- I feel sad for people whose parents/grandparents can't cook because solid home-cooked meal >>> restaurant any day. When I decided to skip the bachelorette party at Buca di Beppo, my calculus was mostly influenced by the roast duck, bitter melon, salt & pepper shrimp, soy chicken wings, roasted pork belly, fish maw & egg drop soup, shiitake, scallop and broccoli stir fry, and almond tofu that my aunt was preparing for a typical Friday night dinner. I've also come to realize that my grandma is excellent at pickling things and making buns from scratch, and that none of the rest of us (including my mom) know how to do this. Is it too late to go back and learn?
- For some reason, I can't help raising my voice about 40 decibels as soon as I'm in a room full of Chinese women. And you guys thought I was loud before.
- Everyone and their mother was telling me that I've gotten thinner. Sure, I am in better shape than I was during college, mostly because of all the intracity biking, but I never made a conscious decision to lose weight. I mean, I even have a desk job now. This kind of makes me wonder how fat I was before.
- Including the bride, there were 4 other girls in the bridal party. I liked precisely one of them. Well, the other two bridesmaids were nice enough, just a little too vanilla. On the other hand, my newfound bff Cat was wearing a Gryffindor hoodie when we met. Other ways to win my respect include: expressing admiration for the Cornell DC++ hub, bringing up the divorce court dance video after someone mentioned the (much ballyhooed) wedding entrance dance video.
- I haven't kept in close touch with that many people from Louisville, but there were a couple that I would have wanted to call up. Unfortunately, I had zero free time/spent far too many hours in nail/hair salons over the weekend. So then, I just didn't tell people I was in town at all. Would it have better for me to say, "Want to come meet me in the parking lot of the temple? And bring food, please??"
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Tuesday, August 18, 2009
Observations from My Old Kentucky Home
Some assorted thoughts from the weekend...
Sunday, July 12, 2009
The Times They Are A Changin'
-By the end of July, four of my closest friends in Chicago will have moved out of town.
-They will be replaced by new hires, some of whom were born in 1988.
-That seems ridiculously young somehow.
-I am anxious.
-"All" my friends are leaving me behind.
-Is this what it feels like to stay in Ithaca for life?
-If you had asked me at graduation to predict which of my college relationships would strengthen/weaken in the future, many of my predictions would have been wrong.
-Yet I am still fairly confident in my estimates for what will happen with the four people mentioned above. Perhaps this is simply hubris on my part.
-I met two new people last night.
-One of them was an ABC girl, the first one I've met in Chicago, oddly enough.
-In the last week, one of the Fed AEs got engaged
-While another couple broke up.
-I have completed my second year in Chicago.
-It comforts me that I know the city like the back of my hand.
-The thought of starting anew in a new location is daunting.
-I have been reading Fuchsia Dunlop's memoirs of traveling to China as the first Westerner to study at the Sichuan Institute of Higher Cuisine.
-She managed to barge her way into kitchens, hearts and "forbidden zones" like Tibet through sheer chutzpah and tenacity.
-I know what I want, but I don't know how to get there.
-I want to go skydiving.
-They will be replaced by new hires, some of whom were born in 1988.
-That seems ridiculously young somehow.
-I am anxious.
-"All" my friends are leaving me behind.
-Is this what it feels like to stay in Ithaca for life?
-If you had asked me at graduation to predict which of my college relationships would strengthen/weaken in the future, many of my predictions would have been wrong.
-Yet I am still fairly confident in my estimates for what will happen with the four people mentioned above. Perhaps this is simply hubris on my part.
-I met two new people last night.
-One of them was an ABC girl, the first one I've met in Chicago, oddly enough.
-In the last week, one of the Fed AEs got engaged
-While another couple broke up.
-I have completed my second year in Chicago.
-It comforts me that I know the city like the back of my hand.
-The thought of starting anew in a new location is daunting.
-I have been reading Fuchsia Dunlop's memoirs of traveling to China as the first Westerner to study at the Sichuan Institute of Higher Cuisine.
-She managed to barge her way into kitchens, hearts and "forbidden zones" like Tibet through sheer chutzpah and tenacity.
-I know what I want, but I don't know how to get there.
-I want to go skydiving.
Saturday, April 25, 2009
Rare Instances of Phone > IM
About once a week, generally on Sunday afternoons, my mom and I have a long, lazy chat. There's never any purpose to the conversation, unless you count catching up on family gossip. Half the time, we put each other on speakerphone and casually throw out topics, as I chop vegetables and she sorts through laundry.
Sometimes I'll get stories from the past, from my mom's childhood in Vietnam, or my parents' struggles as fresh-off-the-boat immigrants. Today, my mom recounted how she excelled at dance class in elementary school, but the teacher wouldn't give her the lead role because she couldn't afford to buy the costume. "You could be a flower or a strand of grass, but those outfits were more expensive. What did I end up as? An insect!" Then she wistfully said that had she been born in a wealthier family, or a different country, she would probably be an excellent ballet dancer today.
Sometimes I'll get stories from the present, the latest juice on my brother's prom date (Korean & ditzy?) or my renegade 20-year-old cousin who eloped and ran off to Italy. Apparently she came back recently to give birth to a daughter, to ensure her claims to American citizenship, then immediately went back to Europe.
Often, I get unsolicited advice, gentle probing questions, and reassurances. Despite seeing my family once, maybe twice a year, they continue to shape and influence my decisions with an invisible hand. And these days, I pass on plenty of suggestions and knowledge too, from technical help, to how to make sushi, to reminders to buy extra-long sheets for my brother for next fall.
Mostly, I just want to say I'm grateful that my mom has always been super supportive, even when I posit crazy proposals, like quitting my job to do a master's in gastronomy in Italy. Not too many parents would immediately throw their weight behind something like this, and then suggest that I take advantage of Italian voice lessons while I'm over there.
I can only hope to someday be as great of a parent.
Sometimes I'll get stories from the past, from my mom's childhood in Vietnam, or my parents' struggles as fresh-off-the-boat immigrants. Today, my mom recounted how she excelled at dance class in elementary school, but the teacher wouldn't give her the lead role because she couldn't afford to buy the costume. "You could be a flower or a strand of grass, but those outfits were more expensive. What did I end up as? An insect!" Then she wistfully said that had she been born in a wealthier family, or a different country, she would probably be an excellent ballet dancer today.
Sometimes I'll get stories from the present, the latest juice on my brother's prom date (Korean & ditzy?) or my renegade 20-year-old cousin who eloped and ran off to Italy. Apparently she came back recently to give birth to a daughter, to ensure her claims to American citizenship, then immediately went back to Europe.
