the intricacies of new jersey

I spent the weekend at Monmouth University volunteering as a facilitator with New Jersey HOBY in scenic coastal Long Branch, NJ. I got back late Sunday night, spent most of Monday taking a series of naps of varying lengths and, other than spilling hot coffee all over myself, today's been pretty much back to normal.

Though I spent most of the weekend locked up in a university conference hall or sleeping on a foam mattress in a dorm room, like a true traveler I managed to gain some greater knowledge of this proud Garden State out of my trip nonetheless.

The first thing I learned is that every pilgrim or New World settler or whatever you want to call them who came to this plot of land first and started naming things was obviously stoned out of his or her respective gourd. Ho-Ho-Kus? That is a name of a town, people. I cannot make this shit up. Really, I can't, because I'M NOT STONED. Additionally, you can add to that list the towns of Cinnaminson, Mahwah and Pohatcong. And if you're planning a trip to Pohatcong, make sure you don't accidentally type Hopatcong into Google Maps, because somehow that is ALSO a real place in New Jersey.

I also learned that New Jersey is NOT, in fact, part of New England. Now, I understand this. I do. Because New England technically refers to the places settled by the English, right? The New World and all that? But if all you Yankees want to sit around and tell me that Washington, D.C. is the south, then I will call your crazy ass state New England all the live-long day. Capiche?

Here's another biggie. Apparently it is kind of important to note whether you're from North Jersey or South Jersey. And it seems that the South Jersey people tend to feel a little disenfranchised. Because to North Jersey people, New York City is where it's at, but to South Jersey people, it's Philadelphia. If you noted that neither of those cities is actually IN New Jersey, you win the prize.

But it was fun to have some Jersey pride this weekend -- mostly just seeing my ambassadors' and the younger staff members' pride, really. Just goes to show that what might be the armpit of America to me is a place that thousands of people will always be immensely proud to call home. It's a difference of opinion that I kind of dig.

cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 17

The other day while flipping through an issue of Rolling Stone I found myself quite tickled at a feature in the back of the issue alongside the current Billboard charts -- the Top 10 Singles from this week in 1984.

Some of my favorite guilty pleasure songs -- "Sister Christian," "Oh Sherrie" and "Borderline" -- appeared on the list, and it got me thinking about a playlist I made on my iPod last week that I've been listening to religiously on my commutes. It's a playlist that by sheer coincidence features a whole slew of 80s (and early 90s) jams that I've been into recently. With that in mind, I thought I'd make this week's Soundbite a flashback edition. Enjoy, and please -- try not to judge me too much.

Hall and Oates - "Rich Girl"


The Cars - "I'm Not The One"


Peter Gabriel - "Steam"




cheers,
elizabeth

finding common ground

Today I left the house to go to the gym in an Alpha Delta Pi tee shirt, as I often do since they account for about 87 percent of my wardrobe. As I was crossing the street behind my apartment, a possibly homeless, definitely drunk man slouched on a stoop hollered out, "Hey, I been in that fraternity!"

Thanking Allah for sunglasses, I gave him a side-long glance, kept a straight face and acted like I didn't hear him. He continued.

"Is that Alpha? Hey, is that Alpha by any chance? Alpha Omega? THAT WAS MY FRATERNITY!"

At this point I had rounded the corner, and luckily he lacked the wherewithall to follow me. Or he was so sauced he already forgot I'd been there.

But I must say, it is always good to meet a fellow brother of Alpha Omega. Wait -- isn't that Jesus?


cheers,
elizabeth

pick one

There is no question that people in New York tend to be short tempered. But I don't think it's a case of happenstance. I think living in New York makes you this way. And if you were already a little short-tempered, like someone who writes a little blog and shall go unnamed, and you choose to move to New York? You're a CNN ticker headline on employees going postal just WAITING TO HAPPEN.

This city gives me a lot of frustrations. I could list them all for you here, alphabetized, itemized, categorized, whatever the hell other kind of -ized you can think of. But recent contemplation on these matters has led me to realize that almost every frustration I encounter in Manhattan on a daily basis can be summed up by one simple piece of advice to my fellow New Yorkers.

Pick one.

