Huge!

The oral surgeon looked at my x-rays today and said,

"And here we see that your two upper teeth are halfway erupted, and here... well, you see up here above the jaw are your sinuses, and goodness, they're huge! I mean, for a woman your age, and... your size, well, still, they are enormous!"

I wasn't sure how to feel about that.

Note: Those aren't my x-rays, or my sinuses.

#$@$!

A little over a year ago, I posted an entry calling for suggestions for an all-purpose expletive replacement. I needed something to eradicate customary curse words from my vocabulary, especially to temper my on-field reactions--I think a week or so before writing the entry, I was feeling silly after causing a stoppage of play because I had yelled "f*ck!" loudly after laying out for and missing a goal, and everyone thought I had called a foul.

Since then, I have appropriated "woof" as an all-purpose expression of frustration, of "oh darn," and of general resignation. I sometimes forget to explain this to people and they wonder why I bark when a goal is dropped or I miss an appointment, but I find that in conversation, context lends the sound its proper meaning. It is mild but fulfills my need for expressing a wide range of negative emotions, and I hadn't realized until this past weekend how thoroughly I had cleansed my palate of curse words--until a bunch of 30-year-old men reminded me of just how un-genteel they sound and of all the reasons why I might not want to keep playing Ultimate after college.

I picked up with a random team this past weekend for Mixed Easterns, a 4/3 (that's men/women ratio) co-ed tournament in Devens, MA, about an hour north and west of Cambridge. I thought it was about time I started stepping out of my comfort zone of playing with only Harvard folks -- my current undergraduate friends and all the friendly alums -- and I thought Mixed would be a fun way to ease into it. (The elite women's teams still intimidate the daylights out of me.) I was pretty optimistic about it; the team seemed really fun and witty and helpful in e-mails, and I was pretty sure I already liked them.

Unfortunately, I forgot that there exists a subset of people in the Ultimate community, the folks several-years married and approaching 10 and 15-year college reunions; the folks who are not quite as athletic as they may have been in their prime, but more than overcompensate with their lust for competition; the folks who run teams like the one I played with last weekend. I forgot that I cannot stand these people, at least not on the field; and it's much harder to be forgiving of people you don't really know.

The tournament began at 8:30 a.m. on Saturday morning--it was already 80 degrees and the day would easily reach 100 over the next five rounds of play before culminating in a 20-minute thunderstorm replete with lightning, fire department warnings to leave the field, and a full rainbow. But what was worse than the steadily rising heat were the captains' and returners' steadily rising tempers...

"That was just f-cking lazy!"
"Play some f-cking defense! Be f-cking on their f-cking hip!"
"This is f-cking unacceptable!"
"F-ck!" "F-ck!" "F-ck!"

Even calling time outs, one of the guys felt the need throw down the disc and yell "TIME!" as if he were yelling "F-CK!" They argued calls. They threw water bottles. They made audible and mean jokes about the opposing team. I know they didn't always mean to sound angry or be assholes, but just listening to them talk that way drove me nuts. All they had to say were negative things, and really, they weren't good enough to justify it all. That, and they played a conservative game that meant looking off deep (and wide open!) cuts by pickups (yes, like me) .

I didn't go back on Sunday; it was against many principles I used to hold dear (persevering through unpleasant situations, especially physical ones; never saying no; not holding people's personalities against them) and I felt terrible about leaving the women with one less sub, but the prospect of playing another day with those men on a dubious ankle just didn't sit well with me. I decided that I play Ultimate to have fun and that Saturday was certainly not fun.

That night I had a nightmare that I cursed at Quasar on the field, and I was so scared when I woke up that I had actually done it. I am not sure when I simultaneously became such a softie and such a judgmental soul, but really. You don't curse at your team. You don't curse at people. End of story. Thanks for listening.

perfect

San Diego sun gives the best tans.

All that's left to say (ultimate post)

It was not a speech I was prepared to give.

We were fourteen teammates sitting in a grassy field, not even making an effort to swat away the flies that hovered around our exhausted, sunscreened, sweaty necks. The silence was enormous, and I was slow to go and sit down in it.

The entire fall season, we would have 8 or 9 or 10 girls, more than half of whom had only been throwing frisbees for 1 or 2 or 3 months, running their legs off, barely catching, making frantic throwaways, probably not scoring--the entire fall tournament season, we would wake at the crack of dawn to travel to tournaments, not win a single game all weekend and yet every time, I genuinely smiled and joked and rallied and told them to be proud, to be radiant, to go and win that party! If anyone had asked my co-captain J. Ames and me about Regionals, we would smile in that knowing way and say, "It's a rebuilding year; we're learning a lot."

