Semi Bibliophobia

Thursday afternoons are slow at work. We go to press on Thursday, so things for reporters are nuts on Wednesday, trying to get the last stories in, but on Thursday the editors are the ones who are swamped with layouts and edits.

This leaves me with mellow time to think about stories I'm starting on, stories I've read in the news, and general nonsense. Recently I've been thinking about my alleged next great American novel. (I used to say I would write the NGAN, but now I'm going to say it's an ANGAN because at this point it's still more hot air that concrete fact I can check.)

I haven't written in about a month. When I was at TCU, I worked on it regularly through my junior year. (I formulated the concept second semester sophomore year; it was actually something I'd kinda kicked around since junior year of high school.) Senior year it became sporadic, and in grad school I decided it needed a major overhauling.

Now I'm daunted because I feel like I'm starting from scratch again. There's so much work to do. Even if this never gets published and no one ever reads it, it's still something I have to finish at some point in my life just for personal satisfaction. It's like an odd, slow itch, way deep down in my organs, maybe wedged behind my pancreas or something. It comes and goes. I can't scratch it because it's too far deep in my gut. But when it starts twinging, it's all I think about, usually for a few days at a time.

It's not just that I'm intimidated by the sheer amount of work. It's that I'm intimidated by what it all means. What does it really require, to put myself out there by pouring so much of myself into writing something that might be absolute shit? It's almost as bad as thinking about what if it were good. I'm not sure I'd want my name affiliated with it in any way. For a long time I've thought that I might need a pseudonym. (This is jumping so far ahead of myself, I know, but I also have plans for what I'd like to wear if I were ever invited to the White House.)

I write almost every day. I'm a journalist, a writer by trade, and I love my work and I love my words. Sometimes I put out stories that are lackluster or crap, and I accept that. But it's not something that's purely out of my head. And once a story is out, it's gone, there's a new one. Such is the nature of newspapers and short attention spans.

But to actually write something that would be bound is much more concrete. My failure (or triumph) could lurk on my bookshelf for decades or get passed down for generations. (You grandmother Liz wrote this. She never got it printed because she was too afraid of rejection, and we couldn't get it published because it's not that great.)

I'm really, really afraid of the whole undertaking. It's in part because I'm afraid what others will think of what's going on in my head. It's taken me years to even admit that much. It's part of the reason why I'm so neurotic about it: I won't discuss the topic or plot or characters or ANYTHING with anyone, even those who will be kind but honest. I think I'd rather only people I didn't know or who I'd never met in person read any of it.

And yet I'm perfectly okay with posting about my obsessive worries on the Internet, where anyone can find it. Go figure.

In Between

So I was driving back from seeing Dan tonight and I passed this school bus cruising down the highway, some of the windows cracked in the chill air. It made me think back to bus rides I've taken--and there have been a lot. My first time on a school bus in 5th grade, not quite understanding how the whole thing worked, since I'd always walked to school. Getting caught eating Cheetos on the bus and getting written up and needing a parents signature. I was terrified my parents would be pissed off or my great-aunt, who was in charge of the buses for the district, would find out. My parents thought it was funny.

Sixth and seventh grade, gossiping with my best friend and always sitting together and mocking the other girls who we didn't think were as enlightened and cool as us. Ninth grade, getting up ridiculously early and standing in the dark for my bus, which came by around 6:20 every morning. School band trips, sometimes in school buses, hunkered down in ugly, itchy polyester uniforms with a friend, just wanting to get back home. Eleventh grade, riding the short bus because that was the only one that came through our neighborhood and I didn't have a license yet. I hated those rides. I had no compassion at the time. The bus was half special needs kids, half regular students, and always smelled like spit. In the wrong seat, you did indeed get spat upon. I'm not sure I ever rode the bus at my last high school.

A lot of bus rides were early in the morning or late at night, in that twilight time when the light isn't sure what it's doing. I still love that time of day. You get two opportunities every day to see that instance of transition, and although I hate being up early, I love being up early and outside. (I fall asleep again if I'm inside.) It's easier to see at night, out at the barn or driving around.