Allow me to elaborate with some examples. This first paragraph is a fairly exact quotation of my inner monologue a few evenings ago when I was heading down the stairs at Penn Station to catch the 1 train.

I'm sorry sir, did you want to text message someone or did you want to walk down the stairs into the subway station? Because the thing is, YOU CANNOT DO BOTH. And I'm not saying you shouldn't. I mean, you shouldn't. But you sir? You literally cannot do both. You are proving this incapacity to multitask right now, in front of my very eyes, on the steps in front of me, while also making me want to bludgeon you with my four-dollar Duane Reade umbrella. You can text. Or you can walk down the stairs. PICK ONE.

Pick one really covers so many indiscretions committed against me and all of humanity every day in this city. Did you want to walk arm-in-arm with four of your best friends down the street, or did you want to walk down a busy street in New York? Again, I'd love for you to do either of those things. But you cannot do both. PICK ONE. Consult your map or stand in the middle of the sidewalk? Get your bearings or walk out into a moving crowd of people? Drive a cab or talk on your Bluetooth? Pick one. PICK ONE PICK ONE PICK ONE.

I feel like this is a fairly simple request. In fact, I feel so passionately about it that sometimes I find myself angrily muttering "Pick one" as I walk down the street, though I'm sure the words themselves, without the explanation, don't resonate as much with the idiots who are causing my frustration. Not as much as just smacking them upside the head would probably resonate. But that might also get me incarcerated.

Please keep me out of jail, New York and just effing PICK ONE already. Please.

cheers,
elizabeth

reasons to love new york, no. 11

In a city that is always changing and moving, there are very few constants. But there is one thing you can always rely on -- Penny, your PATH train homeless guy who wears better shoes than I do and reeks of whiskey, who will walk up and down the train cars every night to ask you to help the homeless with a little money towards food.

"And if any of you all can help out this evening," he'll say, "We will appreciate it."

I've never really seen Penny hanging out with friends or colleagues, so I'm going to assume that we is in fact the Royal We.


cheers,
elizabeth

happy fathers' day

Here's to all the baby's daddies out there, but to one in particular. Happy Fathers' Day, Dad.

I also feel like I should apologize for the number of times I said "in addition." Because frankly it is SHOCKING.

cheers,
elizabeth

take me to the river

Alright, y'all. So of all the things I've ever wanted to do or be in life, mostly one thing has remained constant: I've always wanted to know everything there is to know about something. Wasn't ever too particular on what that thing would be, just that I would be the world's foremost authority when it came to that thing.

But now I've figured it out. I think for a while I wanted to know everything there is to know about music. That's too broad, and also includes just a whole, WHOLE lot of shit that I don't give a flying patoot about. Then I narrowed that down to popular music. Still too broad. John Tesh? Very popular, in a lot of countries. Still don't want to know everything there is to know about him.

So from there I narrowed down to rock'n'roll. Maybe not too broad for some, but I really don't have that kind of time on my hands. But now, I've figured it out. I'm going to be the world's foremost authority on Memphis music.

It's going to take time. I'm not saying I'm the world's foremost authority right now, or even anything close. I know some stuff. I've got a basis, a foundation. But I have a lot of learning to do. Eventually, once I've read all the books and done all the research and collected all the records I can possibly collect, I'll start working on a book of my own. Or be interviewed on aVH1 clip show, where I'll lay down pithy soundbites and make witty observations about the influence of Memphis musicians of days of yore on the current scene of hipsters and idiots with record deals.

Or both.


cheers,
elizabeth

and what have we learned today children?

Today I applied for a newspaper reporting job. Not all that different from what I do most days, but today's job was different. Because this job, I realized after I sent in my resume and clips, is to work under an editor who just so happens to have been an adjunct professor at Murray State once upon a time. Who just so happens to have been a news writing professor, and who just so happens to have had me as a student.

All this would normally be a good thing, except for the fact that -- upon consulting my transcript -- I realized that I had this professor in the fall semester of my senior year, when we can be sure of two things: 1.) I was exhausted and overworked in my first semester as editor of the newspaper, and probably skipped class just every now and again, and 2.) I pretty much thought I knew everything I needed to know about everything, ever, and probably displayed that handily with my sparkling attitude.