Often, I get unsolicited advice, gentle probing questions, and reassurances. Despite seeing my family once, maybe twice a year, they continue to shape and influence my decisions with an invisible hand. And these days, I pass on plenty of suggestions and knowledge too, from technical help, to how to make sushi, to reminders to buy extra-long sheets for my brother for next fall.
Mostly, I just want to say I'm grateful that my mom has always been super supportive, even when I posit crazy proposals, like quitting my job to do a master's in gastronomy in Italy. Not too many parents would immediately throw their weight behind something like this, and then suggest that I take advantage of Italian voice lessons while I'm over there.
I can only hope to someday be as great of a parent.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
On Commuting
Every day, I hop on my bike and trek the 3.1 miles to work. Head down against the merciless wind, eddies of traffic flowing around me, I pedal hard against the pavement, one small revolution at a time. Having traversed it hundreds of times, I know this route like the lyrics to RENT. I slip into an almost meditative state, which is probably not the frame of mind you should be in as UPS trucks bear down behind you. Still, I take the rumbles, the honking and the exhaust and incorporate them into an unorthodox urban reverie.
With almost equal reliability, I pass the grocery on the corner of 18th Street and hear a piercing whistle. You know the kind, the penetrating wolf-whistle that men are so naturally adept at. A high note, followed by a portmento to a lower pitch, then back up again. A curlique on the staff.
At first, my reaction was annoyance. What chauvinistic pig goes around whistling at women these days? Where does he think he is, Southern Europe? Then, I inevitably succumbed to the implicit flattery. Though I am bundled up in three layers of fleece, a scarf, an ungainly helmet and '80s style legwarmers, I am still attracting attention. Sweet, I can make heads turn! Or maybe it's recognition of the badassery of biking in traffic, faithfully braving the harsh winter. You go, girl, says the Incognito Whistler. Go out and stick it to the Man. On the silent, uninterrupted mornings that I pass by unheralded, I can't help feeling that something is amiss. I reluctantly dissolve back into solution.
Occasionally, I turn my cheek and take a quick glance to the side. This usually elicits additional whoops and shouts. I imagine high fives, fist pumps and terrorist fist jabs in the parking lot. I never have time to actually see anything beyond a brief glimpse of warehouse, then I right myself and pedal faster to beat the yellow light. There is work to be done after all.
Yet, my thoughts linger on. Who is the Incogito Whistler? Is he a grizzled, old man, fully-bearded, cantankerous and impervious to the forces of political correctness? A dapper poetic soul, who relishes the whimsy of anonymous encounters? A fellow cyclist? A pipe-smoking Russian ice skater? For the last year and a half, have I been callously passing up the love of my life? Should I do something?
Missed Connections - Whistler's Other -w4m - 23 (18th & Canal)
Every morning, I bike past the Richwell Market and you whistle at me. Normally, I brush this aside like clingy lint and continue on my merry way with nary a second thought, but lately I've been wondering--do you like orange juice with pulp? Have you ever pondered how they get the middle bun on a Big Mac? We've never seen each other face to face, much less met, but we still have a connection ripe for exploration. Let me know if you want to break the 4th wall or stroll down the street singing "Les Champs-Élysées." Sure, I realize that simply stopping would be a much more efficient way than Craig's List to accomplish this, but that would ruin the enigmatic appeal of this exchange. Please reply with the colors of my headband and backpack; your pic gets mine.
A sudden thought strikes me: what if the Incognito Whistler is a woman?
With almost equal reliability, I pass the grocery on the corner of 18th Street and hear a piercing whistle. You know the kind, the penetrating wolf-whistle that men are so naturally adept at. A high note, followed by a portmento to a lower pitch, then back up again. A curlique on the staff.
At first, my reaction was annoyance. What chauvinistic pig goes around whistling at women these days? Where does he think he is, Southern Europe? Then, I inevitably succumbed to the implicit flattery. Though I am bundled up in three layers of fleece, a scarf, an ungainly helmet and '80s style legwarmers, I am still attracting attention. Sweet, I can make heads turn! Or maybe it's recognition of the badassery of biking in traffic, faithfully braving the harsh winter. You go, girl, says the Incognito Whistler. Go out and stick it to the Man. On the silent, uninterrupted mornings that I pass by unheralded, I can't help feeling that something is amiss. I reluctantly dissolve back into solution.
Occasionally, I turn my cheek and take a quick glance to the side. This usually elicits additional whoops and shouts. I imagine high fives, fist pumps and terrorist fist jabs in the parking lot. I never have time to actually see anything beyond a brief glimpse of warehouse, then I right myself and pedal faster to beat the yellow light. There is work to be done after all.
Yet, my thoughts linger on. Who is the Incogito Whistler? Is he a grizzled, old man, fully-bearded, cantankerous and impervious to the forces of political correctness? A dapper poetic soul, who relishes the whimsy of anonymous encounters? A fellow cyclist? A pipe-smoking Russian ice skater? For the last year and a half, have I been callously passing up the love of my life? Should I do something?
Missed Connections - Whistler's Other -w4m - 23 (18th & Canal)
Every morning, I bike past the Richwell Market and you whistle at me. Normally, I brush this aside like clingy lint and continue on my merry way with nary a second thought, but lately I've been wondering--do you like orange juice with pulp? Have you ever pondered how they get the middle bun on a Big Mac? We've never seen each other face to face, much less met, but we still have a connection ripe for exploration. Let me know if you want to break the 4th wall or stroll down the street singing "Les Champs-Élysées." Sure, I realize that simply stopping would be a much more efficient way than Craig's List to accomplish this, but that would ruin the enigmatic appeal of this exchange. Please reply with the colors of my headband and backpack; your pic gets mine.
A sudden thought strikes me: what if the Incognito Whistler is a woman?
Tuesday, March 3, 2009
Words of Advice for Young People
While reading a tangentially-related blog post on the Stanford Ponzi scheme, I stumbled across a reference to William S. Burroughs' "Words of Advice for Young People." Burroughs was a writer and member of the Beat generation, and is most famous for authoring Naked Lunch. Curious, I looked up the piece in its entirety and was wholly amused by his words: sometimes profound, often crude and always sassy.
I am not following at least two pieces of this advice. You can enjoy the dramatic reading here.
William S. Burroughs' "Words of Advice for Young People"
People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people.
Well here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.
Never interfere in a boy-and-girl fight.
