Nodding in NOLA
I'm a wayward soul at a fork in the road. I'm in New Orleans for now, but next year maybe Nepal, the Netherlands, New York? Who knows?
Apr 27, 2009
12:27am
“
Ha! Funny how Mencken’s exhortation for an increased commitment is so so easily construed as a rallying cry for the opposite. The saddest part is that even with the bar set so low, we’ve failed to provide all of our young with a chance to be reduced to boring security of the middle-class. That means, I suppose, the only thing to do is to stop feeling was must be a misguided twinge of guilt. Apparently, being an extra in the tableau of low-grade, human misery that throws the coddled and commodified lives of penny ante intellectuals into stark relief and provides the striking textures and tones of city life that urban creatives crave is much preferable to being a mediocre student that transitions into a intellectually-underwhelming job and goes home to a too-comfortably plump wife whose mouth has set in a permanently tight line since reductions in the household budget delayed the bathroom remodeling. America is dead. Long live America.
”
- That erroneous assumption is to the effort that the aim of public education is to fill the young of the species with knowledge and awaken their intelligence… Nothing could be further from the truth. The aim of public education is not to spread enlightenment at all; it is simply to reduce as many individuals as possible to the same safe level, to breed and train a standardized citizenry, to put down dissent and originality. That is its aim in the United States, whatever the pretensions of politicians, pedagogues, and other such mountebanks, and that is its aim everywhere else.
H. L. Mencken, The American Mercury, April, 1924 (via jakelodwick)
Oct 23, 2008
7:40pm
Photo at the New York Public Library, by Pickett, headband & tights by J.Crew, blouse & skirt by Chloe&Reese, t-strap heels by Aldo.
Here’s this week’s Time Out New York column, on Professor’s Wives …
And how I wouldn’t mind being dating a Professor - something, for the record! - I have yet to experience. Georgetown’s Jesuits didn’t provide a lot of opportunities, thanksverymuch.
Except for the boys lax team. hehe.
Julia Allison, you’re writing is an embarrassment to the English language. If you don’t intuitively know how to use an em dash (and those should be em dashes, although you’ve used hyphens, SIGH), that is as you would use parentheses or a set of commas, you should not be writing professionally. We haven’t read your column, uh, EVER, but we’ll assume there’s a team of beleaguered assistant editors working day and night to make it readable. And yet you are the one perched on a bookcase, staring us down with your creepy “LIKE ME!!!!!!!! ARGH!!!!!!” look on your face, seeming for all the world like the head cheerleader freshly back from a makeout session because ew why else would she be in the like library or whatever. By the way, we just noticed you “like any conversation encompassing sociology, biology, psychology, philosophy, architecture, media, technology, feminism, personal growth…” So that’s pretty wrong, both diction- and otherwise.
Also, those tights make you look like you have a skin disease. What made you think that was a good idea?
I hate when grammar rants are ruined by poor grammar. I vote that people who don’t understand how contractions work should stick to two words. Is it really that hard to figure out that you’re is both a snappier version of you are and completely unrelated to your?
Aug 29, 2008
3:43pm
One of those days…
Spent the morning volunteering at the Katrina 3rd anniversary events. A memorial and burial of ten of the unclaimed bodies from Katrina (still!), sandwiched between 3-hour stints manning the City’s woefully understaffed 311 line, does not allow for optimism. Every day I find reasons to think “this would never happen in New York City” and, until now, my delight in those differences always outweighed my dread. Gustav, if you grow to a Category 3 hurricane the post-Katrina brew of courage, charm and corruption that is this city will not survive you.
Aug 29, 2008
3:28pm
Dems v. Repubs (The PR Edition)
Number of attractive, minor daughters available for photo-ops, “Awwww”-inducements and kids-say-the-darndest-things type interviews:
Dems: 2 Repubs: 4
Number of differently-abled children available for portraits of courage/heroism/bravery-in-the-face-of-adversity vignettes:
Dems: 0 Repubs: 1
Number of strapping young boys serving in the armed forces—the better to refute the old-white-men-shipping-other-people’s-sons-off-to-die argument:
Dems:N/A Repubs:3
Number of flashily-dressed, eye-catching spouses, with fashion sense tweaked to appeal to base:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of experienced, voice-of-wisdom candidates:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of young, demographic-shift candidates:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of candidates who copped to cannabis:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
NUmber of women on the ticket:
Dems:0 Repubs:1
Number of men on the ticket:
Dems:2 Repubs:1
Number of non-whites on the ticket:
Dems:1 Repubs:0
Number of candidates technically in the middle-class (as defined by tax returns and familial holdings):
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of candidates whose political stance on abortion puts them at odds with their church’s stance:
Dems:1 Repubs:0
Number of potentially precedent-setting candidates:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
This race just became interesting.
Jul 26, 2008
4:29pm
“
As Ray Porter watches Mirabelle walk away he feels a loss. How is it possible, he thinks, to miss a woman whom he kept at a distance so that when she was gone he would not miss her. Only then does he realize that wanting part of her and not all of her had hurt them both and how he cannot justify his actions except that… well… it was life.