In Fort Worth (also in Boston, near downtown), those times reflect off the buildings and cast a sort of rosy glow off highly-polished windows.

Talking about all this makes me want to get up early in the morning. The reality of it is I won't, though, because if I get up early I'm not going to have a chance for a nap. I love my sleep. A lot. And there's always tomorrow night.

Delicious

Dan and I took a trip down to Austin for an overnight stay downtown, food, bikes and seeing Molly and Scott. Now that I'm back at work on Monday, I keep thinking back to Saturday. It's that time of year where you wish weekends lasted five days and you only had to work two.

I had been smitten with the idea of going to New York City for a kind of spring break; I'd never been to the city, and Dan has an uncle who could have housed us. After a few weeks of imagining strolls through Central Park with spring leaves and buds overhead, I nixxed the idea due to financial concerns. (Sure, air tickets were cheap, but my credit card is still the bane of my existence and then I found out I owe major money for taxes. Gross.)

Instead, I figured taking a trip down to Austin and making it a swank affair would be better for the wallet. The last time I was in Austin was almost three years ago, when Dan was serving an internship at the Lance Armstrong Foundation and I went down almost every weekend. For this trip, I convinced Dan that we should get a nice hotel room in the Embassey Suites downtown, right off Barton Springs, which is a street that has tons of great restaurants and cool shops. We booked a hotel room (no need for a suite, we figured; it's just the two of us for one night, and we'll save $50), Dan registered for the circuit race and I made sure Molly was available for lunch.

The drive to Austin was quick and uneventful, and the hotel check-in was the same; the person working didn't even charge us for parking. We lugged our backpacks and the bike upstairs to our floor, and then found that our hotel room was miniscule. Tiny. A glorified broom closet. It was all very nice, but it was small. The bathroom took up about half the room. I was incredibly ticked off about it, and while it wasn't going to make or break the trip, it did annoy me. I guess when you try to splurge, you have to go all the way and just book the whole decadent suite, even though you'll probably only use one room.

There was a free happy hour Friday night, and I decided to at least get our money's worth in alcohol. We arrived in time to catch the last 15 minutes of it, and I downed two drinks quickly enough to become rather giggly. Dinner was Romeo's, a great Italian food place that's very tasty (although their rolls are kinda weird) and still relatively affordable (about $15 a dish), and then dessert was ice cream from McDonald's. After driving out to the bike course to take a look around, we headed back to the hotel. We were to bed pretty early in preparation for the next day.

The bike race was a circuit race, meaning classes of riders started off and had to do laps around the course over a certain amount of time. There were tons of colorful bikes and jerseys, kids and families coming to cheer on brothers and fathers and mothers, and thankfully it didn't rain. Dan didn't get wiped out by the massive crash in his class, and was happy with his finish.

There's a hill in Austin called Jester, and it's this half mile (I think) road that has a ridiculous incline. It's out in the hill country to the West of town, and Dan had always wanted to try it, so we drove there after the race and Dan got up it. Twice! In a row! I was very proud. It looked ridiculously hard. He was creeping up, and he's a really good climber. I would have crapped out after about 10 feet and three pedal pushes.

Molly and Scott let us come to their house so Dan could shower and stow his bike during lunch. I got to meet Tillie, who has some of the biggest eyes ever and these long eyelashes. She seems to consider everything. I haven't seen a baby like that before. She was also pretty cheerful, and although she got a bit fussy, she never started squalling or anything. (Chalk part of this up to good parenting and knowing how not to aggravate a tried child. I love that Molly knew when to walk away and let Tillie settle herself down quickly.)

The four adults and Tillie in her stroller took a walk down to a nearby Mexican food restaurant. The weather was pleasant, and Tillie quickly fell asleep in the stroller, and it was nice to see all the houses and gardens. Spring treats Texas well. The food was delectable--I can't stop thinking about the cerviche, this concoction of diced tomatoes and onions and cilantro, salt, lime juice and fresh tilapia. I can't believe I've been missing out on this all my life. Also, I can't stop thinking of it. I've decided I'm going to have to try making my own later this week.