Beware of whores who say they don't want money.
The hell they don't.
What they mean is they want more money. Much more.
If you're doing business with a religious son-of-a-bitch,
Get it in writing.
His word isn't worth shit.
Not with the good lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.
Avoid fuck-ups.
We all know the type.
Anything they have anything to do with,
No matter how good it sounds,
Turns into a disaster.
Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill.
Tell them firmly:
I am not paid to listen to this drivel.
You are a terminal fool.
Now some of you may encounter the Devil's Bargain,
If you get that far.
Any old soul is worth saving,
At least to a priest,
But not every soul is worth buying.
So you can take the offer as a compliment.
He tries the easy ones first.
You know like money,
All the money there is.
But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery?
Money won't buy.
Not much left to spend it on, eh gramps?
Getting too old to cut the mustard.
How's a young body grab you?
Like three card monte, like pea under the shell,
Now you see it, now you don't.
Haven't you forgotten something, gramps?
In order to feel something,
You've got to be there.
You have to be eighteen.
You're not eighteen.
You are seventy-eight.
Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.
Well they always try the easiest ones first.
How about an honorable bargain?
You always wanted to be a doctor,
Well now's your chance.
Why don't you become a great healer
And benefit humanity?
What's wrong with that?
Just about everything.
There are no honorable bargains
Involving exchange
Of qualitative merchandise
Like souls
For quantitative merchandise
Like time and money.
So piss off Satan
And don't take me for dumber than I look.
An old junk pusher told me -
Watch whose money you pick up.
I am not following at least two pieces of this advice. You can enjoy the dramatic reading here.
William S. Burroughs' "Words of Advice for Young People"
People often ask me if I have any words of advice for young people.
Well here are a few simple admonitions for young and old.
Never interfere in a boy-and-girl fight.
Beware of whores who say they don't want money.
The hell they don't.
What they mean is they want more money. Much more.
If you're doing business with a religious son-of-a-bitch,
Get it in writing.
His word isn't worth shit.
Not with the good lord telling him how to fuck you on the deal.
Avoid fuck-ups.
We all know the type.
Anything they have anything to do with,
No matter how good it sounds,
Turns into a disaster.
Do not offer sympathy to the mentally ill.
Tell them firmly:
I am not paid to listen to this drivel.
You are a terminal fool.
Now some of you may encounter the Devil's Bargain,
If you get that far.
Any old soul is worth saving,
At least to a priest,
But not every soul is worth buying.
So you can take the offer as a compliment.
He tries the easy ones first.
You know like money,
All the money there is.
But who wants to be the richest guy in some cemetery?
Money won't buy.
Not much left to spend it on, eh gramps?
Getting too old to cut the mustard.
How's a young body grab you?
Like three card monte, like pea under the shell,
Now you see it, now you don't.
Haven't you forgotten something, gramps?
In order to feel something,
You've got to be there.
You have to be eighteen.
You're not eighteen.
You are seventy-eight.
Old fool sold his soul for a strap-on.
Well they always try the easiest ones first.
How about an honorable bargain?
You always wanted to be a doctor,
Well now's your chance.
Why don't you become a great healer
And benefit humanity?
What's wrong with that?
Just about everything.
There are no honorable bargains
Involving exchange
Of qualitative merchandise
Like souls
For quantitative merchandise
Like time and money.
So piss off Satan
And don't take me for dumber than I look.
An old junk pusher told me -
Watch whose money you pick up.
Sunday, January 4, 2009
Something Old, Something New
It's 2009 and I don't know where I'm going or who I am. Funny how an arbitrary social construction has such power to trigger quarter-life crises. And for a number of reasons, coming back to Chicago was kind of a letdown. I realize that vacations are obviously more fun than normality, but being at home and hanging out with old friends really brought out thoughts and emotions that had gone latent in the last year. This is probably a little true for everyone, but I feel like a chameleon, as though the people I am surrounded by bring out different things in me, for better or worse.
Identity crisis aside, Dan was in town to visit, so I was able to continue wading in nostalgia for a few days. Who else is going to discuss the Sokal affair and empirical moral psychology with me? Just like old times, he arrived with at least half a dozen books, khakis, and a Windows-free computer. Plus, he was game for doing some biking around town, the first of my out-of-town visitors to take the challenge, and in winter no less.
Among other places, we ended up at San Soo Gap San (a kick-ass Korean restaurant, albeit with charmingly terrible service), Ethiopian Diamond (silverware is for wimps), and Meigs Field. The latter is not generally high on the list of Chicago sights to see, but if you are familiar with the game Microsoft Flight Simulator, Meigs Field is the default take-off location. Unfortunately, the airport is no longer in existence because in 2003, under the cover of darkness, Mayor Daley illegally ordered construction crews to gouge gashes in the runway to forcibly close the airport. Ostensibly, "homeland security" was the reason given for its closure. As a result, 16 planes were left stranded without a runway, and one flight had to be diverted. Ah, Chicago politics... Today, there is one control tower left, but the rest of the island is desolate parkland. One building remains as a "Visitor's Center," which was closed even though we arrived during the posted opening hours.
Saturday night, we made a quick stop at the Publican for drinks and fries before a show at Second City. After hearing lots of buzz for the last couple months, I was curious to check out this much-heralded restaurant and its pork & beer-heavy menu. This is definitely not a place to bring your vegetarian friends. We couldn't get a reservation for a table, but there are a few circular cocktail tables that you can comfortably huddle around. The beer list is extensive, almost to the point of being overwhelming, however our server gave several recommendations, and most of us opted to take one of her suggestions. And oh, the fries! Piping hot, crisp frites in a paper cone, served with an aioli on the side. I also tried the pork rinds, which came perfectly puffed and salted, with a slight tartness. This is "bar food" at its best.
Excellent food aside, I do have mixed feelings about the restaurant's decor, which is evocative of a beer hall. Dan and Nate took offense when I described the atmosphere as "masculine," but seriously, there are lots of heavy lines and hard angles, loud music, and a whole lot of wood. Seating options consist of enclosed booths with doors (these reminded me of 19th century church pews), or there is a long table for communal dining, with bulky, square chairs. This would be the perfect place to hold a beefsteak. Having painted a testoterone-laden picture though, I will say that I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy. I'm not enough of a meat aficianado to come here on my own (I can't remember the last time I was at a steakhouse), but it was a fun place to hang out for drinks, and was certainly a step up from say, drinking at Funk.