The lesson, children, is that (much like life in Jersey City) you just never know. Why would I need to know someone who worked for a little piddly paper in the south, when I was going to New York to work for a big, fancy-pants magazine? Maybe because plans change. You can't predict the future. Every contact is a good contact.

So I said a few blergs to myself today when I realized who I was addressing in my cover letter, but all is not lost. I did get an A in the class, I don't know for sure that I was an insolent little d-bag. I might've been decently pleasant. I hope?

Blerg.

cheers,
elizabeth

the haves, the have-nots and the have a WHOLE, whole lots

I think I've cracked the code, y'all. I've figured it out. I've figured out why not having a whole lot of money is so much different in New York than it is in, say, Memphis. Or Murray. Or any other half-way normal place.

This city has a way of reminding you of what you don't have on the regular. On the real regular. Like, every hour on the hour. When you're a kid growing up eating fish sticks and mac'n'cheese, you think you're eating those things because they're tasty. And by god, they are tasty -- and also really cheap. But the cost of fish sticks or mac'n'cheese or beanie weenies has just about as much impact on you as the price of tea in China, because it's not like there's someone sitting across the dinner table from you eating a pizza and ice cream buffet every night.

In New York, though, the grown person's equivalent absolutely exists. It's not just that some people have more than others; that happens everywhere. It's that some people have SO MUCH MORE than you that you begin to feel like you should be in some Sarah McLachlan commercial for abused puppies and kittens.

Last night, on my way in to work, some event was going on across the street from Avery Fisher Hall, where our offices are located. It was big, and ridiculous, with lots of lights and fake greenery, security, high fashion, red ropes and red carpets. And the whole affair is surrounded by these metal fences, as if you needed another reminder that you, the common folk, are not welcome at this exclusive, high-brow event. And sure, maybe there are high-brow, no-common-folk-allowed events in every major city from time to time. I'll give you that. But in New York? I typically see one or two every single day, at minimum.

It's these kind of displays of wealth, of absolute opulence, that begin to make you feel like a second class citizen. For no reason other than that you don't have a few million dollars lying around for a designer dress and some diamond earrings and an invite to a party serving exotic fish and wine from a country you've never heard of.

In other places, dare I say in more normal places, differences in wealth play out in more subtle ways. You have a bigger house. Maybe the car you drive is nicer, a bit newer. Maybe you're able to buy the latest handbag when it comes out, or you have more shoes. In New York, you'd probably still be considered lower middle class. They always say the gap between the rich and the poor is getting wider, but I don't think I ever truly felt or understood it until I lived here.

And then I think about how much money someone probably spent putting on that event the other night at Lincoln Center. Hundreds of thousands? Millions? On topiaries and candles and white tents and ice sculptures and fondue fountains shaped like high-heeled shoes? At least as much as the Gross Domestic Product of a mid-sized African nation. At the very least.


cheers,
elizabeth

personal growth

I never really had a problem with acne as a teenager, and I'd say now that most (okay, all) of the zits that do decide to drop in for a visit are a direct result of my incessant need to keep my hands ALL OVER MY FACE.

So I've been trying to cut down on the constant face-touching, and so far the only tactic I've come up with for discouraging this habit is imagining the voice of my dad in my head telling me to get my hands off my face. There's this tempo to it that's hard to describe in writing, but it's something like this: "Get. Your Hands. Off of. Your FACE." In a sort of sing-song way. It's the same way he says "Get out of the way" when he's coming through the backdoor with hot burger patties or a cookie sheet with a well-cooked pig shoulder on it.

But then once I think of that I usually end up chortling to myself and thinking about barbecue. Which makes me think about my mom's beans, two different kinds, the one kind with the pineapples (Hawaiian beans, maybe?) and then the ones with the Doritos on top (Beanos? I think?) and then also her potato salad. And then usually by the end of that thought process I'm just hungry.

But by then, I'm definitely not touching my face any more. Moral of the story? Tactic is thus far TOTALLY WORKING.


cheers,
elizabeth

god complex

When I was in high school, I was saving myself for marriage. I believed that God had made a man specifically for me, my destined soul mate, who would fit together with me like a puzzle piece. I only use the puzzle piece analogy because that's how I described it back then -- me and my future husband, like two puzzle pieces in an oddly graphic sexual, yet somehow spiritual, innuendo.

