no reason for not writing

so I have no reason for not writing yesterday except for it's my busiest day and I was on my feet for most of it. I got home and spent a half an hour eating and getting ready to head off to babysitting, so I should have done it then, but I didn't.

I think part of me was just really overwhelmed and tired. And I kept thinking about what to write about but nothing was there...

the entry I should have written yesterday (my new favorite catchphrase):

Thursday, March 29, 2006 will live on as a day of infamy in the gastronomical world of sandwich consumption. I have discovered (via Leonard and Ruth) a delicious sandwich shop on Lincoln Ave that I have probably passed hundreds of times and never visited. Calliope Cafe is the name and I had a chicken avocado wrap that was so good I wished I had ordered two!

As if the wrap wasn't good enough, instead of serving ho hum chips, Calliope makes their own thin waffle cut kettle chips that were fantastic. I have never had a better version of potato. The only thing missing was cole slaw, but I know it's an underappreciated accoutrement to lunch and dinners. They did throw in a pickle, but you gotta love stuff slathered in mayo....

The last sandwich place I visited that was this eyebrow raising was also on Lincoln ave, right next to the McDonald's at Halsted and Fullerton. It's called Pita Pit. They take a plate sized thin pita pocket and stuff it with fixings of your choosing, presented ala Subway style, complete with sneeze guard. The catch is, if you order lunchmeat, they grill it, which is a nice flavor.

Plus, they're both small independent shops, which is more the reason for me to partronize them.

cheers, stine

the story behind ovaries being squozen.

If I promise to never talk about the kids I babysit for ever again will you bear with me and read this?

I babysit for the cutest thing in the world, a little one and a half year old named Nina. Whenever I am with her, my instincts to produce baby after baby grows by leaps and bounds, and I find it hard not to jump the bones of her father. Well, not that hard, but come on, his genes produced the world's cutest baby, at least, she's cute to me, and for pete's sake, he's tall.

Everyday when I come over she immediately wants to pull my wallet out of my purse. I don't blame her. It's a fascinating array of cards, receipts, money, coins, my passport, my bus pass, etc. I don't understand why she always has to look at it (it doesn't change too much from day to day and it's been more than six months of this "routine"), but she is determined to, and will not do anything else, so I've learned to arrive and expect it. I just sit and chat with her parents about stuff until she tires of the game.

The game is there's three things that have my picture on them. None of them look alike, and only one looks like the me she's most familar with (my streaky blonde highlights on my UPASS). The others are my passport (taken five years ago) and my Columbia College I.D., which I think was also five years ago, but in it, my hair is long and thick and wild.

One of the first times she opened my passport she pointed at the picture of me and said confidently, "Ra-Ra." Ra-Ra AKA her cousin Rachel, had recently visited and nina had developed a habit of pointing out who was who in all the pictures in the house, like those on the fridge, etc. So when I said, "No! That's not Ra-Ra! That's me, Christine!" the surprise at being wrong must have rewired her brain or something. She closed it and went on to the next thing. I suppose I should add that I really do resemble Ra-Ra, though I'm sure the thought of that to the thirteen year old would just be devastating.

The next time I came over, she went for my wallet, which at the time she didn't know how to say so she just reached into my purse and grabbed it. We all laughed. She liked this response. She then opened it, poked around inside and found my passport. She opened to the photograph and paused for a second, considering (remembering?) and looked up at me. She then smiled, like the cheesiest smile you ever saw, like she knew full well what she was about to do, and pointing to my picture, she asked, "Ra-Ra?"

I laughed. Eerily. "No, that's not Ra-Ra," I said, "That's me, Christine." This was also before she could say my name (the cheery and shortcutted "Teen!" egads, the squeezing is just too much!). She closed it and moved on to my UPASS, which she pointed at and then pointed at me. "Yes, that's me." When it came to my Columbia I.D., she would just look at it with some intrigue and then move on.