Identity crisis aside, Dan was in town to visit, so I was able to continue wading in nostalgia for a few days. Who else is going to discuss the Sokal affair and empirical moral psychology with me? Just like old times, he arrived with at least half a dozen books, khakis, and a Windows-free computer. Plus, he was game for doing some biking around town, the first of my out-of-town visitors to take the challenge, and in winter no less.
Among other places, we ended up at San Soo Gap San (a kick-ass Korean restaurant, albeit with charmingly terrible service), Ethiopian Diamond (silverware is for wimps), and Meigs Field. The latter is not generally high on the list of Chicago sights to see, but if you are familiar with the game Microsoft Flight Simulator, Meigs Field is the default take-off location. Unfortunately, the airport is no longer in existence because in 2003, under the cover of darkness, Mayor Daley illegally ordered construction crews to gouge gashes in the runway to forcibly close the airport. Ostensibly, "homeland security" was the reason given for its closure. As a result, 16 planes were left stranded without a runway, and one flight had to be diverted. Ah, Chicago politics... Today, there is one control tower left, but the rest of the island is desolate parkland. One building remains as a "Visitor's Center," which was closed even though we arrived during the posted opening hours.
Saturday night, we made a quick stop at the Publican for drinks and fries before a show at Second City. After hearing lots of buzz for the last couple months, I was curious to check out this much-heralded restaurant and its pork & beer-heavy menu. This is definitely not a place to bring your vegetarian friends. We couldn't get a reservation for a table, but there are a few circular cocktail tables that you can comfortably huddle around. The beer list is extensive, almost to the point of being overwhelming, however our server gave several recommendations, and most of us opted to take one of her suggestions. And oh, the fries! Piping hot, crisp frites in a paper cone, served with an aioli on the side. I also tried the pork rinds, which came perfectly puffed and salted, with a slight tartness. This is "bar food" at its best.
Excellent food aside, I do have mixed feelings about the restaurant's decor, which is evocative of a beer hall. Dan and Nate took offense when I described the atmosphere as "masculine," but seriously, there are lots of heavy lines and hard angles, loud music, and a whole lot of wood. Seating options consist of enclosed booths with doors (these reminded me of 19th century church pews), or there is a long table for communal dining, with bulky, square chairs. This would be the perfect place to hold a beefsteak. Having painted a testoterone-laden picture though, I will say that I never felt uncomfortable or uneasy. I'm not enough of a meat aficianado to come here on my own (I can't remember the last time I was at a steakhouse), but it was a fun place to hang out for drinks, and was certainly a step up from say, drinking at Funk.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Signs that you are no longer a recent college grad
- Your friends have all abandoned AIM for Gchat.
- Going to bed at 10 pm no longer seems crazy early.
- Quarter cards : People handing out flyers on sidewalks :: A capella groups : rappers on trains
- When a card gets passed around for signing, it's not for a birthday, but for the birth of a baby.
- You pay for housing when you go back to college for visits.
- When you fall asleep in the library, a security guard taps you on the shoulder and asks if you're okay.
- Instead of comparing GPAs, you compete with your friends over who has a better credit score.
Sunday, August 31, 2008
On Proposals
In between the creme brulee stout and (no root) beer floats last night, the ideal marriage proposal popped up for discussion. This is not a very real possibility for me at this point, but Viki should perhaps be dropping more vigorous hints if she wants to pull off her vision. Without further ado, here's a sampling of what modern women are hoping for (we're not insane, I swear).
Ricky
Situation: Under the Northern Lights
Pros: Beautiful location, cheap excluding travel costs, quiet location outdoors ensures that he will not make a fool of himself in front of crowds
Cons: Limited time frame and location options, requires the fickle cooperation of Mother Nature
Viki
Situation: She is attending a Broadway show or a concert, and at intermission, they have a special announcement and Matt jumps on stage. Cue romantic words and then bursting into song. To the cheers and applause of the audience, Viki accepts.
Pros: The level of coordination and planning would truly signal commitment, and there's nothing like being the star of your own show on Broadway.
Cons: The level of coordination and planning makes this almost impossible to pull off. Also, it'd be asking a lot for Matt to belt out a song...maybe we could settle for having someone else come out and sing, or better yet, having someone else sing while Matt lipsyncs, Chinese Olympics-style.
Me
Situation: He gets down on one knee and says, "There is a set R equipped with 2 binary operations called addition and multiplication such that (R, +) is abelian group with identity element 0, and..."
Pros: This brings proposals to an unfathomable level of dorkiness.
Cons: None.
Addendum (Rhea wants in on this too):
Rhea
Situation: On a trip to Cornell, mystery Cornell engineer takes her to Olin library, to the 4th floor-- romance studies. He gets down on one knee and says "in spite of all my time spent in Duffield, I too have always wanted to spend hours and hours in the library--Olin, Mann, or Uris. I proclaim my love for your here for that reason. Not to mention...I think you wouldn't accept if I did it anywhere else. Oh and I'll be sure to teach you E & M 101 tonight". He pops open a bottle of champagne, quietly of course. Rhea calls Crystal to announce that she's eloping and that they need to arrange something with Sage Hall so that she and mystery eng. can have their chimes concert complete with Nessun Dorma, the Alma Mater duet, and Taras to help.
Ricky
Situation: Under the Northern Lights
Pros: Beautiful location, cheap excluding travel costs, quiet location outdoors ensures that he will not make a fool of himself in front of crowds
Cons: Limited time frame and location options, requires the fickle cooperation of Mother Nature
Viki
Situation: She is attending a Broadway show or a concert, and at intermission, they have a special announcement and Matt jumps on stage. Cue romantic words and then bursting into song. To the cheers and applause of the audience, Viki accepts.
Pros: The level of coordination and planning would truly signal commitment, and there's nothing like being the star of your own show on Broadway.
Cons: The level of coordination and planning makes this almost impossible to pull off. Also, it'd be asking a lot for Matt to belt out a song...maybe we could settle for having someone else come out and sing, or better yet, having someone else sing while Matt lipsyncs, Chinese Olympics-style.
Me
Situation: He gets down on one knee and says, "There is a set R equipped with 2 binary operations called addition and multiplication such that (R, +) is abelian group with identity element 0, and..."
Pros: This brings proposals to an unfathomable level of dorkiness.
Cons: None.