That plan got scrapped a few years later, and thank God for that. If I'd stuck with the first puzzle piece I tried it would've been like when you work a whole puzzle and you only have one piece left and you try and try and TRY to get it to fit into the opening but it really doesn't go there so you just jam it in with your fist anyway and congratulate yourself on a job well done. Needless to say, had I stayed true to "saving myself," whatever that means, this would be the blog of a bitter, unsexed divorcee instead of a young, decently content single gal.

Anywho. This idea of a divine soul mate, of saving my purity as a gift for my husband on our wedding night, it all came from the Christian beliefs I held at the time. In fact, for much of that time, I didn't just consider myself a Christian. I was also a SOUTHERN BAPTIST. (Cue organ music.) My parents were never religious people, nor were we a church-going family. I often joke that I rebelled as a teenager against my liberal, non-believing parents by being conservative and Baptist. Not entirely untrue.

For a good few years, I went to church almost every Sunday, participated in church activities, even went on a church camp trip to Gatlinburg like every good Tennessee Christian will do at some point during their adolescence. I was in the Bible club at school, I went to Tuesday morning prayer meetings. I loved the Lord.

But being a Christian, for me, also came with its share of unwanted baggage. It made me so terrified that my family was going to burn in hell for eternity while I flew around on my angel wings in heaven that I would pray for their souls until I was physically ill with worry. It gave me so much guilt that the first time I ever masturbated I spent the next three or four hours hunched over my Bible, praying for forgiveness, CONVINCED that I was going directly to the seventh circle for putting a hand to my own piche. It gave me the tools to enable a debilitating eating disorder, with the belief that God wanted me to be healthy and the Bible verses to prove I needed to eat even less and exercise even more.

Some time during my freshman year of college -- I often blame learning about the history of global religions in World Civ -- I became an Agnostic. I'm still not too wild about giving it a title, but Agnosticism encompasses my major beliefs: I don't know. I'll never know. (And in my personal definition, I don't care.) So last night, when I sat down to watch Bill Maher's 2008 documentary Religulous, I was already pretty much in Bill's corner. His message was one of doubt. How can anyone be so certain?

By the end of the film, though, I don't think he and I were completely on the same page. Sadly, religion has caused all sorts of awful things to happen in the world throughout history, and it still does. Sadly, I think most of the hate that exists among people globally is a direct result of religious beliefs. But I also see that it does good. I remember the way I felt when I was at church as a young person and it's a feeling that's unmatched by other experiences in my life. I'm not saying I was happier, or better off, but it made me feel good. Welcome. Cared for, loved, like something special and greater than me was planned for my life. Now, I find I'm able to feel most all of those things, most all of the time, from within myself. But if something makes people feel those feelings -- and also teaches them to be a good, moral person at the same time -- it can't be all bad.

But if there was one piece of information I gained from Bill's little documentary that disturbed me more than any of the Holy Wars, the discrepancies in scripture, it was that the number of non-believers in the United States registers at an astonishing 16 PERCENT of the population. 16 percent? SIXTEEN. PERCENT. And if we assume that half of those are men and half women, then we can assume that only EIGHT PERCENT of the population of the United States is made up of men who do not follow any religious dogma.

That means for every 13 men I meet, only ONE will share my Agnostic philosophies. And probably about fifty percent of THOSE guys are in New York, and God knows (or does he?) that I'm not sticking around here to find one. No, instead I'm going back to the south, where I'll find the other 92 percent, who love the Lord, or Allah or some crazy alien who implanted demons into their business before the beginning of time. LOVELY.

When I look back on the ghosts of boyfriends past, only one truly aligned with my lack of concern for organized religion. The rest had their attachments, either passionately or to something from their childhood. What is an agnostic girl to do? I think once I move back down south I'm going to start an agnostic match.com. Or an agnostic singles mixer? Either way, I think on a given night out I'll need to plan to chat with at least 13 guys. Just to improve my odds.


cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites, no. 16

Annie Lynch and her Beekeepers are one of the first bands I fell in love with after discovering them at CMJ last October. Since then I've had the pleasure of interviewing Annie for a story for The Tripwire and have been able to give them some press for the release of their recent EP.