Months of this same routine have cemented this in her mind. Now she says "wallet" and "dollar" and "money" and "all gone (when my coin pouch is empty)" and of course, "teen!" and much more. She still makes that devious grin every time she attempts to suggest that my picture could be Rachel's, and it is still just as cute and adorable as the second time, when I realized she liked the idea of being wrong and playing a game with me.

So imagine my surprise after one morning when nina and I met Deanna for coffee, Deanna, with her long hair down, Deanna, who she'd seen before, but not in a while, Deanna who repeated her fervent "chair!" with equal fervor; Deanna became part of the game.

That Columbia I.D.? The one that didn't look like the me she'd ever known? When we came home, nina went for my wallet, did the usual Ra-Ra fakeout, pulled everything out and then paused over my Columbia I.D., the picture of me with my long hair down, obscuring my face, and she said a word I hadn't heard pass her lips before. Dan-nah, she said. I looked at her quizzically. She repeated it, two or three more times, then pointed towards the door, towards outside, towards the bus and the Starbucks where we'd just come from and I was astonished. Firstly that this little being could communicate with me with such limited speech and a gesture, and that I knew what she was talking about. Then, that she was right again, I did sort of look like Deanna, with my long hair down.

And the thing is, I've known a lot of kids, seen a lot of kids grow up, learn, be who they were, but none of them come close (not even Rachel--not Ra-Ra, a different little girl from when I was a nanny--who I adored) to inspiring the sort of awe and amazement that I have for nina and how she's developed and learned. I mean, when she was twelve months old, I taught her how to blow bubbles from a wand by telling her that it was like doing the sign (from a Baby Sign Language Book) for the word hot. You purse your lips and blow. And she understood and was able to produce bubbles.

So when I say my ovaries are squozen, it's not just the timing (me being closer to 30 than ever before!), it's really the amazement of the uber smart wunderkid named nina. okay, thanks for reading.

what I should have written yesterday

[rant]

Just when I think I'm not going to see you, there you are, idly standing around, like a fucking mannequin, like a prim, perfect representation of woman, and I think I should talk to you, but your distanced stare, your slack smooth face, the plugs of the ipod in your ear prevent casual conversation, not that you were ever any good at it, at least not with me,

and I wonder, am I mad because you have the job that he wanted, the one that affords you the luxury of having an ipod, the one that requires little skill and less strength, the one you excel at because you're beautiful and distant, the kind of woman men want to please just to see you smile.

you were never good at smiling though, even though you have the teeth for it. I don't have the teeth for it and I smile all the damn time, you know why? because I feel more alive when I smile. you walk with death on your face, in your pale pale skin and your listless face, bored, pretentious, pretending to be bored when really I know you saw me, I know you see me, I know you prepared for this day, you got your cute shoes out even in the rain, you got your fancy umbrella from the art institute, the one your mother bought you probably, or maybe you went there one day after school and bought it for yourself. and you had your ipod on and set to blaring so I would be deterred from even considering what I would say to you.

I know you did it all for show because the first day I saw you, the first day you realized what it was (that we had somehow both managed to register for the same class on the same day at the same time that by some stroke of good luck--for both of us--wasn't in the same classroom, but right across from each other) you were anonymous, I barely noticed you, you were not a cold stone slab of marble chiseled to perfection, but just a girl, just another skinny, toothy, brown haired girl, a girl whose freckles were almost visible, a girl whose smile wasn't far away, a girl who looked just liked any other girl.

let's say you didn't see me yesterday, that your heart was just cold, that your face was just stone, that your listless hand made your listless fingers raise to your mouth and you listlessly smoked your cigarette, and you had no reaction, no emotion, you were just a mannequin....worse, a flat, two dimensional cardboard cutout.

you were never cut out for the job of loving him and you hated me for getting there first, for finding him, for holding him, and sometimes I think I want to rush up to you and scream, you can have him bitch, you can fucking have him for all I fucking care, you deal with the drinking and the smoking and his stupid friends and his bullshit, I would tell you right now, If you want him, have him.