But on spring break, we worked hard, slept (reasonably) well, forgot about school, and let go. By the end of it, we were not only putting up valiant fights against decent teams from up and down the East Coast, but beating some of them as well. The girls, their ultimate careers matured by a few months, learned to read the disc, learned to beat the in-cuts, learned to come from behind, learned to dominate. By Yale Cup we were taking Wellesley to hard cap; yesterday we kept our focus to take down Brandeis to break seed. We were ready to be talking strategy and not just spirit now. All of a sudden, if someone asked me about Regionals, I would nod and say, "Yeah, we'll have to work hard for it, but we could do it."

So when the morning of Sectionals rolled around, the words came easily: the concern now was keeping their heads up and in the game, keeping the whole team involved when I knew we would have to tighten up the rotation. I had the soundbyte ready: "You are in this game whether you're on or off the field. We can only do this with everyone's heads and voices in the game. They are a three-person team; we are a 17-person machine. Everyone is in it; everyone is working; let's go, Quasar!" And oh, the energy that followed. Oh, the smooth looks, and the hard defense, and the big backhand breaks with our speedy receivers.

But now, on a different day, after a loss to MIT in the last round of pool play (expected, and well fought), a loss to BU in the second place bracket (more bitter, a spirit breaker), and a loss to BC in the game to go to the game to go (a loss in which we were at game point for at least five points against a team we'd beaten 11 - 3 just a month prior) -- what was I going to say? The last game was one in which I saw us lose our offense almost entirely, in which I couldn't make it happen with the big backhand breaks, in which our man D fell flat, in which my best player's head was hanging heavy with frustration, in which I couldn't crack a smile or a joke or a motivational soundbyte if it would have saved my life, or the game. It wasn't enough that we got broken with IO flicks and beaten by crappy, floating dump passes, but I let us get broken, emotionally, and that was just too much.

So sitting in that grass this afternoon after losing our bid to regionals, I didn't want to lie. I tried to look around, make eye contact with everyone and give them that goofy smile that I give, the one that makes everyone embarrassed, the way they would be at a well-meaning parent, and smile back if only to be polite. But no one was looking up. "Hey Quasar, hey Quasar. There were a lot of great things in that game. That was a hard fight." It fell flat. I wanted JAmes to say something; I wanted Jefe to come back; I wanted someone to just break the silence and I wanted to swat flies in a ridiculous manner so that someone would laugh. JAmes said, "Hey, it sucks to lose." Yes, yes, okay, there's the honesty that we need. But where's the "but"? It sucks to lose, but... we played our hardest? we played our best? This would be dishonest, and it would just hurt more to hear it, because everyone knew it wasn't true.

So I said what I was thinking: "We've come a long way. Think about how far we've come since the fall, ladies. Everyone did something in that game that they couldn't do just three or four months ago. Nine months ago, some of you hadn't even touched a disc before, and look at you now. This could have gone any way, and we didn't pull it out this time. But we have fought hard all weekend; we fought hard all day." Ugh. That wasn't right.

And then silence. I didn't have anything left in me. No appropriate jokes; no appropriate encouragement that rang true. So I just sat quietly, feeling the soreness creep in. No one else had anything to add.

"All right. Let's stretch it out. Let's go for a cooldown." And we ran. And we got in the cars. And we had team dinner. And now JAmes and I are trying not to let it get to us, but both not being able to shake the sense of responsibility, the sense of fault.

Last year and the year before, when I wrote about our less-than-stellar performances at Regionals, I wrote something along the lines of and "Jefe turned to me and said, 'That could be you next year'" in reference to playing in the game-to-go, and "But I hope I'm not writing the same thing next year..." in reference to how much potential we had for next year.

Now, as a captain, and in anticipation of another big year, I am full of something quite different than hope. I have always thought of frisbee as another sport in which I could run my heart out, feel the thrill simply of physically working hard and occasionally making a big play or two. This year, there is an element of responsibility and ownership unlike any that can be felt when you are a rookie or floundering second-year, one that makes the anticipation of another year of captainship that much more loaded. The questions seems purposeful and challenging in a way that a lot of other things right now don't: how can I shape a team emotionally and physically? What does it take to change and capitalize on the potential of a group that could come back more than 15 strong and with rookies to boot? What particular social dimensions, attitudes, and inevitable academic obstacles will I have to take into consideration? And of course, how can we play better frisbee? How much of it will be how fit I am and how well I perform?