I was talking them up a few weeks ago when I was home to a friend who mentioned he likes bluegrass. Though I don't think it would be fair to box Annie & The Beekeepers in as simply bluegrass, there is a strong element of the style present in their work, mixed in with folk, country and just the teensiest, teensiest hint of pop. Mostly I think I love their music for the same reason I love listening to fellow Soundbite-artist Madi Diaz -- the vocal harmonies are absolutely stunning, and Annie's voice is at the core. Check out "Like A Dog" below, which I first heard live back at CMJ and is now featured on their latest EP, The Squid Hell Sessions.


Annie and the Beekeepers - "Like A Dog"



cheers,
elizabeth

the Most Incredible Dog In The World

One day, when our yellow Labrador Biscuit was still in her puppy years, we arrived home to find something quite obviously missing from the backyard. During the day while we were away at school and work, Biscuit had successfully eaten (or destroyed beyond recognition what she didn't ingest) the entirety of the synthetic outer liner of our trampoline. You know the part that covers the springs? As seen below? That part. Ate it. Afternoon snack. Appetizer before dinner. Burp. GONE.

The most ridiculous part was that, though she slinked around like she did when she knew she'd done something wrong, I don't remember her ever having even a hint of indigestion over the thing. The damn dog was made of steel. She had essentially claimed the trampoline as her backyard throne some time before this day, and perhaps this was her way of saying that purple was not, in fact, her color, and she'd been thinking of redecorating.

Biscuit was always a fan of many varied outdoor activities, from mail-box-walk-following to sprinkler-jumping, (insert any item from nature)-eating, stick-scavenging and smell-seeking, but trampoline sitting was undoubtedly her favorite, up until the day the springs gave way and the whole thing came crashing down -- the lack of a protective cover, no doubt the culprit.

Sometimes in the summer I would sit outside with a glass of ice water or Kool-Aid and spit out ice cubes for her to catch (her absolute favorite treat) and she'd take them up onto the trampoline and munch away happily. It is a memory I am now straining with every muscle of my brain and heart to implant indelibly, as Biscuit took her final leave from us yesterday, almost 14 years old.

For many years I wondered how I would react in this moment, when I got the news that the Most Incredible Dog In The World, Biscuit, had gone to chase (and catch, dammit!) squirrels in the doggy hereafter. I knew I would be devastated. I knew I would cry. But I don't think then I would've anticipated what I know now -- a sense of desperation, an urgency in trying to recall exactly and freeze in my memory the precise way it felt to nuzzle her nose, to feel the bob of her head when you patted it, to scratch her bum until she got so excited she started ramming her whole body into the side of the sofa with glee. I am desperate to save those memories, as strong as they are now, because I don't ever want to forget a detail of the ways she made our lives so much richer.


We got Biscuit when I was in the fifth grade -- I was two months shy of my 11th birthday. She was weened from her mom early because of circumstances I can't exactly recall now, but she came home with us a very tiny pup, earlier than they usually like to let them away from the litter. Her first romp through our backyard must have felt like being dropped into a never-ending oasis of leaves and grass to chew, sticks to find and random gifts from nature to eat and burp up later in the face of an unsuspecting family member. The day we brought her home, she cowered from our back fence, afraid of our neighbor's dog -- a little Scotty, no bigger than a house cat. We told her just to wait, because pretty soon she'd be able to eat him for breakfast and still ask the waiter to see a dessert menu.



Even in her old age, her face seeming to elongate, her muzzle increasingly covered with white and gray, we called her puppy. Mostly because she never really stopped being one. She ran and slid across our wood floors when she heard the ice maker rumbling in the kitchen every day during happy hour. She jumped and bounded, stalked prey in the yard and played catch with her squeaky toys, even if she had to toss the damn thing into the air herself.



Last night when contemplating the best way to eulogize the Most Incredible Dog In The World, the word noble immediately came to mind, and I think it's quite apt. It encompasses so much -- her loyalty, her unconditional love, her friendship, so true that even with arthritis making it next to impossible, she would painstakingly climb the steps to follow me to my bedroom when I came home to visit.