Sometimes I think that the reason I hate you so much is you remind me of myself when I was your age, ten years ago, angry, bitchy, mean, pissed that I couldn't have what I wanted, mad that it seemed so easy for everyone else. but I know now it's not easy for anyone, they just overlook the hard parts to see the good things, but they call it acceptance and love, but it's really just the same as not paying attention to what hurts.

sometimes I wish you would just come out and say it, say what I felt emanating off of you so fiercely, just be honest with me, just tell me, but you won't, you can't, and the last time I talked to you I apologized for being a bitch to you and you could barely fathom it, you could barely focus, you could hardly listen, because where you come from, people lie, people hide, and no one smiles.

[/rant]

random encounters

On my way home from school I randomly stayed later (to have a delicious plate of garlic soba noodles with a friend) and took a different path and ran into a guy I know who works at Starbucks, goes to school downtown and lives a block away. We're so closely related geographically that it was no surprise to me when I noticed him leaning along the railing waiting for the train.

So we rode the train home together and talked, the kind of things that you want to ask and say in the space of two minutes as you pick up your drink, but you don't because he's too busy and you're too tired. It was kind of pleasant. He said it went by fast. I think we were both at the point where we just wanted to veg out and relax on the train. Sometimes that's the problem with being gracious and polite...you never just say hi and walk away. I really wanted to do today's Red Eye Soduku puzzle and he was listening to music, but we still sat next to each other and just chit-chatted.

I'm always amazed that in a city this big I still manage to bump into someone I know. Maybe that's the sign that I've been around here too long?

The only thing that kept me from really enjoying myself was thinking there was something in my teeth. When I got home, the first thing I did was look in the bathroom mirror and there was a little black speck of pepper in there. I hate that!

when dancers attack

Imagine a quiet Sunday evening at the bar near our place (the usually tolerable Four Moon Tavern); imagine being on a date with your boyfriend and having two dozen lithe, hot young dancer chicks stream into the bar, jump around, bend over, and other such nonsense. Oh, did I mention young? damn, I did. And it's not like I never talk about my hair or stores like Forever 21, but when I haven't seen someone in a long time, I don't go on a two minute monologue about how I cut my hair and how I'm now growing it out and how it'll be years before it's back to its lustrous lengthy self again and how dumb I was to even cut it in the first place, and blah blah blah.

This would have all been somewhat tolerable, even though several times women literally bent over from the waist right in front of our table, if they had just left us alone. Clearly we had nothing to do with their fundraiser for dancing, and we were just trying to eat some pub food and drink beer. But no, they were selling raffle tickets to the bar patrons, as part of the fundraising. I'd rather give five dollars to the homeless couple that didn't have enough money to pay for their food than to those uppity girls prancing around.

So I didn't really get mad, I mean really, until a hot, shapely asian chick walked by and I noticed Eric staring at her ass for what I deemed as way too long. And in typical man fashion, when I asked what he was looking at, he said, "The raffle tickets in her back pocket?!" Um, yeah, just like guys who read Playboy for the articles, honey.

So I had a good sense of humor about it in the moment, but man, I can't wait to take that yoga class this summer.

And no, I don't want a raffle ticket, thanks.

no entry and no time makes stine go something something...

So last night we went out to dinner at a luxe sushi place and I figured I'd be home in time to write an entry all about it, but then we didn't get home until like one a.m. or technically the next day. My apologies.

Little did I know, the sushi place that Marilyn chose for us to celebrate our traditional birthday dinner (hers is a week after mine) was the very same place that features "naked sushi" as one of their highlights.

