, but jungle living is much harder than people give it credit for.

Seriously, these people were such ballers. I don't know how they did it. What a testimony to the limits of the human body! It makes the contestants on Survivor  and The Amazing Race look like poseurs.

***

Film: A Separation, Ponette, Breakfast at Tiffany's

Wow, where to start with these three gems? A Separation won the Oscar for Best Foreign Film this year, and rightly, rightly so. Even though Iranian culture is completely separate from Arab culture (Persians are not Arabs, contrary to what many think), it was interesting for me to watch and see how it related to what I knew in Jordan. (It's an Iranian film made by an Iranian director, so I assume A Separation reflects Iranian culture with reasonable accuracy.) It was also cool to hear Farsi spoken extensively for the first time in my life. I didn't understand a single word! Farsi is an Indo-European language; Arabic is Semitic. Despite using the same alphabet (although Farsi has a few more letters), that's about the extent of the two languages' connection.

A Separation has rich characters and a rich story. No other movie has made me question my definition of morality as much as this one.

Ponette is a French film from 1997 that depicts the story of how a young girl, Ponette, copes with her mother's sudden passing. Quite simply, this movie has the best acting I have ever seen in my life--and it's delivered by a FREAKING FOUR-YEAR OLD. You will not believe your eyes.

Definitely keep a box of Kleenex nearby as you watch this movie. Nothing is as tender--nor as heart-wrenching--as watching children try to interpret the lofty concepts of death, love, faith, and hope.

And, of course, Breakfast at Tiffany's. How did I go so long without seeing this?! Audrey Hepburn is simply divine in her role as the impulsive, delicate, and broken Holly Golightly. And George Peppard plays Paul Varjak to perfection.

Paul Varjak: I love you. 

Holly Golightly: So what. 
Paul Varjak: So what? So plenty! I love you, you belong to me! 
Holly Golightly: [tearfully] No. People don't belong to people. 
Paul Varjak: Of course they do! 
Holly Golightly: I'll never let ANYBODY put me in a cage. 
Paul Varjak: I don't want to put you in a cage, I want to love you!

"So what? So plenty!" Isn't that beautiful writing? (George Axelrod--look him up.) I love it when Paul goes on to say, "We belong to each other because that's the only chance anybody's got for real happiness." A Separation made me think about morality, Ponette made me think about death, and Breakfast at Tiffany's made me think about love (what a good month of movies I had!). Sometimes I suffer from Golightly Syndrome, and I'm so happy to have my own personal Paul Varjak to bring me back down to earth.

***

Music: Madonna's Super Bowl Performance

Okay, so admittedly this was less music than it was entertainment, but I'm still obsessing over it.

***

Dance: Ballet West's Don Quixote

I have no video for this, but it was a lovely performance! I wrote about it here.

***

Comedy: Saudis in Audis

What? You didn't know Arabs could poke fun at themselves? Remy is one of many!

Food: Birthday Cake Oreos

I have no idea how this category eluded the January Arts Wrap, but it was an egregious error on my part. This month ushered in Birthday Cake Oreos, which are basically Funfetti Oreos. YEAH, AWESOME. They're a limited edition specialty Oreo to commemorate Oreo's 100th anniversary. My family may or may not have collectively downed five boxes of these in the past three days.

***

Fashion: Blair Eadie

Again, how did I not include this category in my inaugural Arts Wrap?! Shameful. A few of you out there know that I'm obsessed with Blair "Bee" Eadie. Atlantic-Pacific is my favorite fashion blog by far. I love Bee's signature wrist of jewelry, her layering, pattern mixing, clean lines, color combinations . . . okay, so basically everything. Here are my two favorite outfits she blogged this past month.

Image from Atlantic-Pacific

Image from Atlantic-Pacific

Journalism: David Brooks and Jan Fleischhauer

I always love reading what David Brooks has to say, and this month he just hit it out of the park with this columns in the New York Times.

America is Europe
The Materialist Fallacy
The Machiavellian Temptation

I hesitate to call David Brook's a "journalist" since he doesn't quite fit that mold (he's more of a commentator than anything). Nick Kristof, however, can be a commentator with some of his columns, but is more often a journalist. He's been doing some amazing reporting out of South Sudan this month, which, sadly, I haven't done a good job of keeping up on.

I loved this piece in Der Spiegel about how Germany has become "the America of Europe." Again, it's an opinion piece (so not technically "journalism"), but it made a very interesting point.

Sentiment towards the Germans isn't very good in the region right now. Hardly a day goes by without Chancellor Angela Merkel being depicted in a Nazi uniform somewhere. Swastikas are a common sight as well. It doesn't seem to help at all that we faithfully approve one aid package after the other. If calculations by experts are true, then we are far beyond the point where we are just providing loan guarantees. 

A good deal of the €130 billion expected to be approved by the German parliament on Monday will never be seen again. But if you read the editorial pages of newspapers in the crisis regions, for whom this money is intended, you would be led to believe that we are out to achieve what our grandfathers failed to do 70 years ago (and this despite the fact that research into Hitler outside of Greece is fairly unanimous in the belief that National Socialism didn't launch its tyranny of Europe with a bailout package).

It won't be long before they start burning German flags. But wait, they're already doing that. Previously we had only known that from Arab countries, where the youth would take every opportunity to run through the streets to rage against that great Satan, the USA. But that's how things go when others consider a country to be too successful, too self-confident and too strong. We've now become the Americans of Europe. The role reversal won't be an easy one either -- it is already safe to say that today. We Germans are accustomed to having people admire us for our efficiency and industriousness -- and not to hate us for it. 

I was impressed by the fairness which Jan Fleischhauer used in writing about her own country:

But before we complain too much about all this ingratitude, we should remind ourselves that we ourselves spent years passing the buck. As long as the global villain was America, the Germans joined in when it came to feeling good at the expense of others. The Americans also had every reason to expect a little more gratitude -- after all, it was their soldiers who had to intervene when a dictator somewhere lived out his bloody fantasies while the international community stood by wringing its hands. 

People came to secretly rely on the USA as a global cop in the same way that Germany's neighbors are now expecting the Germans to save the euro. Unfortunately, however, the feeling of inferiority can be just as vicious as that of superiority.

***

That'll do for February. The Germans say auf wiedersehn, Iranians say khodahafez, Ponette says au revoir--but let me sign off in the tongue of Holly Golightly: Goodbye, darlings! It's been simply marvelous, marvelous, I tell you!