Noble. It makes me think of the time she got out of the back fence and we found her waiting on the front steps to be let in the house. The way she obeyed my dad as the Alpha male more than any of the rest of us, but probably loved him most, too -- every morning after breakfast she would wait by his chair to be invited to jump up and get loved on, happily squealing and squeaking the entire time. The way she tried to protect us, though it was always against the horrors and dangers of the UPS man or our next door neighbors. The way she'd run out in the yard and get her hackles up barking at unwanted intruders, but when someone got out the vacuum she'd hide in the corner until the torture was finished.

Although I was certainly sentient for plenty of years before she came to 6305 Constance, I hardly remember life without Biscuit. She was our loyal companion, our friend, our sister. She was, undoubtedly, the Most Incredible Dog In The World.

So here's to my hairy, four-legged sister. May the doggy afterlife be full of ice cubes for crunching, snow days for playing, trampolines for sitting, squirrels for chasing, butts for sniffing and yards for digging up. And may your bum never, NEVER have to go unscratched.


cheers,
elizabeth

when i wake up in the morning, the alarm gives out a warning

If you grew up around the time I did, there are a few things I know for sure about you without ever having met you. I know you probably had a Care Bear, or a Cabbage Patch Kid. You probably did the Running Man at some point during those formative years. And you probably also spent at least a few cumulative weeks watching a little television program we call Saved By The Bell.

I love Saved By The Bell. I love SBTB so much that I call it SBTB. So much that I own all four seasons on DVD. So much that I used to challenge my friends to SBTB trivia. And so much that the column I wrote for my high school newspaper my senior year was built around references to different episodes of the show. I wrote a column about driving and mentioned the episode where Zack sets up Slater to wreck the Driver's Ed. golf cart in front of Mr. Belding and ruin his rep with Kelly. I wrote a column about graduation, quoting the entire Bayside Alma Mater (that I disturbingly knew by heart).

I used to wonder why I didn't have boyfriends in high school. For the record, I do not wonder that any more.

So with this level of undying love for a short-lived sitcom about kids in high school, you can imagine my excitement when Jimmy Fallon, on his little late night hoorah, announced recently that he was going to put together a SBTB reunion. One by one, the cast members have been signing on, coming on to the show and pledging to be a part of the reunion -- so far Mr. Belding, Lisa Turtle and A.C. Slater are all in, and as of last night? The one and only ZACK MORRIS.



I feel personally called by God or Allah or maybe even the ghost of that Indian dude who was Zack's mentor in that episode about the big track meet to be involved in this reunion, some how, some way. With two cast members still yet to sign on -- Kelly Kapowski and Screech Powers -- we can't know for sure when the reunion show would be or what it might involve. But I do know this much. When it goes down, I hope that Jimmy will do the right thing and invite only the die hardest of die hard SBTB fans to be in the audience that night. The lucky winners could be chosen based on their score on a SBTB trivia test on his web site. It would be that easy.

As a grown woman who has confessed many embarrassing things here, and is unafraid to share that she still sleeps with a teddy bear (named Big Ted, no less), I proudly declare my continued love for Saved By The Bell. I'll be tweeting this to Jimmy Fallon in hopes that he'll put my idea in motion and get the true fans in the stands that special night.

And having just opined for several lengthy paragraphs about a Saturday morning teens' show, I would like to amend the earlier statement about how I no longer wonder why I didn't have a boyfriend in high school to read: I no longer wonder why I don't have a boyfriend. Just in general.

Because wow.


cheers,
elizabeth

the smell of newsprint in the morning

Tonight is the annual American Society of Magazine Editors Alumni reception, my first since completing my ASME internship back in 2006. I RSVPed immediately to the invite when it came about a month ago, though as the time drew closer I wondered if attending a reception with a bunch of people who are all gainfully employed at magazines was perhaps not the brightest idea I've ever had.

But today, as I made plans to meet up with a good friend from my ASME year to hit the reception together, I got reminded that things aren't good. For anyone. My friend was recently laid off as her magazine got rid of all its employees save the editor and a couple of interns making $8 an hour.