I no longer ask myself why this is so important to me, why sitting in that field after Sectionals was so emotional or why I almost got teary talking to my former captain from freshman year afterward. I don't need to justify feeling touched when my team surprises me and my co-captain with a lovely personalized breakfast (complete with males in Speedos with guitars serving us mimosas) and a hand-drawn construction paper card with all of them drawn out in stick figures. People often seem to think that I am eager to be a leader and take charge of things, but really, what it boils down to is just that I get involved and end up caring so much that I can't help but doing what it is that I do. I want to make people happy, and for a sports team this means not only being happy with a social environment and feeling loved, but playing well and winning games and feeling the pressure-- I've had less experience with the latter, but that's what I'll be working on this next year.

I've prepared a soundbyte for this coming year, it's been thrown around and murmured back and forth between teammates and between my new co-captain and me for years. Sometimes it was in exaggerated jest, sometimes with deluded pride, but I say it with total earnestness now: "Quasar at Nationals '09 or bust." Put that on the record for Spring '08, and I'll be back next year for the last time to report.

April 15, 2008

is overrrrrrr!

That's right, tax season has ended. I can now be a real person with a real life again. I'm SO EXCITED! Just thought I'd share that :)

Why's Half What so dead?

Abortion/Conviction

After seven aborted drafts and an electronically mailed kick in the butt from Lindsey, I've decided to set something down. You are all lucky that I hadn't found the time to finish up entries about relationships, art history, writing, sexism in politics, and some trip I took to Wesleyan in November. It was just too much information.

Over the last month or two, I've lost a job, failed some exams, screwed up my chance for a sublet, and failed at painting portraits so consistently that my professor told me to paint something that would make me happy (not faces!), because we were all miserable looking at the pathetic attempts at likenesses. And also, my room is a mess. To a disturbing degree.

But the important part of this night, tonight, April 17, 2008, is that I went to see Sokari Douglas Camp, a female, Nigerian-born, British artist, speak about her work. Usually, I am not so interested in these talks, and I am even more uninterested in the awful questions that get asked at the end of them. But tonight, I didn't care about the irrelevant questions, didn't much care about the fact that the fiancee of my now ex-boss was sitting in the front row, since she organized the talk-- tonight, I listened to a woman talk about her "attachment" to two countries, about being a woman, about her heritage, and being interested in physical manifestation and welding and boats and politics and the people who walk by her studio during the day. These were her convictions about her life experience and about her hopes for the political futures of the countries with which she feels a connection (without making claims about ownership of particular identities, whether racial or political or otherwise) and her desire to bring the vibrant memories of her Kalibari town to London.

And I realized that I have these convictions, too.

By some funny twist of fate, I have developed reputation as some kind of visual artist here at Harvard, something of a painter and a go-to graphic designer for publications--from literary journals to economics reviews to sex magazines. Sketches and portraits of folks from professors to classmates to strangers are done in lines rather than letters. Yet I never could call myself an "artist" the way I was pretty comfortable calling myself a "writer" before. I didn't have any conviction; I didn't have any purpose in my painting.

But now I see that I care, about being a woman, a girl, a Taiwanese -born American, a college student, a citizen, a lover, a daughter, and a friend. That I care about materials and experience and that these are all legitimate points of departure for making art. I still don't know how I feel about what it means in the cosmic scheme of things, but at least I have a reason to carry these paintings through.

Friends who Kiss

It's less exciting every time.

I went out on a date Saturday night--a Japanese restaurant on Park Street and a walk on the Common. It was good sushi and magical weather, but that night, at 11:18 p.m. post-date, my stomach was already hungry and the feathery snow had turned to chafing cold. I turned down the customary offers of dessert or a movie or a party because I just didn't feel like letting the night go on (and I've learned pretty well that "watch a movie" is code for "cuddle on the couch"). His face dropped when I said I was tired--"But it's only 10:30..."-- I made up some excuse about the last two days being really tiring, but I think he got the message.

I've written several cute and earnest posts about the new men I've encountered since breaking up with Samy. I've left out the gory details, any chances for identification, and a lot of the less significant incidents, but I think I've lost even the hope in finding lessons in all of these happenings. It's just dating--it's just dinners, it's just movies, it's just drunken forays into intimacy, it's just bad lines from the worst movies and people looking for convenient companionship. Just in the last two weeks I've truly been converted to the worst kind of cynicism and resignation, best embodied by the snippet of true life conversation below, giggled through flirtations fueled by a bottle of Yellowtail Merlot:

"What are we doing, LeeAnn?"
"Flirting, because we like each other."
"But we're just friends?"
"Just friends."
"Just friends."
"Yeah, friends who kiss."