It was so good to see Molly again. She makes me feel good about myself. She's level headed (babies are supposed to play in the grass and explore twigs and dirt) and friendly and smart and also is a real connection to grad school in Boston. I suffer from this thing where I feel like entire sections of my life are just an elaborate dream, and they never really happened. I blame it on the fact we moved around so often. Whenever we moved, it was like that whole previous period wasn't real. Seeing Molly and Scott made me feel more grounded, an affirmation that Boston did happen, I did buy a lot of pizza and see a lot of movies and ride the T to school. Seeing people from previous times is so much better than just an e-mail or phone call.

Dan and I told Molly and Scott that Austin is the only other place in Texas we'd be willing to move. The people, hills, trees, restaurants, architecture, and everything else makes me contemplate very seriously how to get down there. I want to go back for seconds, and I'm glad that we'll be visiting again in early June.

Expectations

Okay, so I know it's been like 9 months since the last time I posted. Babies are conceived and birthed in that time. I don't have anything near that cool; I just got ticked off listening to an ESPN interview and wanted to raise some questions about it.

I was driving back to work from picking up a sandwich for lunch when I tuned in to 103.3 ESPN. The Michael Irvin show was on; he and his co-host, Kevin Kiley, are sometimes amusing so I half-listened for a few minutes before I heard Kiley talk about some "quadriplegic" athlete that was going to be on.

Then Kiley proceeds to explain that this "quadriplegic" is a high school wrestler named Dustin Carter. I saw something on ESPN (on TV) about Carter a few years ago, and the New York Times recently ran an article about him. He's a high school senior in Ohio right now and has a 41-2 record in the lightweight division. He's only 103 lbs., and he also had a bacterial infection (meningitis, then gangrene) as a kid and his legs had to be amputated above the knee. One arm had to be amputated above the elbow; the other, just below.

So I start grumbling at the radio station because this kid is NOT a quadriplegic. Quadriplegia refers to paralyzation in four limbs or of the body from the neck down, and it can be full paralyzation or partial. This kid is a quadruple amputee, but finally they introduce Carter correctly, saying he's a quadruple amputee and drop the quadriplegia thing.

It's good that they finally said the right phrase because I was trying to find a phone number to call in and correct them. I am that anal retentive.

Carter is participating in the show from his home in Ohio; he was on the phone doing the interview. He's introduced as an inspiration, and Kline's first question is something along the lines of, "Dustin, tell us what makes you so special."

Carter replies to the effect of, "Well, I work really hard, I put a lot of effort into everything, and even if the season just ended I'm always training. I put in more effort than a lot of guys."

Points to Carter.

Kline then proceeds to tell Carter that yeah, this is true, and it's the most important thing, but tell us about the bacterial infection you had as a kid. Kline and Irvin prod Carter for another 10 minutes or so about his illness, how he plays sports, how he brushes his teeth, how he gets around, and so on and so forth, and Carter seems reluctant to get into specifics (it's ridiculous when they ask him how he's talking on the phone). The word "inspiration" is used every 30 seconds.

This interview made me angry. I'm a journalist, and I'm a nerd, so yeah, I wanted to know the details of this kid's life. But on the other hand, it made me squirm on behalf of Carter when these radio guys just keep hounding him about stuff he's clearly not wanting to focus on. He would give vague answers, and he didn't really get into the interview until he started talking about his "smoking hot" girlfriend, who goes to wrestling tournaments with him.

Taking a look at the situation makes it difficult to imagine what I would have done if I were the radio host. Let's face it: Carter was booked because he's wrestling with and unusual condition. If he were a normal high school wrestler, he wouldn't have been on the show. The hosts wanted to point out just how different he was and still taking down dozens of other kids. He's facing life differently than most people.