Although I'd be lying if I said I wasn't happy to have someone to commiserate with, I'm sick over her loss. Because she's my friend, and I care about her welfare, but also because being a part of this industry of late has been like participating in a massive death watch, where we all operate in a continuous brace-mode, waiting for the next title to fall. Waiting for the next group of hundreds of our friends and co-workers to be sent to the unemployment line.

Unlike some people, I do not believe that journalism is dying. Not even close. I think that the times are changing, and magazines (and newspapers) are going to have to learn to change with them. For a lot of titles, that means spending less on overhead by moving out of New York. When I applied several months ago for a job with Maxim, the gal who interviewed me told me they were moving their entire online division to Franklin, Tennessee.

I just hope that readers of magazines and newspapers will remember what it is they love so much about the relationship they have with a publication and choose to subscribe or purchase the issues at the newsstand rather than reading solely online. If there ever did come a day where curling up with a newspaper and a cup of coffee meant curling up with my laptop, I'd be pretty bummed out. And I reckon a lot of you would be, too.


cheers,
elizabeth

i'm in a lot of pain right now.

Things I did today:
1. Walked 13 miles.
2. Ate an enormous sandwich.
3. Promptly went to sleep.

I popped two ibuprofen before my nap, and I'm about to pop two more, and I think I'll just keep doing that about every six hours just as a cautionary measure. I'm only a little sore right now but I predict that, much like a car accident, the real pain will happen tomorrow. Maybe not whip lash, but I'm concerned I might not be able to sit on the toilet. Again.

I was hoping I might have something profound and earth shattering to tell you when I got done with this whole journey, but I haven't really discovered some new layer of the inner recesses of my soul to expose so there's no dice on that one. Instead, I've got two things for you. First, for all of these more than 200 blocks and almost 13 miles, I never once thought about getting out of the city -- the one thing that has consumed my mind for the past six months or so. And second, no matter how my thighs may presently be burning, I've got one more reason after today to never tell myself I can't do something ever again. Because I can. And I have. And I did.

And I'll do it again.

See below for numbered captions.






























1. & 2. The sun shining through the trees in Fort Tyron Park around 196th Street. 3. View of the river. 4. Pretty church. 5. George Washington Bridge. 6. Subway overpass in Harlem. 7. Seminary Row - is that anything like Skid Row? Millionaire's Row? Death Row? 8. Alumnae reception at Barnard College. 9. & 10. Cathedrals on Cathedral Parkway. 11. The view down Central Park West. 12. & 13. Trump Tower. 14. Columbus Circle. 15. Sneak attack photo of a chocolate lab waiting to cross the street at the corner of Central Park and Columbus Circle. 16. Fountain in the center of Columbus Circle. 17. The Late Show. 18. Times Square. 19. Me and Harry's special place - Ellen's Stardust Diner, home of the singing wait staff! 20. No one up here ever seems to understand why I find the name of this place (and the branding of the font) so interesting. Maybe my southerners will. 21. Cool art in the Fashion District. 22. So true. 23. Beautiful church in St. Marks I used to walk by a lot when I lived in Union Square. 24. Shopping in SoHo. 25. City Hall through the trees. 26. Church downtown. 27. Cool sculpture near Wall Street. 28. Trinity Church and cemetery. 29. Battery Park, from a safe distance because I thought I was about to die. And promptly turned around and went home. Sue me.



cheers,
elizabeth

adventure eve

My journey from one end of Manhattan to the other kicks off a little after 7 a.m. tomorrow EST. Though I doubt many of you will have met the world at that hour, the adventure will feature live-tweeting (on the right-hand toolbar or here) as every great adventure should.

I'll be posting my photos and thoughts some time tomorrow afternoon, after a big lunch and a even bigger nap.

cheers,
elizabeth

thursday soundbites no. 15

So, M83. As far as I can tell, it's pretty much one dude. When I first heard "We Own The Sky," the track I have for you below, I couldn't help thinking of former Thursday Soundbite featured artist Phoenix. Not surprisingly, M83 also hails from that land of toast, fries and pretty rolling Rs -- France.

I think the similarities pretty much begin and end in that paragraph, though, so press play on this video with an open mind. This is from an album called Saturdays=Youth released last year on Mute Records.