Addendum (Rhea wants in on this too):
Rhea
Situation: On a trip to Cornell, mystery Cornell engineer takes her to Olin library, to the 4th floor-- romance studies. He gets down on one knee and says "in spite of all my time spent in Duffield, I too have always wanted to spend hours and hours in the library--Olin, Mann, or Uris. I proclaim my love for your here for that reason. Not to mention...I think you wouldn't accept if I did it anywhere else. Oh and I'll be sure to teach you E & M 101 tonight". He pops open a bottle of champagne, quietly of course. Rhea calls Crystal to announce that she's eloping and that they need to arrange something with Sage Hall so that she and mystery eng. can have their chimes concert complete with Nessun Dorma, the Alma Mater duet, and Taras to help.
Thursday, March 27, 2008
(Yet Another) Existential Crisis
I have this pipe dream that just keeps on clinging, like static-charged saran wrap. Maybe I should have gone to journalism school.
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
Tis the Season
It's been rather a turbulent last 24 hours. But all bad things must come to an end, so I'm going to take a moment to write about things that make me happy and for which I am grateful.
-My friends: even though most of you are in different time zones, we manage to bridge the distance with phone calls and IMs. Any time I need to talk, to share exciting news or lament a loss, I can count on a captive audience. Moreover, I take away something new from each of you, be it quantum mechanics, early education policy, or Broadway trivia, or even just how to live life. I am proud to know such an eclectic, talented bunch of people.
-My family: I don't think anyone but Chester can ever fully appreciate how insane our parents are, but that's who raised me, for better or worse. :) I credit my hyper-efficiency and resourcefulness to being the child of immigrant parents, and even though they sometimes put crazy demands on me, I can always count on them to support me, unconditionally. This is perhaps the most striking distinction I've seen with other people's relationships with their parents. Plus, my mom can be wicked funny.
-My job: after speaking with so many other recent graduates who are dissatisfied with their jobs, I am all the more grateful that I stumbled upon mine after a chance conversation with Dean L. Sure, I could be making lots more as a consultant or in finance, but the extra money wouldn't make up for the flexibility and autonomy I have at the Fed. More importantly, I'm in an intellectually stimulating environment, with the opportunity to hone research skills, take classes, and attend seminars on everything from heavy-duty econometrics to the effects of fasting during Ramadan on fetal cognitive development. It's like Cornell, without the stress of grades.
-My time in Ithaca: when people ask me whether I liked Cornell, I reply that I not only loved it, I loved the town of Ithaca. It's funny to think that 4 years ago Ithaca was barely on my map, especially with its ominous winters and rural location. But Ithaca has a way of charming its way into your heart, and although I love being in a city, I'd happily trade it in for Ithaca's waterfalls, trails and co-op groceries. And let's be serious, 4 years ago, I would not have been interested in hiking, my nose would have turned up at the idea of seitan and tempeh, and there's no way I would have considered biking to work. Ithaca has a way of changing you.
-My self: this one is harder than it looks because I tend to be pretty hard on myself. (Maybe it's that Asian instinct for self-improvement.) I've come to realize that I don't need to apologize for my quirks and oddities though, even if they sometimes hold me back from success. So, I'm going to take a quick narcissistic moment to revel in my own accomplishments. I'm smart enough, good enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!
Here's to a happy, healthy 2008.
-My friends: even though most of you are in different time zones, we manage to bridge the distance with phone calls and IMs. Any time I need to talk, to share exciting news or lament a loss, I can count on a captive audience. Moreover, I take away something new from each of you, be it quantum mechanics, early education policy, or Broadway trivia, or even just how to live life. I am proud to know such an eclectic, talented bunch of people.
-My family: I don't think anyone but Chester can ever fully appreciate how insane our parents are, but that's who raised me, for better or worse. :) I credit my hyper-efficiency and resourcefulness to being the child of immigrant parents, and even though they sometimes put crazy demands on me, I can always count on them to support me, unconditionally. This is perhaps the most striking distinction I've seen with other people's relationships with their parents. Plus, my mom can be wicked funny.
-My job: after speaking with so many other recent graduates who are dissatisfied with their jobs, I am all the more grateful that I stumbled upon mine after a chance conversation with Dean L. Sure, I could be making lots more as a consultant or in finance, but the extra money wouldn't make up for the flexibility and autonomy I have at the Fed. More importantly, I'm in an intellectually stimulating environment, with the opportunity to hone research skills, take classes, and attend seminars on everything from heavy-duty econometrics to the effects of fasting during Ramadan on fetal cognitive development. It's like Cornell, without the stress of grades.
-My time in Ithaca: when people ask me whether I liked Cornell, I reply that I not only loved it, I loved the town of Ithaca. It's funny to think that 4 years ago Ithaca was barely on my map, especially with its ominous winters and rural location. But Ithaca has a way of charming its way into your heart, and although I love being in a city, I'd happily trade it in for Ithaca's waterfalls, trails and co-op groceries. And let's be serious, 4 years ago, I would not have been interested in hiking, my nose would have turned up at the idea of seitan and tempeh, and there's no way I would have considered biking to work. Ithaca has a way of changing you.
-My self: this one is harder than it looks because I tend to be pretty hard on myself. (Maybe it's that Asian instinct for self-improvement.) I've come to realize that I don't need to apologize for my quirks and oddities though, even if they sometimes hold me back from success. So, I'm going to take a quick narcissistic moment to revel in my own accomplishments. I'm smart enough, good enough, and gosh darn it, people like me!
Here's to a happy, healthy 2008.
Sunday, November 25, 2007
On Dreams
Do you ever wake up with a song in your head, and you don't know where it's from, whether you've heard it before, or if you simply just made it up in your dreams? And you keep looping it in your mind because it's like playing hot potato--once the music stops, you lose it.
Yesterday, to further procrastinate working on Nanowrimo, I got onto the subject of Freudian dream analysis, which I learned about from good ol' Desire last spring. Now, I am inclined to think the Freudian methodology is entirely bunk (as Ellis said, "You could milk sex out of a stone."), but like sleight of hand chicanery, it is a lot of fun to demonstrate on other people.
For instance:
...I wanted to attack the witch but everyone was afraid.
The classic question: which which? The action takes place while traveling. If we take "witch" as an overdetermined word, perhaps it suggests an uncertainty over your options. Which path to take? Which programs to apply to? Which future to seek out, if that is even something you can control? "Attacking the which," I diagnose graduation anxiety. Meanwhile, everyone else around you is also afraid and anxious.
So what about myself? Well, the usual freakshow aside, I remember one bit distinctly from last night. I was coming in for a job interview to be the restaurant critic of the New York Times, and the interview required me to meet with my three predecessors: Mimi Sheraton, Bryan Miller, and Ruth Reichl. As part of the interview, I was required to do tastings and give my opinion on the spot. For Mimi, it was cognac, for Bryan, beer, and Ruth presented wine. At that point, I panicked and fled.