A Different Tune

It has come to my attention that everyone is a music snob. The thing is, people are just snobbish about different music. Many of my college friends don't realize I'm a music snob because the type of music I'm snobby about doesn't come up in conversation too frequently. I don't know why I never realized this before.

I found a friend who was into the same type of music I listened to in high school, the same bands and everything. We spent forever talking about the bands and the music and listening to the music. I haven't thought about music like that in a long time. Most of the people I hang out with now are into rap (which I don't have any type of expertise or snobbery about) or classic rock (which I'm only snobby about a couple bands, otherwise I just like most of it). After listening to friends argue last night about some artists that I was familiar with, but definitely not a fan of, I came to this revelation. I still find it funny how much music impacts lives.

Currently listening to: Gym Class Heroes - As Cruel As School Children

Lindsey you better be going to see this guy because he's from Chicago and performs live there all the time and is wicked funny

Hannibal Buress. Listen to him. Laugh at his jokes. Love him. If you're Lindsey or in Chicago, see him live. Or I will be very angry with you passing up the opportunity.

Truth.

I have fifteen pounds to lose.

Sucker

Someone brought me flowers yesterday. It was hokey, so friendly and sentimental it was almost suave, and so ... nice.

I wonder what is going on with me right now that I could be so easily bowled over by a bunch of flowers in a cheesy red plastic vase.

30 days

Well maybe for like 29, but that's how long I have to move into a new place. I'm really scared I won't find one!

Updates

Evacuation Warnings, Statistics

NY Times

Four years later

San Diego is burning again.

Updates

Photos

The big 2-2

Happy Birthday Ms Lindsey!
Today is the first anniversary of your 21st birthday :)

Hundred Dollar Baby

My trachcan is a graveyard for bugs. I've got all kinds, but it's mostly spiders, moth, and silverfish, all smushed with whatever book I happen to be reading. And I feel pretty bad about it! I went through this whole great phase towards the end of my stay in LA, where I captured the bugs in a cup and released them outside of my apt. But the owners of this place have this amazing garden in the backyard that I haven't been able to enjoy because it's cold and there are so many bugs attracted to all the plants. As a result, whenever I open my windows for some fresh air, at the end of the day when I'm cleaning up my room, I always find bugs hiding underneath a bag or my pajamas. There are so many and I'm so tired after a full day of work that I just end up smashing them with a book.

Sorry about the boring post about bugs in my apartment, but I feel really guilty about killing so many bugs. Especially after a full day at my work. This kind of helps

What also helps is It's Always Sunny in Philidelphia. The guys who write that show are messed up in the head, in the best way possible. I also like that they use Danny DeVito to promote their show when really the show is really helping Danny DeVito.

Belated Chronicle

Wednesday, Aug. 29., 5:30 a.m.
Harvard MBTA Station - I'm alone with my small duffel, bus tickets, and an old woman carrying many plastic CVS bags. Thankfully (for the sake of packing) and unfortunately (for the sake of my make-believe vanity), I am going to New York now and not during Fashion Week, so my ugly little duffel holds only extra socks, an extra pair of underwear, toiletries, a towel, and a sleeping bag--no Diane von Furstenburg, no absurd heels this time; there will be no parties for the crashing.

South Station, 6 a.m.

State Street

South Station Bus Terminal, above the escalator

Central Park, 11:00 a.m.
I arrive in the city around 11 a.m. It's hot and the last hour was spent listening to another passenger behind me make painfully ignorant comments about Harlem as we made the inch by inch journey (This point in the bus ride is always the least comfortable; everyone is awake and aware of arrival, but everyone still has to stay on the bus for another hour while the bus squeezes its way to the Port Authority). I am waiting for a friend to call. I toy with the idea going to the American Natural History Museum, as I have just seen the Squid and the Whale a few days prior. I muck around Central Park and marvel at the pages of erotic hotlines in the Village Voice instead.

Reminds me of the opening sequence of "The Critic."


Realizing that my companion won't be arriving any time soon, I go to the Cooper-Hewitt National Design Museum. It is free because they are renovating.

A solar-powered cooking contraption.


Flowers.

He was so excited about the ice cream. Cameo by my sneakers. My companion has called, I am in the final stretch of the wait in front of the Guggenheim.


Finally inside, my friend having arrived and both of us having paid the astronomical entrance fee.

The money shot. Couldn't resist.