If he agrees to come on the show, surely he knows this. Did he expect them not to ask at all about his past illness? Should he expect them not to ask this? If a host asks, can they reasonably expect him to answer? This is not the first time Carter has been in the news. He played football for several years (the focus of the first ESPN TV spot I saw) and is now a top wrestler. When you're constantly called an inspiration and getting press, should you be up front about the whole reason you're in the news? Can you avoid it?

I have only been the journalist. I have never been the subject of a personal story or presentation. But it makes me wonder--what are our expectations?

One thing you can expect: that I will update this more frequently. I let it fall by the wayside, but spring is coming and it's a time for new things. Or, at least, time for a revisiting.

Career Crisis

So a friend said I was going through a college-withdrawal, but I think it may be something more serious.

Last night I was with my sister, enjoying a lazy Monday night. The past two weeks at work have been busy and kind of stressful--I broke a story that was pretty big, and it got some people riled up. My sleep was restless because it was hard to get my brain to calm down, but it was definitely nice to be consistently busy. I'd rather be making 20 phone calls a day than sitting and looking for things to do to waste time on the Internet.

Julie and I were talking about jobs, and I told her about this doctorate discussion class I sat in on at UNT's Health Science Center. The class, social epidemiology, was great fun--me and four students and the professor, discussing the tangle mess of race, socioeconomics, epidemiology. When I left, I told her how I'd much rather sit in a class like that then be bored at work, and so I was telling Julie how it'd be great to get a master's in public health.

And it really would be a great degree. There's so much to learn, and it's where science gets complicated with other subjects--do you get different treatment because you're black or because you're poor? Can we ever figure it out? How do we change it? It's an area of science that's very cool to me. I started considering applications, the financial costs of going to school (again . . . it would only happen if they paid my way), where to do this. I looked at Fulbrights, wondering if that would be worthwhile. (I decided I couldn't leave the country for 9-12 months and leave Topper again, and I don't think they'd pay to cover his international travels.)

"You've got a really sour look on your face," my sister said.

And it's true. I did. I was thinking about what I'm doing now and where I want to be. I like my job now because A) it's a steady paycheck B) I can write about science and health C) I get to learn lots of little things and C) they value my talents and knowledge. But it's not keeping me busy. I spend a lot of time reading celebrity news and other nonsense and reading every news site I can find. I'm not challenged, either. I might write a story about the costs of cancer treatment to patients, which is something I care a lot about and want others to know about, but it's not a hard story to write. Even the big stories I chased down over these past two weeks are more "shoe leather" than talent.

That's where the problem is. I want a job where I'm challenged, even if I don't love it, and I want a job where I can be a bit more consistently busy. Journalism is a hurry up and wait business--there will rarely be times where you're constantly busy, just because you're waiting on callbacks or whatever else. But the challenging thing has me worried. I'm not challenged here. Am I going to be any more challenged in a reporting job at any other publication? Each story can have its own quirks to figure out--the right way to word something, structure, keeping to word count--but it's all routine trouble-shooting.

I have this horrible idea that maybe journalism may not be a challenging field for me.

Remember, I love journalism. I love words, I love writing, I love deadlines and bylines and relaying information. But is it harder to write stories at the New York Times than the local business newspaper if you're in science journalism? Instead of getting easier with age and experience, does it get harder, more challenging?

I talked to Dan briefly about it. He said now that he's at a bigger paper, it's easier to report and write stories--he attributes it to the staffing differences. He said he's not really challenged. He enjoys it, sure, but challenging? Maybe not.

I've had it hinted to me that perhaps I could become an editor here at some point. Maybe editing is more challenging. I certainly enjoyed it at the Skiff, but that was small-time. I don't know if that was an accurate representation of real journalism. But if that does happen, at least it will give me one more piece of information--either editing is something challenging, or not.

For now, I think my only decision has been to get off my ass when I'm doing nothing at work and redouble efforts on the novel. At least it's challenging.

And perhaps I'll look at some more degrees to add to my resume.