”
- The Narrator (Steve Martin) in Shopgirl
Jun 17, 2008
10:14am
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
I’ve discovered (sort of by accident, sort of by necessity) that the most important promises to keep are the ones you made to yourself. People are inconsistent, places change and priorities shift, but through it all you’re the one constant and the only perspective. I’ve found that it’s better to disappoint everyone else and be true to yourself. The thing is they’ll come around and if they don’t…well, it’s because they keeping their own promises, which is fine. Actually it’s more than fine and you’ll be too.
Jun 13, 2008
9:18am
[Flash 9 is required to listen to audio.]
Jun 13, 2008
9:15am
Chasing my own tale
I just got out of a relationship with someone I really liked who, at the time, felt the same. The blame for the breakup rests squarely on my shoulders, so I haven’t had to deal with the question “Why?” , but, sneakily enough, the question has reformatted itself and is now wearing away at my carefully accumulated nonchalance with a “Why not?” Which is not to say that I had that much nonchalance to begin with. In the week following our breakup, mixtapes were mailed. Enough said.
Lately, I been thinking about how we know when it’s time to move on when a relationship falters. I’m no Florentino Ariza, but throwing in the towel so abruptly on someone you’d drawn so close to yourself, seems a little cavalier and raises doubts, at least in my mind, about the level of attachment that existed. My ex doesn’t have this problem as he can just focus on my wrongdoing and has probably watermarked all his mental images of me with a scarlet letter so that his resolve can withstand teary, cold, illogical, logical or pleading attempts at reconciliation with stony silence.
Meanwhile, my inner fox seems to have gone on permanent vacation so I’m left with tons of grapes, an undiscriminating palate and an appetite for lovelorn songs that dredge up memories. The memories of my ex illicits not only smiles and fond longing but anxiety that the rose-tinted reel in which these images play show a willful courting of fresh pain on my part. I am unable to think poorly of my ex and it’s hampering my ability to disengage. I mean if he was as great as I remember why would I want anyone else? Oh yeah, because he doesn’t want me. I suppose that is the one complaint I do have. In delivering the blow, the words he used were understanding but the method was unkind. He ended things gallantly, which I suppose was important for him to do, and it robbed me of the one avenue by which I might have made a hasty retreat from my own feelings. He corrupted my chance at closure—as a reason to abandon a loved one it’s thin and my brain knows it. So mostly, I moon over him and then I try to interrrupt the loop by hoping that he’ll find someone new soon so that I can finally convince myself that it. Is. Over.
I have my heart set on it happening within the next month or so, not because I relish the thought of him looking at someone else the way he used to look at me, but, because I will run myself ragged obsessing on our [ostensibly non-existent] relationship. Last night I dreamt that we got back together; I don’t relish the possibility of the dream becoming recurrent. In it, my failure to cushion my ego, to strike all references and fragments of him from my life turned out to be a strength. Tenacity in the face of diminished odds carried the day and I got a happy ending to my tale, even if it was only in dreams. I suspect the reality will be different, though. And, in the face of my hopeless optimism, it worries me.
Jun 12, 2008
7:23pm
Summer seems like a bad time to start something new. It’s hot, sticky and all you want to do is strip to your undies, curl up and read. Well at least I do. So we’ll see how this goes.
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I'm a wayward soul at a fork in the road. I'm in New Orleans for now, but next year maybe Nepal, the Netherlands, New York? Who knows?
That erroneous assumption is to the effort that the aim of public education is to fill the young of the species with knowledge and awaken their intelligence… Nothing could be further from the truth. The aim of public education is not to spread enlightenment at all; it is simply to reduce as many individuals as possible to the same safe level, to breed and train a standardized citizenry, to put down dissent and originality. That is its aim in the United States, whatever the pretensions of politicians, pedagogues, and other such mountebanks, and that is its aim everywhere else.
H. L. Mencken, The American Mercury, April, 1924 (via jakelodwick)
Photo at the New York Public Library, by Pickett, headband & tights by J.Crew, blouse & skirt by Chloe&Reese, t-strap heels by Aldo.
Here’s this week’s Time Out New York column, on Professor’s Wives …
And how I wouldn’t mind being dating a Professor - something, for the record! - I have yet to experience. Georgetown’s Jesuits didn’t provide a lot of opportunities, thanksverymuch.
Except for the boys lax team. hehe.
Julia Allison, you’re writing is an embarrassment to the English language. If you don’t intuitively know how to use an em dash (and those should be em dashes, although you’ve used hyphens, SIGH), that is as you would use parentheses or a set of commas, you should not be writing professionally. We haven’t read your column, uh, EVER, but we’ll assume there’s a team of beleaguered assistant editors working day and night to make it readable. And yet you are the one perched on a bookcase, staring us down with your creepy “LIKE ME!!!!!!!! ARGH!!!!!!” look on your face, seeming for all the world like the head cheerleader freshly back from a makeout session because ew why else would she be in the like library or whatever. By the way, we just noticed you “like any conversation encompassing sociology, biology, psychology, philosophy, architecture, media, technology, feminism, personal growth…” So that’s pretty wrong, both diction- and otherwise.