M83 - "We Own The Sky"


cheers,
elizabeth

reasons to love new york, no. 10

Tonight on the way to work I passed an older gentleman waving a half-empty bottle of cough syrup while engaged in a very heated conversation with a lamppost. My path required me to walk directly between him and said lamppost, but I think he was in the middle of making a very important point because he didn't even notice me.

To be fair, I was only passing through and I don't know how the whole altercation began. The lamppost may very well have started it.


cheers,
elizabeth

cabin fever

There is something that I need to tell you, though if you fit into the key demographic of this blog the chances are strong that what I am about to share is a life lesson with which you are already well acquainted.

Having no money is SO. UNGODLY. BORING.

I work. I sit at home. I sleep. I watch NetFlix movies. I eat basically the same exact menu every. single. day. With little to no deviation.

One day my roommate is going to return to the apartment after what seems like weeks being gone and find me passed out on my bedroom floor with writing all over the walls about boredom eating my brain cells and rotting my soul. I'll have scrawled things like, "Meet you for a drink? I'd love to, are you paying?" or "Go out for lunch? You mean at a soup kitchen?" or "Go out dancing? Dancing to your car stereo in a vacant lot, right? Cool!"

I distinctly recall learning as a child that boredom will not, in fact, kill you. Science just doesn't allow for it. So I should avoid calling 9-11 for things like "chronic spacing out."

But what about cabin fever? That's real, right? So if I start seeing little gnomes coming out from underneath my bookshelf, I should probably call someone. Duly noted.


cheers,
elizabeth

excuse me while i dish out some social commentary

Yesterday on my way to the train station I walked almost the entire route about ten feet in front of a guy who was talking to himself. Loudly.

At first I assumed he was on the phone, since that is what one wants to assume when someone is talking loudly alone on a street at no one in particular. But as I continued to hear snippets of his "conversation" it became clear to me that he was doing some sort of stand-up routine. He was talking constantly, pausing for a few seconds every now and again but certainly not enough to really be having a conversation with someone. I told myself maybe he was on the phone with someone doing this stand-up routine, or maybe he was recording himself. I tried really hard not to allow for the possibility that he was, in fact, just talking to himself.

Which he was.

Anyhow, about half-way through his little bit, he started dropping the N-word. Profusely and at will, like he was using it to pick off civilians from the top of a water tower. I've never been a fan of the word, but I think in that moment it really hit me what it is I detest so much about it. It's just an ugly word. I don't care how you've reclaimed it, or what you think it means. It's ugly. It comes from an ugly past, it's used to hurt people and keep people down. It's ugly. And I don't care if -- like the wannabe comedian walking to the train station behind me -- you're black. Because guess what? It still doesn't make it okay.

That's like me saying, hey. I'm a woman. And that means it's okay for me to call other women sluts, on that basis alone. Because it's a derogatory word about women, but not when one woman uses it to refer to another woman. Then it's okay, because we're both women! Get it?

No. No, I don't, actually. An ugly, insulting, hurtful word is what it is. I don't care who you are, who you're saying it to and why you think it's okay. Because regardless of all those variables, when you use the word, I lose respect for you.

Like the stand-up comedian, who walked up next to me near the station and asked me if I had overheard the routine he was doing. Other than thinking he was crazier than a shithouse rat for talking to himself loudly and shamelessly on a residential street and so therefore not having just a whole lot of respect for him to begin with, my opinion of him was determined by his vocabulary. And that opinion was bottom-feeder low.

When he asked me what I thought, I told him I wasn't really listening for content. And in fact, after he started letting the N-word fly, I was trying not to listen at all. He laughed nervously and turned the corner while I continued walking straight toward the station.

God knows I love to swear, y'all. God knows I do. On an average day I would make a sailor look like an altar boy. I've always said Saturday Night Live would be funnier if network television censors would allow for more swearing. But that word does not register for me as a swear word. It's more like a not-worth-saying word. A makes-me-think-less-of-you word. A perhaps-you-should-step-up-your-vocab word.

You'll have to excuse me. Sometimes my bleeding heart liberal shows out of the bottom of my dress. Let me tuck it back in.

(Social commentary, out.)


cheers,
elizabeth