The Desk

I have a desk. It's kind of a half-cubicle; there's a divider between me and Betty, the woman who sits next to me, and there's a divider right in front of me, where I had to thumb-tack the HR guy's business card so I'd have the phone number and address of the new place, as well as the name. In the first few phone calls I made I kept telling people I was at the Fort Worth Business Journal (it's the Business Press, and sooner or later I'll remember that). To my right is a window, a big, nice one that looks over a vacant lot, a little bit of busy Hulen, the tower of Central market and a parking lot and building of the next block up.

This is my new home from 9-5, working like a real person. It's strange because parts of it are so familiar . . . the phone calls, the interviews, the research, the phone ringing as people call you back. The only thing is I've never been mandated to st in one place to take care of the daily workings of being a reporter. At TCU I did my reporting when I wanted, since I had other things going on (like school), and at BU I did most things from my apartment, sitting cross-legged on my bed. My internship at the Fort Worth Weekly wasn't filled with a lot of day-to-day stuff, and at the Globe there wasn't too much reporting, since stories were rare. Until a few weeks ago, all my Star-Telegram stuff was on my own schedule. Someone wasn't calling me back? I'd leave and go ride Topper.

Now I have to wait at my desk until they call back. It can be dull. I read a lot of news, and every day I'm thinking of new websites to fill my down time. The closest thing I can think of is my internship at Nature in London, where I had to be there, regardless of whether there was true work, for at least 5 hours a day. (It was supposed to be 8, but Charles Wenz, my supervisor, was very good at encouraging me to take off and go enjoy the weather once it was spring.)

But there are upsides. For example: business cards. And a phone at my desk, so people will no longer call me on my cell phone and interrupt a ride to talk about whatever story I'm working on. Thinking about dorky stuff all day is also very gratifying, even if it does involve hospital PR people who want to watch as you interview a doctor.

I met a PR woman who came from many, many years of broadcast journalism. I hope I never become a PR person.

Now I'm gonna go be a I-just-got-off-work-and-am-gonna-watch-crap-tv person and see some America's Next Top Model.

Don't judge. You know you watch too.

Work It

I have one more day of freedom before I start my new job at the Fort Worth Business Press. I feel a little queasy--nerves--thinking about it, but I think I'm excited. I'm definitely ready for a steady, solid paycheck, health benefits, a 401 (k), business cards and a chance to get out of the apartment.

But whenever I think about working 9 to 5 in an office instead of doing reporting from my couch on my computer, it makes me a little sad. No more early-afternoon trips to the barn to ride before evening thunderstorms, and no more sleeping late and working into the evening and having Erik as my editor.

I had applied to the Business Press about a month ago, if not longer, in a frustrated fit of fury at the Star-Telegram. They got back to me a week and a half ago, apologizing for the delay, but they offered me a position as a the medical/tech/science reporter and a salary. It took me a while to warm up to the situation. I admit, I had a lot of reservations about it all. I felt like a sell-out. My ego was taking a blow, going from a large metro daily to a small weekly. I'd just gotten settled with my job at the Star-T, and now everything was changing. I wasn't sure I'd like being in such a small office--I was afraid a small office would invite more drama than a large newsroom, where I can stay out of things.

But you never know how any job is going to be before you take it, and I would have been an idiot to turn it down. I can pay off my credit card now, and my bike, and make student loan payments when they kick in. I can pay rent and bills without stressing out at the end of every month about whether I'll have the money. If I want to buy a book, I can buy a book and not feel guilty for not buying groceries later.

Plus, I'll be writing about something I give a damn about. The Star-T was good in that it exposed me to all sorts of stories, good and bad, but they were yanking my chain when they said they wanted more science. They don't. Not really. Some people do, and probably most do in a hypothetical, but when it comes down to a science story or one about a guinea pig hoedown, they're going to go with the guinea pigs. (Yes, there really was an A-1 story about a guinea pig hoedown.)

I admit it was a rush and very empowering to quit a real job.