There really isn't much to analyze here. I recently finished reading Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires, her memoirs from being food critic at the NYT. Never before have I fallen in love so quickly with a book; I decided I had to buy it before the first chapter was up. Seriously, if you enjoy eating, you will enjoy this book. Naturally, I've been toying with the idea of what it'd be like to be a food critic, and how to get there in oh, 20 years. It seems like my odds at helming a food critic position at a major publication are even lower than being granted tenure at a prestigious university. Oy veh. And my dream pointed to my strongest weakness for this job: although I'm fairly literate about food ingredients, I know next to nothing about alcohol, particularly wine. Hold on while I kick myself for not taking wines last spring.
And I just lost the hot potato.
Yesterday, to further procrastinate working on Nanowrimo, I got onto the subject of Freudian dream analysis, which I learned about from good ol' Desire last spring. Now, I am inclined to think the Freudian methodology is entirely bunk (as Ellis said, "You could milk sex out of a stone."), but like sleight of hand chicanery, it is a lot of fun to demonstrate on other people.
For instance:
...I wanted to attack the witch but everyone was afraid.
The classic question: which which? The action takes place while traveling. If we take "witch" as an overdetermined word, perhaps it suggests an uncertainty over your options. Which path to take? Which programs to apply to? Which future to seek out, if that is even something you can control? "Attacking the which," I diagnose graduation anxiety. Meanwhile, everyone else around you is also afraid and anxious.
So what about myself? Well, the usual freakshow aside, I remember one bit distinctly from last night. I was coming in for a job interview to be the restaurant critic of the New York Times, and the interview required me to meet with my three predecessors: Mimi Sheraton, Bryan Miller, and Ruth Reichl. As part of the interview, I was required to do tastings and give my opinion on the spot. For Mimi, it was cognac, for Bryan, beer, and Ruth presented wine. At that point, I panicked and fled.
There really isn't much to analyze here. I recently finished reading Ruth Reichl's Garlic and Sapphires, her memoirs from being food critic at the NYT. Never before have I fallen in love so quickly with a book; I decided I had to buy it before the first chapter was up. Seriously, if you enjoy eating, you will enjoy this book. Naturally, I've been toying with the idea of what it'd be like to be a food critic, and how to get there in oh, 20 years. It seems like my odds at helming a food critic position at a major publication are even lower than being granted tenure at a prestigious university. Oy veh. And my dream pointed to my strongest weakness for this job: although I'm fairly literate about food ingredients, I know next to nothing about alcohol, particularly wine. Hold on while I kick myself for not taking wines last spring.
And I just lost the hot potato.
Sunday, November 18, 2007
(lack of) Progress
November's over halfway over and there's pretty much no way I'm going to hit 50,000 words by the end of the month. I got distracted by work, there were birthday parties to attend to, my mind has been focused on pursuits far from the solitude of writing.
Which is not to say the effort I've expended so far has been a complete waste. I actually think the germ of an idea I started with could (with a lot more TLC) blossom into something that would be enjoyable to read. But that path is dark and toilsome, and my resolve is faltering. Then, in an effort to see good writing, I start reading instead, and wonder how Bill Bryson manages so effortlessly to weave his sentences into a narrative, and be funny to boot.
Add to all this increasing anxiety about what I want to do with my life. Lately, I've been shying away from the idea of econ grad, but then I don't know what I'd pursue in lieu of academia. It's not so much the misery of being in grad school that scares me, I've just been giving more thought to the other opportunities I'd be passing up. Sure, I'd be happy in a research environment, but I think I'd also be highly effective as an entrepreneur. And then, I daydream about being a food critic. Or a university president. Those are my current ideal jobs at the moment, and both fields are naturally quite competitive.
Norman Mailer died last week, and though I've only read one of his works and wasn't a huge fan, he is certainly part of the canon of 20th century American literature. More importantly, in this age of celebrity, he had an outsize personality to match. From the NYT memorial article, we get this colorful description:
At different points in his life Mr. Mailer was a prodigious drinker and drug taker, a womanizer, a devoted family man, a would-be politician who ran for mayor of New York, a hipster existentialist, an antiwar protester, an opponent of women's liberation and an all-purpose feuder and short-fused brawler, who with the slightest provocation would happily engage in head-butting, arm-wrestling and random punch-throwing. Boxing obsessed him and inspired some of his best writing. Any time he met a critic or a reviewer, even a friendly one, he would put up his fists and drop into a crouch.
Well, whatever I decide to do, it looks like it's never too late to change your mind.
Which is not to say the effort I've expended so far has been a complete waste. I actually think the germ of an idea I started with could (with a lot more TLC) blossom into something that would be enjoyable to read. But that path is dark and toilsome, and my resolve is faltering. Then, in an effort to see good writing, I start reading instead, and wonder how Bill Bryson manages so effortlessly to weave his sentences into a narrative, and be funny to boot.
Add to all this increasing anxiety about what I want to do with my life. Lately, I've been shying away from the idea of econ grad, but then I don't know what I'd pursue in lieu of academia. It's not so much the misery of being in grad school that scares me, I've just been giving more thought to the other opportunities I'd be passing up. Sure, I'd be happy in a research environment, but I think I'd also be highly effective as an entrepreneur. And then, I daydream about being a food critic. Or a university president. Those are my current ideal jobs at the moment, and both fields are naturally quite competitive.
Norman Mailer died last week, and though I've only read one of his works and wasn't a huge fan, he is certainly part of the canon of 20th century American literature. More importantly, in this age of celebrity, he had an outsize personality to match. From the NYT memorial article, we get this colorful description:
At different points in his life Mr. Mailer was a prodigious drinker and drug taker, a womanizer, a devoted family man, a would-be politician who ran for mayor of New York, a hipster existentialist, an antiwar protester, an opponent of women's liberation and an all-purpose feuder and short-fused brawler, who with the slightest provocation would happily engage in head-butting, arm-wrestling and random punch-throwing. Boxing obsessed him and inspired some of his best writing. Any time he met a critic or a reviewer, even a friendly one, he would put up his fists and drop into a crouch.
Well, whatever I decide to do, it looks like it's never too late to change your mind.
Tuesday, October 16, 2007
Return to Ithaca
There's nothing quite like walking into the bandroom and being greeted by freshmen with "Oh, you're THE legendary Crystal! We're so honored to be able to play with you!"