This was in the news a lot about two months ago, and no, we did not partake of the naked part of the sushi place....it is an interesting concept that the owner claims he saw happen in Japan. A woman (or man) lies down on a table and is adorned with sushi on various parts of her body. [click here for image]

I'm torn on the whole concept. The sanitation manager part of me thinks it's really gross. The woman in me thinks it's disgusting and demeaning. The high art concept side of me says, that's kinda cool. There are just so many things I feel about it. But I guess the owner is making money off this, so if you have the cash, pony up.

As our eight o' clock reservation began to fill up with sushi and wine, we entertained thoughts about staying for what happens after hours at Kizoku, when it becomes the K Lounge. I think we were expecting the lights to go down (nearly turned out, as it was) and some music to start up (which we could feel through the floor and our seats), and it to be mostly, somewhat tame.

What ensued, as much as we could make out, was a jam packed night club setting, which was bizarre considering we had been in a demure, restaurant setting just hours before. To enter the K Lounge? $20 to get in with a $3 mandatory coat check. We were politely asked to leave several times, perhaps the big shot that got out of the stretch hummer limo wanted to have the best table in the house (Table 37, set in the corner of the restaurant, prime people watching spot, half moon booth style table).

We were ready to leave anyway, after nearly a dozen maki rolls, two orders of sashimi (which was so amazingly good, it was just scandalous), three bottles of wine, another round of drinks (a martini for me) while we watched the "atmosphere" get set up; which included a dj mixing table, disco lights, and a photographer who took portraits in the dark for ten bucks and printed on the scene.

very surreal.

it's been a while

The last time I had an obsession with a television show was two summers ago when I tried to convince my (then new) roommates that one of the best shows on television (which, of course, they had never deemed worthy enough to watch before) was Buffy the Vampire Slayer. I brought over a friend's entire collection, which we then copied onto the computer and burned onto DVD's.

And though it's arguable (to some) that Buffy is good tv fodder, the roomies liked it, at least the first two or three seasons.

I guess before I go on, I should at least say a couple things about my television viewing habits. I tend not to really watch television very much, being somewhat of a pretentious artist that lived without a tv for two years. With the advent of the dvd and collected series, I've become something of a gobbler of television programs. I want it all in one big heaping serving. I love when cable channels do marathons (even if I'd never expressed interest in the program previously); I watched all of America's Next Top Supermodel simply because one after the other kept coming and I couldn't stop. This is how I read books (all in one frenzied day) and it seems to be in keeping with my other types of consumption.

For the last year or so, the itch to watch Battlestar Galactica built itself up slowly. It started one lone night when Sci fi was airing an episode somewhere in the second season that, of course, didn't make any sense to us at the time. The storyline is highly myth-based and it's rare that there's an episode that stands alone as its own story. Then another episode emerged during a bored session with the remote control (which still didn't make any sense) and it was certain that we had to figure out that show and fast.

But then I started school and life just got kind of hectic and out of control...until I got an offer for Netflix. Eric used to have Netflix but cancelled it, so I took the opportunity to sign up, start a que, and of course, at the top of my list was Disk One Season One of Battlestar Galactica. When I informed the roommates, I knew Greg would be excited, but Jill informed me she had all of the BG series on her que. I simply shrugged and told her it was at the top of my list. (how's that for territoriality and alpha girl behavior?)

So it came, and we rapidly coursed through all of Season One, which was much shorter than Season Two (in the typical treatment of "shows" a smaller run was "ordered."). Season Two actually just ended, but the first half is available on Netflix and Disc One of Season Two is waiting in the computer, ready to go, waiting for Eric and I to be able to watch it together.

So why do I like the show so much? I guess to me it's kind of brilliant. Everything about it is just right, except for the fact that nothing makes much sense if you're arriving late, which I usually am. I love the dialogue, the writing, the plots, the characters, the scenes, the equipment, the war, the philosophy, the religion, the ideas, I love all of it. I even like the fact that for most of the time, the good guys are good but sometimes they aren't, sometimes they break the rules to do what they think is right and they're still pretty much fragged (or fucked as the writers of BG made up to conviently avoid the bleeping).