Being busy will be good with Dan leaving soon, too. It'll keep me occupied and making money to prepare for future adventures, no matter what they are. That will be good. Work won't interrupt my personal life, either. Right now, sources call me on my cell phone (my only phone number) at all hours, interrupting dinner dates and rides on Topper.

And no job is forever. I may love it, or I may hate it, but now I'm excited. Every job is just to get you to the next better one.

Fuck The Man

I think I may be financially even right now. After months of running up my credit card, wiping out my savings, scrimping and worrying and working my butt off and obsessing about whether I could afford to buy a glass of beer or a dinner out, I think I've finally broken even just in time for paying rent in April.

That is, until you consider taxes. I'm supposed to get back about $430 from the federal government and the state of Massachusetts, which is cool, but because I'm self-employed I think I have to pay taxes quarterly. And the quarter is up. My dad wants me to talk to my aunt about it, because she was a corporate accountant for a long time and knows her stuff, but I'm having a hard time getting everything pulled together and trying to find the time to go see her. She lives about an hour away, and I haven't seen her in maybe two years, so it's not going to be a short visit. But she hasn't said that there's any urgency, so I'm gonna take my time. Fuck the government and them taxing me. I should be able to keep all my money. It's not like I'm getting very much.

Spring has been good. I'm trying to get my bike out more, since there's more daylight (yay!), but work can be distracting, and I'm trying to ride Topper regularly and work out, too. I know Dan wishes I went out more. I wish I did too. But his first love is cycling, and my first love is Topper.

Just the other day I realized we're just a few weeks shy of Easter, and April is next week. When the hell did that happen? Has it already been that long since I left Boston? I got my diploma in the mail Friday, which was exciting, but then it also made me think about how student loans will be kicking in soon (as well as payments on the bike). Even with breaking even-ish, I can work myself into a stressball thinking about how quickly time has gone.

Dan is going to Cleveland at the end of May for a reporting internship after graduation. He's going to be there for at least 3 months, I think, and I know he's hoping for a full-time job out of it. He went up for a few days over spring break, and evidently everyone who's a reporter there now was an intern at some point. It's a larger paper, and they have a lot of moving around with people in and out and changing beats, to keep the paper from getting stagnant.

What excites me about Cleveland is they actually seem to pay attention to science and health stories--they had a story about moon dust on the front page. (Evidently it's like glass dust and got through the ventilation systems of astronauts' suits, causing moon hay fever.) And there's rumour that they're planning on expanding their coverage. So if Dan gets a full-time job, I'd consider moving up there if I can also find something. Plus, it's a huge city for health stuff (ie, The Cleveland Clinic and its heart patients), so hopefully I could find something.

Just when I got out of the cold, I'm considering going back and living on the edge of a great lake. I must be nuts. Topper's gonna need another heavy blanket, I think.

Spring

The Stock Show is over, I've been given a beat to cover (social services with some science . . . holla) and Dan is going to Cleveland this summer, so I'll also be taking over the night cop reporting shifts.

And spring is in Texas. The sky is big and beautiful, the weather is still a little unpredictable, but spring is a good thing. It's my favorite season in Texas. It's (usually) not too hot, not too cold. It's blustery and green. It's good for driving around and listening to music and staying out late at night with a beer or margarita on a patio. Topper loves the breeze and warmth and his winter coat is starting to shed out, revealing his slick red again.

Noel died on Monday. He was a good fish. I had him for 3.5 years, which I guess is pretty good for a beta. He lived on my desk in my dorm my junior year, and then on my desk in the newsroom my senior year. While I was at school he was with Dan, living on top of the TV-tank that all Dan's fish are in. I don't feel too bad about his death . . . he was well-traveled, and had lived in Virginia and Texas and in many different locations. I don't know how many fish have traveled in airplanes in the cabin, but he did so a couple of times.

I had promised him a few years ago that if he died I'd put him in the Trinity river, so that's what we did Monday. I dropped him off a bridge over by the country club at night, and he made a tiny splash as he hit the water.

Like I said, he was a good fish.