I thought his shirt and blank expression complemented the museum nicely.
Next we head to Astoria for the last screening of the outdoor foreign film festival in Socrates Sculpture Park. Put on by the Museum of the Moving Image.
We watch "Crossing the Bridge," a documentary about music in Istanbul. We eat Turkish food. We don't stay for the second feature about bossa nova.

Rather than paying for $40 for a bed at the Hostel International with the wild, backpacking Europeans, I take my generous companion's offer to put me up at his house on Long Island. After munching plantain chips at Empanada Mama in Hell's Kitchen and bemoaning our underage status, we head out on the LIRR.

Oyster Bay, 1:30 a.m.
I stay in the "Library with Bed." I have pulled a volume of chronicles of Siberian travels. I decide that I want my children to have a library with bed. The next morning I meet his parents and they talk to me about art history and their artist friends.

The next morning, early, I return to the city alone-- I tunnel through the humidity in the subway and resurface in China Town. I hope the absurdity of the mannequin's breasts is evident in this photo.

A few blocks and a witnessing of an arrest later, I find myself in Little Italy, where the stalls of ChinaTown morph suddenly into cafes with faux marble tabletops and gaudy red, green, and white signage. I take a coffee and pastry break.

Fire escape; Italian pride.

Finally, I come to my long-awaited (say 2 years?) destination: 11 Mercer Street. And here, my make-believe vanity is lost forever. As I've mentioned, I decided consciously not to bring another outfit for my 2-day jaunt in New York City, let alone a fashionable frock and flats which may have at least shielded me with superficial, designer dignity before I ruined my future in the social circles of Manhattan forever.

No, instead, I enter the Visionaire gallery in a Banana Republic tee slightly damp with sweat, jeans of a wrong, mismatched wash, and half-broken sneakers from Taiwan whose "label" is scratched out with Sharpie marker. I muster up all my courage to ring the buzzer, and in that fateful motion, I think, lose it all. I hem and haw to the girl sitting at the desk buying Beyonce tracks from the iTunes store, and muck around the spare, one-room gallery. The walls of the "exhibition" are merely white, temporary partitions, and there is doorway which coyly suggests the existence of deeper chambers. In my sweaty delirium, having just emerged from the gaudiness of Little Italy and the smuttiness of China Town, I think it would be a good idea to explore.

The second I slide back the partition door I can feel the conversation and my dignity run out of the room. Do I turn around and go quickly? Do I act with confidence and browse like I belong? The young man and the chic woman siting at a table folding invitations look up at me. I nod and smile in acknowledgment and uneasily look around. I am positively choking on the awkwardness of the situation when finally the woman puts me out of my misery with a patronizing look, "Um. I think she's looking for you." I turn around and the iTunes girl is frantically, "Oh, goddammit"ly coming after me and making every gesture short of pulling me out by the elbow to shoo me out. I leave the gallery shortly thereafter.

I catch my breath and pretend to feel human and wonder why China Town borders SoHo (who could possibly ever be appropriately dressed for both? oh, right.) Escape to the New York Public Library. If there's anything I've done more of at Harvard than lose my fashion sense it's read. I go to the History of Art and Architecture reading room and read about McKim, Mead, and White and New York Row Housing. It's mildly calming and air conditioned. I debate trying to make it to the Statue of Liberty or Coney Island but my nerves are failing me. I pack up for Port Authority.

State Street. 10 p.m.

Basically my new job is to keep you updated on Ray

“I was afraid when I first met them that they'd be like their onstage personas, but they're all really nice guys,” Suen said of his Louis XIV band mates. “I have come to realize, though, that none of my pants are tight enough to be in this band.”

Considering his prodigious musical skills, Suen's wardrobe shortcomings won't be a problem.

Gee whiz, I'd forgotten how clever journalists can be. What a linguistic gem. (I don't mind so much the man's repeated drooling, printed messes of unbridled joy only because they're over my deserving brother, but really? I wish someone else would write about you, already. This guy makes me vom a little in my mouth every time I read . Lindsey, do you think you could plug Ray in the Jewish World News?)

Oh, but who am I kidding, I love Ray enough to smile at things like this:

[Suen's] new gig came about after O (of fluf and Reeve Oliver fame) recommended him as perhaps the only violinist in town who could single-handedly fill the role of the 30-piece, Electric Light Orchestra-inspired string section featured on Louis XIV's next album, due out early next year.

So baller.

Read more here.

My Brother's a Rock Star

Bona Fide. So bright that he's gotta wear sunglasses at night.

He's touring with these dudes all over this dirt-mound. Go see him! Say hello and tell him his sister thinks those glasses are just plain silly!

thought you should know...

I have a job. (<--that's a link)