Also, those tights make you look like you have a skin disease. What made you think that was a good idea?
I hate when grammar rants are ruined by poor grammar. I vote that people who don’t understand how contractions work should stick to two words. Is it really that hard to figure out that you’re is both a snappier version of you are and completely unrelated to your?
One of those days…
Spent the morning volunteering at the Katrina 3rd anniversary events. A memorial and burial of ten of the unclaimed bodies from Katrina (still!), sandwiched between 3-hour stints manning the City’s woefully understaffed 311 line, does not allow for optimism. Every day I find reasons to think “this would never happen in New York City” and, until now, my delight in those differences always outweighed my dread. Gustav, if you grow to a Category 3 hurricane the post-Katrina brew of courage, charm and corruption that is this city will not survive you.
Dems v. Repubs (The PR Edition)
Number of attractive, minor daughters available for photo-ops, “Awwww”-inducements and kids-say-the-darndest-things type interviews:
Dems: 2 Repubs: 4
Number of differently-abled children available for portraits of courage/heroism/bravery-in-the-face-of-adversity vignettes:
Dems: 0 Repubs: 1
Number of strapping young boys serving in the armed forces—the better to refute the old-white-men-shipping-other-people’s-sons-off-to-die argument:
Dems:N/A Repubs:3
Number of flashily-dressed, eye-catching spouses, with fashion sense tweaked to appeal to base:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of experienced, voice-of-wisdom candidates:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of young, demographic-shift candidates:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of candidates who copped to cannabis:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
NUmber of women on the ticket:
Dems:0 Repubs:1
Number of men on the ticket:
Dems:2 Repubs:1
Number of non-whites on the ticket:
Dems:1 Repubs:0
Number of candidates technically in the middle-class (as defined by tax returns and familial holdings):
Dems:1 Repubs:1
Number of candidates whose political stance on abortion puts them at odds with their church’s stance:
Dems:1 Repubs:0
Number of potentially precedent-setting candidates:
Dems:1 Repubs:1
This race just became interesting.
I’ve discovered (sort of by accident, sort of by necessity) that the most important promises to keep are the ones you made to yourself. People are inconsistent, places change and priorities shift, but through it all you’re the one constant and the only perspective. I’ve found that it’s better to disappoint everyone else and be true to yourself. The thing is they’ll come around and if they don’t…well, it’s because they keeping their own promises, which is fine. Actually it’s more than fine and you’ll be too.
Chasing my own tale
I just got out of a relationship with someone I really liked who, at the time, felt the same. The blame for the breakup rests squarely on my shoulders, so I haven’t had to deal with the question “Why?” , but, sneakily enough, the question has reformatted itself and is now wearing away at my carefully accumulated nonchalance with a “Why not?” Which is not to say that I had that much nonchalance to begin with. In the week following our breakup, mixtapes were mailed. Enough said.
Lately, I been thinking about how we know when it’s time to move on when a relationship falters. I’m no Florentino Ariza, but throwing in the towel so abruptly on someone you’d drawn so close to yourself, seems a little cavalier and raises doubts, at least in my mind, about the level of attachment that existed. My ex doesn’t have this problem as he can just focus on my wrongdoing and has probably watermarked all his mental images of me with a scarlet letter so that his resolve can withstand teary, cold, illogical, logical or pleading attempts at reconciliation with stony silence.
Meanwhile, my inner fox seems to have gone on permanent vacation so I’m left with tons of grapes, an undiscriminating palate and an appetite for lovelorn songs that dredge up memories. The memories of my ex illicits not only smiles and fond longing but anxiety that the rose-tinted reel in which these images play show a willful courting of fresh pain on my part. I am unable to think poorly of my ex and it’s hampering my ability to disengage. I mean if he was as great as I remember why would I want anyone else? Oh yeah, because he doesn’t want me. I suppose that is the one complaint I do have. In delivering the blow, the words he used were understanding but the method was unkind. He ended things gallantly, which I suppose was important for him to do, and it robbed me of the one avenue by which I might have made a hasty retreat from my own feelings. He corrupted my chance at closure—as a reason to abandon a loved one it’s thin and my brain knows it. So mostly, I moon over him and then I try to interrrupt the loop by hoping that he’ll find someone new soon so that I can finally convince myself that it. Is. Over.
I have my heart set on it happening within the next month or so, not because I relish the thought of him looking at someone else the way he used to look at me, but, because I will run myself ragged obsessing on our [ostensibly non-existent] relationship. Last night I dreamt that we got back together; I don’t relish the possibility of the dream becoming recurrent. In it, my failure to cushion my ego, to strike all references and fragments of him from my life turned out to be a strength. Tenacity in the face of diminished odds carried the day and I got a happy ending to my tale, even if it was only in dreams. I suspect the reality will be different, though. And, in the face of my hopeless optimism, it worries me.
Summer seems like a bad time to start something new. It’s hot, sticky and all you want to do is strip to your undies, curl up and read. Well at least I do. So we’ll see how this goes.