Spillman and I have been going out on Thursday nights to the Ginger Man, a new bar that opened up halfway between Dan's apartment and downtown. Thursday night is pint night, so when you buy a glass of the featured beer you get to keep the glass. I have a big Warsteiner beerstein, two tall and slender Heineken glasses, and now a St. Arnold's pint glass.

We got dinner and then went to get ice cream before heading back to Dan's to watch the Tour of California and drink some more beer. Spillman was going to drive to campus quickly, and I was going to head to Dan's, so we pulled out of the parking lot of the ice cream place and onto University.

Then, some guy rammed into my car and drove off. A hit and run, the bastard. I wasn't hurt, and I thought he would pull over because he put his blinker on, but then he sped off. Spillman called to make sure I was ok, and we gave up trying to find the guy, so I pulled over in front of the Modern and called my parents, the insurance company, and the cops. It was stupid.

The car isn't really bad--the left fron panel is jacked, and my door doesn't open much, but it's still driveable. It just ticks me off because the guy left. Accidents happen, that's fine; but not pulling over is a jackass move. This is the second time this has happened to my car, too. Last time some guy gashed up my left back panel and broke all my lights when it was parked, and didn't leave a note or anything.

Grr.

But I got a new fish today. His name is Jens Voight and he's a crown beta, I think. He's kinda spiky looking, and he's blue. It's hard to believe Noel was ever that small.

Tonight and tomorrow morning I have stories to cover. I hope it's not raining. We're supposed to have thunderstorms and hail late tonight/wee hours of the morning.

I'm ready for this week to be over.

You Mean I Can Have My Nights Back?

I thought that my night life was getting quashed last semester at school, working at the Globe, but little did I know that the Stock Show would do the same thing. In addition to being out there for seven days and working on other news stories from Lee, I offered to do all the agate for Erik, who's serving as the Stock Show editor. I figured hey, it's extra money, it pays per hour, I can do it at home on my sofa watching Six Feet Under reruns, why not?

And then I remembered why I got annoyed at the Globe. I've been spending about three hours a day just typing for the past three weeks. It's painful. I don't know how transcriptionists do it, or other people who just type type type what's already been done or written. But I got to see results of Longhorns from Tokyo and horses from Belgium and sheep from Louisiana.

Today was the last day of the Stock Show. Dan had off yesterday, as did I (the only day where usually neither of us are working), so we drove to Dallas to see Body World. I adored it. Then I went and typed agate for 3 hours. But then Dan and I spent the evening at his parents' and at Erik's place, griping about newspapers and hearing his and Lori's ghost stories. It put me in a good mood to go to work today, out in all the animal crap for one last time.

The weather turned nice again, just in time for the last day. The poor vendors and whatnot--attendance was so low this year because of the two bad winter storms we had, and while I enjoyed being out there, I didn't enjoy trying to take notes with frozen fingers. It was sunny out and the English classes were taking place, so I spent my day wandering and talking to people with pretty jumpers and hack horses. Then I went home and typed the last of the agate--such a relief!

I was going to watch the Super Bowl, but I fell asleep.

Tomorrow, since I don't have agate and will hence have an extra three hours in my day, I'm going to ride Topper and maybe my bike too. On the way to blanket the horses tonight the moon was full and buttery-colored, and the weather is supposed to be mild for the rest of the week. But it's Texas, so I'm not holding my breath for any consistency.

Free-Lancing Worries

All the trees look like chandeliers. Friday afternoon the temperature abruptly dropped about 30 degrees in an hour, and the humid drizzle turned into heavy rain, which has been turning into ice since that night. Yesterday also rained off and on; same thing today. The bridges are covered in grit and the TV news people are getting drivers freaked out about the roads. I got to bust out my big heavy wool coat, which hasn't been out of the back seat of my car since I left Boston.