Or, being greeted by Dan with "So, when you said you were coming to town, I decided to write you a fanfare, a Fanfare for Crystal! Alas, I didn't quite finish it in time, but the first few bars are really cool...you're going to need a good subwoofer to listen to this."
I trekked back to Cornell for homecoming last weekend, and it was a whirlwind experience. Cornell is not a big football school at all, but as a former bandie, the weekend still holds significance as a period for retrospection. Alums come back to visit, steal your instrument to play "Pinball Wizard," and relive their hedonistic college days by drinking your alcohol. You try not to feel too disgruntled, with the promise that you too can come back in four years and be welcomed with open, band uniform-clad arms. This is a superior version of the circle of life, really.
It has been almost four months since I was last in Ithaca, a mere blip in time, but the changes are palpable. The Thurston bridge has reopened, and is strung with shockingly bright white LED lights. The parking lot between Bailey and Malott has been replaced by a flagstone plaza with oddly orange-y benchs and a overhang fountain on the southern end. Construction is beginning on a new building between Baker and Rockefeller. But wait, you say, there's no space for a building there. On the contrary, it looks like they're taking out a good chunk of the Baker lawn to put up this building. I mean, perhaps Clark is ugly and we should hide it behind another building, but still. Finally, I made a beeline to the clocktower as soon as I could, and was much dismayed to discover that my id card no longer works on the office door. For the last 3 years, the tower office was my one sure refuge on campus, always warm and open, filled with a frig, a couch, and a nice Mac. And now, that door is permanently closed to me.
Yet, despite the physical differences and the ever-present alarm that my time was limited, I was able to recapture some of that undergraduate zeitgeist, the animated intellectualism, the quirky vivacity that permeates Cornell and makes the abnormal normal. I sat in Stella's and discussed objects with non-integer dimension with Rhea, I hauled myself to the clocktower at 10:15 to chime the alma mater variations with Jen, I sang songs from "A Chorus Line" with Matt at 3 am, I watched a football game with 7 years worth of drumline members and still had the music to "Carry On My Wayward Son" memorized.
It was over in the blink of an eye, and I found myself scrambling at the end of Sat night, giving hasty goodbyes just 24 hours after long-awaited hellos. At 8 am the next morning, I jetted back to Chicago. It was cold and drizzling. I was in mourning.
I kept telling people I'd "see you later," but who knows when that will be? 6 months? A year? A decade?? Let's face it, this weekend was great because I found the familiarity of people and places I'd loved, but even a year from now, that might not be the case any more. People will graduate, move away, and move on with their lives. But at least for this one weekend, the magic was still there.
I realize I am extraordinarily lucky to have a job I love in a place I love. Catching up with the '007 crew, it's all too common to see people bored with their jobs, and worried about where their lives are going. When I flew away from Ithaca, at least I had something positive to come home to.
It still felt like I was ripping away a little piece of my heart.
Or, being greeted by Dan with "So, when you said you were coming to town, I decided to write you a fanfare, a Fanfare for Crystal! Alas, I didn't quite finish it in time, but the first few bars are really cool...you're going to need a good subwoofer to listen to this."
I trekked back to Cornell for homecoming last weekend, and it was a whirlwind experience. Cornell is not a big football school at all, but as a former bandie, the weekend still holds significance as a period for retrospection. Alums come back to visit, steal your instrument to play "Pinball Wizard," and relive their hedonistic college days by drinking your alcohol. You try not to feel too disgruntled, with the promise that you too can come back in four years and be welcomed with open, band uniform-clad arms. This is a superior version of the circle of life, really.
It has been almost four months since I was last in Ithaca, a mere blip in time, but the changes are palpable. The Thurston bridge has reopened, and is strung with shockingly bright white LED lights. The parking lot between Bailey and Malott has been replaced by a flagstone plaza with oddly orange-y benchs and a overhang fountain on the southern end. Construction is beginning on a new building between Baker and Rockefeller. But wait, you say, there's no space for a building there. On the contrary, it looks like they're taking out a good chunk of the Baker lawn to put up this building. I mean, perhaps Clark is ugly and we should hide it behind another building, but still. Finally, I made a beeline to the clocktower as soon as I could, and was much dismayed to discover that my id card no longer works on the office door. For the last 3 years, the tower office was my one sure refuge on campus, always warm and open, filled with a frig, a couch, and a nice Mac. And now, that door is permanently closed to me.
Yet, despite the physical differences and the ever-present alarm that my time was limited, I was able to recapture some of that undergraduate zeitgeist, the animated intellectualism, the quirky vivacity that permeates Cornell and makes the abnormal normal. I sat in Stella's and discussed objects with non-integer dimension with Rhea, I hauled myself to the clocktower at 10:15 to chime the alma mater variations with Jen, I sang songs from "A Chorus Line" with Matt at 3 am, I watched a football game with 7 years worth of drumline members and still had the music to "Carry On My Wayward Son" memorized.
It was over in the blink of an eye, and I found myself scrambling at the end of Sat night, giving hasty goodbyes just 24 hours after long-awaited hellos. At 8 am the next morning, I jetted back to Chicago. It was cold and drizzling. I was in mourning.
I kept telling people I'd "see you later," but who knows when that will be? 6 months? A year? A decade?? Let's face it, this weekend was great because I found the familiarity of people and places I'd loved, but even a year from now, that might not be the case any more. People will graduate, move away, and move on with their lives. But at least for this one weekend, the magic was still there.
I realize I am extraordinarily lucky to have a job I love in a place I love. Catching up with the '007 crew, it's all too common to see people bored with their jobs, and worried about where their lives are going. When I flew away from Ithaca, at least I had something positive to come home to.
It still felt like I was ripping away a little piece of my heart.
Sunday, September 30, 2007
Friday, August 17, 2007
"Ithaca Joe"
He grew up on a Vermont dairy farm, spent senior year of high school at the Walden Project, and is an avid hiker/mountain biker/rock climber.
He’s a drummer, has an encyclopedic knowledge of every jazz show going on around town, and burned about 1,500 jazz albums from the Middlebury library back in high school.
He appreciates food and takes pride in cooking. Sauce from scratch? I haven’t even gotten around to doing that. Yesterday, he picked up saffron. (This stuff is crazy expensive, one time Scott and I tried to calculate if saffron powder was more expensive than cocaine.) He also knows the ins and outs of all the hole-in-the-wall ethnic restaurants around town. “There’s this amazing Yucatan/Mayan place at 5400 west…ok, it’s an extra 8 miles out of your way, but you can bike there easily…”
He’s well-read, recognized my Strand bag, and didn’t recognize Lost or 24.