Mostly I think I like it because there is no current science fiction television series on the air that is as original as this series. Some of us nerds are very tired of watching the posh crew of the Star Trek TNG, or the grainy original series with Captain Kirk, or the other Star Trek spinoffs. I think the last sci-fi show I championed heartily was Sliders, though I admitted it was very weak in many areas is out on Netflix, and it suffers not from myth-based chronology, but from other things...still Sliders was a very good show in my opinion.

the thoughts in my mind are like fish in water

Today I was asked about whatever happened to the Clark street stories that I was working on. I still have all of it rattling about in my mind, but I've only recently begun working on it again, nearly a year after my initial burst of enthusiasm. I guess the hard part for me is the class load I've taken on this school year (five classes a semester) makes it seem difficult to sit down at the end of the day (or beginning) and write. I know that's the only way it's going to get done, but I also have a million excuses not to do any writing.

The bad thing about getting a degree in fiction writing and taking classes where you have to turn in at least five pages a week of something, is that you begin to equate something you love to do with something you may not want to do: homework. That sounds very immature of me to say, but I really think there is some truth to that.

Also, there's this ever present sense of despair, like why bother with fiction, the oversaturated market, the crappy "chick-lit" and other genres that I'm not interested in writing just to make money, and even if I did there's no guarantee that I would, and it just seems kind of pointless. Again, immature thinking, but pervasive thinking nonetheless.

I suppose it doesn't really matter anyway. I still have to have something to toss into the pool, and right now I have the equivilant of an unsightly toy boat made out of paper.

Maybe I should have stayed on another year to get the double major in creative non-fiction....at least then I would have both feet firmly planted on either side of the writing camps.

I guess the answer to that is there's always grad school.

explaining the unexplainable.

The most interesting thing that happened to me today (as I was in a state of frightful zombie-ness for the better part of the day) was the question posed to me by a thoughtful friend.

What am I supposed to see in this? she asked, indicating Salvador Dali's "The Hallucinogenic Troubadour."

What does it mean? she questioned.

Is there some kind of interpretation? she wondered.

I have a poster print hanging in my front room given to me on another birthday by someone who was once my very closest friend. This friend and I once went to Florida together and she made it a point that I visit the Dali Museum, which resides in the ho-hum city of St. Petersburg, Florida. I remember when I saw the "The Hallucinogenic Troubadour;" we had turned a corner from a relatively small room and into a larger space where it seemed one wall was covered with the bigness of this one painting, and it seemed nearly fifteen feet tall and it was a spectacle, really, a marvel. I was so awed by its size, by how it could be so big and yet still be so carefully detailed.

And it is interesting to explain to someone else what something is supposed to mean. I don't know what it means. I suppose I could do some research, Dali was pretty vocal and talkative, but who knows if he explained his work. It's not like something with a fixed association, like a the word for hand pretty much represents hand. Art is so abstract, especially on the level of meaning.

I think the reason I like this piece of Dali's more than some of his other work, is that to me it represents the mind's eye and how we are always making patterns and seeing things the way we want to see them and if someone tells us, look see the man in the painting, he becomes all we can see.

But what I told her was probably less coherent. Something about chaos and how the world is always at a point where it's past and future are colliding.

gargantuan meal

So for my birthday Eric and I went to Fogo de Chou, which was actually part of my gift to him. We figured out that lunch is half the price when we went the first time for a very expensive dinner, so we always said we wanted to go there for lunch. The filet mignon wrapped in bacon is still my favorite, mostly because it is just so good, salty, juicy, soft, just absolutely delicious. I also enjoyed the garlic beef tips which were exceptional. To all the vegetarians out there, I'm sorry. I don't usual relish my meat experiences so much in words.

At the end I ordered a key lime cheesecake and we drank espresso and coffee and sat by this big wall fountain that had a tranquil sound and it was all very lovely.