He also has no college degree, and has a “gig” at a bike taxi place that will last until the end of the summer. After that, he might take a trip to the Grand Canyon (one of his friends works the white-water rafting down there), or S. America (another friend is planning a 3-month trip to Chile). You know, whichever way the wind blows; he’s a free spirit.
I don’t know what’s going on.
We’re making dinner on Sunday.
He’s a drummer, has an encyclopedic knowledge of every jazz show going on around town, and burned about 1,500 jazz albums from the Middlebury library back in high school.
He appreciates food and takes pride in cooking. Sauce from scratch? I haven’t even gotten around to doing that. Yesterday, he picked up saffron. (This stuff is crazy expensive, one time Scott and I tried to calculate if saffron powder was more expensive than cocaine.) He also knows the ins and outs of all the hole-in-the-wall ethnic restaurants around town. “There’s this amazing Yucatan/Mayan place at 5400 west…ok, it’s an extra 8 miles out of your way, but you can bike there easily…”
He’s well-read, recognized my Strand bag, and didn’t recognize Lost or 24.
He also has no college degree, and has a “gig” at a bike taxi place that will last until the end of the summer. After that, he might take a trip to the Grand Canyon (one of his friends works the white-water rafting down there), or S. America (another friend is planning a 3-month trip to Chile). You know, whichever way the wind blows; he’s a free spirit.
I don’t know what’s going on.
We’re making dinner on Sunday.
Sunday, August 12, 2007
omg frenz
I really, really miss my Cornell kids.
Don't get me wrong, I've met some great people at the Fed, through friends of friends, on street corners, etc. Actually, the AEs are probably a lot more cohesive than many other work groups, since so many of us are transplants to the area and want to meet people. And there are lots of diverse, talented people among the AE bunch.
Still, sometimes I can't help thinking how different my friends from college are, friendships I've sought out and chosen to maintain, rather than being a matter of convenience. Suffice it to say that I would much rather go to a Karaoke Revolution & fried ice cream party than hang out at the hipster club with subtitled films playing in the background.
I have yet to find someone I can drag along to really crazy ethnic restaurants. (Remember that time 209 got Indian food? No, that other time?)
At the moment, I'm even kind of bored with drinking. (Gee, I guess that phase lasted all of a month.)
Anyway, check out the Mad World video for my sufficiently emo post. If I ever finish that arrangement of Mad World on chimes, I have this vision of people making similar formations on Ho Plaza while the song is played.
(I'm wicked tired. Good parts of weekend to be highlighted later.)
Don't get me wrong, I've met some great people at the Fed, through friends of friends, on street corners, etc. Actually, the AEs are probably a lot more cohesive than many other work groups, since so many of us are transplants to the area and want to meet people. And there are lots of diverse, talented people among the AE bunch.
Still, sometimes I can't help thinking how different my friends from college are, friendships I've sought out and chosen to maintain, rather than being a matter of convenience. Suffice it to say that I would much rather go to a Karaoke Revolution & fried ice cream party than hang out at the hipster club with subtitled films playing in the background.
I have yet to find someone I can drag along to really crazy ethnic restaurants. (Remember that time 209 got Indian food? No, that other time?)
At the moment, I'm even kind of bored with drinking. (Gee, I guess that phase lasted all of a month.)
Anyway, check out the Mad World video for my sufficiently emo post. If I ever finish that arrangement of Mad World on chimes, I have this vision of people making similar formations on Ho Plaza while the song is played.
(I'm wicked tired. Good parts of weekend to be highlighted later.)
Tuesday, July 31, 2007
Talking with myself
Do you ever imagine hypothetical conversations? I have a longtime habit of doing so, and I think the frequency has intensified now that I have more time to let my mind wander (less homework, more commuting time). Tonight I played out a fairly extensive conversation in my head, filling out the setting, body language, conversational constructs I'd use, the other person's responses and tone, etc.
Of course, the exercise gets more interesting if environmental factors align and the conversation could actually take place. But when that moment arrives, it never happens the way you've envisioned it. After all, as much as I try, I am not the sole author of the script.
Maybe that's why it's so satisfying to create neatly packaged dialogues.
Of course, the exercise gets more interesting if environmental factors align and the conversation could actually take place. But when that moment arrives, it never happens the way you've envisioned it. After all, as much as I try, I am not the sole author of the script.
Maybe that's why it's so satisfying to create neatly packaged dialogues.
Tuesday, July 17, 2007
Idk my bff Jill?
The other day, I was sitting at my computer discreetly iming Jen (LM) from Google Talk while ostensibly doing work. Aside from a couple emails, I haven't talked to her since the GCNA trip last month. So, it was nice to catch up on her (lack of) progress on sabbatical work, and I filled her in on life in the "real" world. The irony is that she had been making fun of my aim obsession when we were together in TN, but now she's gradually seeing the light as well.
IM is a very handy form of communication in many ways: it's casual and instantaneous, you can simultaneously send other types of information (links, files), and in some cases, it eliminates some of the awkwardness of a face-to-face conversation. (Of course, there are people for which conversations are painful over aim, or over any medium...but that's beside the point.) The key selling point, in my opinion, is the ubiquity and availability of the im. I wouldn't call people specifically to whine about the car alarm that woke me up at
This got me thinking about how to define "keeping in touch" and ways to measure "closeness" in relationships. There aren't too many people I keep daily tabs on, but when I do, it's primarily through im. I'm not asserting that we will be better friends because I know what you ate for dinner or what you bought at IKEA today. Rather, if I'm in touch with mundane, everyday events in your life, you're more likely to fill me in on bigger issues as well. If I were having a mid-mid-life crisis, I would talk to someone I speak with regularly before calling someone I haven't spoken to for 6 months.
Panicked thought #1: maybe the primary thing I have in common with my best friends is that we are all equally obsessed with aim. Panicked thought #2: what if no one else I meet for the rest of my life uses aim/has grown out of it? Am I doomed to a series of superficial relationships? Before you laugh and point me to something called the "phone," I want to say phone calls are great, but if I used them with the immediacy that I use im, I'd have a helluva cell bill. Well, what did people do before computers? I'm not sure how they lived with themselves, but I'd guess that people simply communicated less often. So it's no good comparing contemporary times to the 19th century; our communication structure and behavior have changed so radically that it's irrelevant. A letter that spent 3 months traversing the
Perhaps I'll go gripe about this on my away message now.
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