Afterwards, we went to the MCA (Musuem of Contemporary Art) to see the Andy Warhol exhibit. It was really interesting to see some of his lesser seen pieces alongside his better known works like the Turqoise Marilyn Monroe or the images of Jackie Kennedy at JFK's funeral. One thing that was really cool is the curator tried to show some insight into his process, showed some of the images he chose and then what he did with them. Also all throughout on the walls were quotes from Andy Warhol, all very playful and ironic and full of double speak.

All in all, it was a nice day and even if it wasn't my birthday it would have been great just to get to spend time with Eric.

cheers...

stine

if Neil Gaiman can do it...

Neil Gaiman has his own blog (http://www.neilgaiman.com/journal/) and somehow manages to write in it nearly everyday. It's not that I totally admire Gaiman, or want to be just like him, I just find it interesting that a working writer spends at least a little time blogging every day, even if it's just answering some fanboy's question or posting a oddball link.

So in another effort to be true to my blogging instincts (hey, I've been online journalling since way before it became fashionable and called a blog...) I'm going to try to get online and blog everyday.

Now that I have the laptop, I'm not limited by when I can sit at a computer, so that issue is moot. Mostly it's just the idea of finding something to say every day that won't bore the random passer-by. But even that's not really a problem, because boredom is such an objective affliction.

I think I miss the writing I used to do over at bugsinamber.diaryland.com. There was something about it, even though it was completely personal and full of meaning only for me, it was very satisfying and lovely and feels more honest than what I do here. But I sit and wait for that to come and it does not, so maybe that part of me is gone now.

On the eve of my birthday, the last year of my twenties, I have to say, I finally feel like I'm the closest to being the woman I've always wanted to be, and my mind has become very calm as a result.

Most of the way my life is is the way I want it to be. This next year, it will be nearly all the way I want it to be.

cheers,

stine

as I wait for bathroom availability...

I've decided to post about the recent trend happening in my life. Tapas! I have been to two of our most well known Spanish style tapas places in Chicago recently (first Emilio's Tapas on Ohio st, then Cafe Iberico on La Salle) and I am about to visit the third (Cafe Ba-ba-Reeba on Halsted).

Normally I promote these sort of mini obsessions with food, but I've been taken out to tapas by others and had some really great food.

Reasons why tapas are the world's most perfect food:

variety--from hot to cold, seafood to meat, soup and more...

if you don't like something, chances are, someone else will and you don't have to finish.

fork feeding another grown up never seemed so natural.

small portions.

the unexpected: dates wrapped in bacon drizzled with roasted red pepper sauce.

because things are supposed to be quick and fast, no overcooking.

sangria goes really well with tapas...

it's uber communal. promotes sharing. feels democratic.

I've been looking forward to Cafe Ba-ba-Reeba, since that is the first place I had tapas some twelve years ago, when I went out with my first boyfriend and his parents. All I remember about that night is us slinking twenty squares of sidewalk behind them, whispering and talking about the future.

how to spend 13 credits and $7,000 dollars unwisely.

Even though I am graduating this semester, I still have thirteen credit hours to complete, which I am opting to do this summer and get it over with.

The thing is, I have completed all my gen ed's, even a year of english composition classes (why? why should I be forced to write essays in the English Department?) and now I face the difficult task of filling 13 credit hours with useless classes that I don't want to take.

I thought it might be quite dull if I listed what the college says about the courses.

My top runners thus far:

33-1271; Yoga: Beginning Course introduces the ancient discipline of personal development that balances body, mind, and spirit. Students learn a series of physical postures as well as practical methods for relaxation, proper breathing, meditation, and concentration that promote health, alleviate stress, improve skeletal alignment, and increase muscular strength and flexibility. Course also provides an introduction to the history and philosophy of yoga, which students explore through readings and written assignments. Dance Department. 3 credit hours.

51-1310; French I Course for beginners introduces basic grammar and vocabulary to develop proficiency in understanding, reading, speaking, and writing French. Cultural appreciation is enriched through Chicago-area resources. Liberal Education Department. 4 credit hours.

55-4216 Critical Reading and Writing: Short Story Writers Course encourages development of lively, well-crafted short fiction by examining reading and writing processes that guide some of the best examples of the form. Students select from a wide range of writers, representing many different voices, backgrounds, subjects, and approaches, to research ways in which writers read, respond to their reading, and use that reading to generate and heighten their short stories. Students write their responses to reading short stories and discuss the relationship of reading to the development of their own fiction. Fiction Writing Department. 4 credit hours.

51-2213; The Simpsons as Satirical Authors This course will study the postmodern satirical presentations and commentary which The Simpsons has made (and continues to make) through its utilization of the humanities. We will examine how The Simpsons raises and comments on issues of civic, cultural, gender, global and political identities using traditional humanities studies including artistic, film, literary, philosophical and religious critiques. Special emphasis will focus on self-referentiality and how The Simpsons satirizes both itself and its characters as an operative principle and strategy. Liberal Education Department. 3 credit hours.

And, to insure that I get the classes of my choosing, I have to wake up tomorrow before 6 a.m. and wrangle all the classes into my schedule via the online registration process. And who says being a college student is easy?

It should be no surprise to anyone that Columbia manages to make even the most ridiculous concepts of a class sound plausible. I'm not a huge die-hard Simpsons junkie, though I enjoy the show a lot, but I've heard that this class is really great, mostly because you watch clips of The Simpsons the whole time. Oh, what DVD's have managed to provide the educational system. It's really priceless.

My other option that was a lot more interesting and exciting (read: not dull, or maybe it is depending on who you are) was to go to Prague for five weeks with the Fiction Writing Department. Alas, this will only give me eight of the necessary thirteen credit hours and will force me to take two three hour classes in the Fall and perhaps delay my graduation date as a result.

I will just have to pencil Prague into my next bout of travel plans. I am really desperate to be done with school. Especially now, being nearly at the end.

hope I kept your rapt attention,

stine

wellsprings of hate

I don't know if this has me all in a whirl because I'm a writer or just plain old. The other day in English Comp II, I presented along with two other girls the topic Poetry Past The Year 1980. It was actually an interesting idea, to talk about how poetry has evolved, where it has gone and what it looks like now.

I had the oldest era, of course. I talked about Charles Bukowski and how his autobiographical/confessional style really opened up poetry to everyone, breaking it from the realm of stuffy, boring work confined to certain symbols and forms. I found this awesome reading he did of a poem called The Last Days of the Suicide Kid. I also read a poem by Gary Soto, a chicano author from California who wrote about everyday life as part of the working class.

The next girl talked about how in the nineties, poetry began to merge into song lyrics more strongly than ever before, and she played two songs to prove her point. I was delighted that one of her picks happened to be a Bright Eyes song I'd never heard before.

Then, the last girl talked about Slam poetry/Spoken Word Poetry and how it broke a lot of conventions and expressed the poet's anger and criticisms of the world around us. Before we presented she expressed her concerns about saying one of the lines, something like: let's fuck some shit up.

Okay, I'll admit, it's a little rough. It was the only time the poet choose to use swear words and he choose two! And she is some skinny nervous fresh out of high school white girl who's probably from the suburbs and swears only when it's safe and that's cool with me. People are who they are and they're not what they're not.

But then...She omitted the line. Just plain skipped right over it. She fucking edited this man's poem and decided she just didn't feel comfortable saying a swear word or two in front of her class. Now, if she had told me that she wasn't going to say it, I would have read the damn poem! But she didn't mention that she might not say it. Fuck! What right does she have to omit his words? The whole poem (which was about causing revolution) hinged on that line.

fucking kids these days.