Tonight I'm finally going to move out of Dan's apartment. Between waiting for the stuff in my bedroom to get moved out and then trying not to catch Julie's cold, it's been about a week and a half back in Fort Worth and still not in the apartment with my sister. I bought a bed for it, though--it's from Little Mexico, and it was a a big old adventure to go get it. Dan and I got it at T Mart, which also sells hooker clothes, used furniture, bootless CDs and DVDs, Fiddle Faddle, car stereo systems and a scraggly parrot. Dan bought a hand-painted replica of Van Gogh's "Starry Night," done by Todd, whoever that is. It's pretty freaking awesome. It's done in oils and framed nicely and everything. It only cost $50 too. And this gem from a place that advertises free beepers.

It's been great being back. I've got stories I'm working on, and I'm doing a lot of work covering the Stock Show. Friday was the first day, and Dan and I both worked. It was fun to be there, and the editor this year is Eric from the Star-Telegram. He's young, and we've hung out with him before (Dan's been working with him for a while), and he's also a good editor--easy to get along with, open to suggestions, and pushing alternative things. Friday I did a charticle, some blogging and got the audio for a slide show. A photographer and I spent most of the morning in the Longhorn barn, where heifers were being gathered for a sale.

I totally got roped into this Longhorn thing. The people are a hoot, and the animals are pretty fun. I kinda like cattle. And I definitely dig on the food, even though all I've had is a funnel cake. I've got plenty more days out there. It pays well, and I enjoy it, and I've got enough work on days that I'm not there to work on other stories.

Part of me is still wondering if I was nuts to turn down two full-time positions. I feel like I wasn't getting a lot done on a couple stories until I got the Stock Show, but I think things will be fine once I'm at my apartment and Dan's in school again (Tuesday). Once all my moving is finished and I'm done with all those distractions, work with the Star-T should be fine. And if not, then I'm back to looking for things . . . I found these jobs, so I'm sure I can find more. Right?

Sports, This Is Liz

Tonight I answered my last phone at the Globe sports desk and typed in my last sailing agate. Whew. There's one caller who calls up and whenever it's a woman he just promptly hangs up, and that guy called like 6 times today, which ticked me off. And then the giant stat printer for dummy pages broke, which means one of the designers gave me the dirtiest looks ever (even though it was not my fault! geez, people). And I didn't get any work done with my stories.

But I'm done and it was alright. I was afraid this one copy editor would get all emotional on me. He's always asking me questions and talking my ear off with everything, and he writes me e-mails a few times a week about random stuff, like Texas sports or cycling, and I was really dreading leaving because I thought he'd be all blah. (You know what I mean.) I hate saying good-bye to people, all that, Well, what are you doing now? Keep in touch! bullshit. I'd rather just act like it's a normal day and leave. The slot guy gave me an appropriate good-bye tonight . . . "Well, I don't have anything else for you to do tonight. So good luck, and have a nice life." He was nice, but it was just right.

I'm not looking foward to Tuesday night. I'm hoping maybe I can just duck out while no one's looking. Saying good-bye to people is stupid. (Can you tell I spent my entire childhood saying good-bye to people and I'm a little averse to it all now?)

So unless I'm saying good-bye to callers at the end of phone call, I don't want to do it. And here's hoping I can get away with not doing it.

First Page of My Novel (Rewritten)

So about a week and a half ago, two weeks ago I got in the mood to write again. I was feeling confident and inspired and wordy, and had decided what needed to be reworked on the next great American novel (as my project is called). And because I know only a few people read this blog, and because these people are probably reading it to procrastinate on something else, and because I believe in indulging procrastinators, may I present: The first page.

This is the slightly reworked version. I've done a lot of good reading since being up here. I think it's helped a lot. And I already test-ran this on Loren, because at one point he inspired me to start writing my acknowledgements when I'd gotten about 100 pages in and then stumped. Loren is the best for this sort of stuff. Plus, I had Dan reading my piece for Ellen, so I had to get my other guy working on something for me too. So . . . here it is. Let me know what you think sometime when we can talk quietly. I'm silly and superstitious and don't want a lot of people who don't know what's going on jumping in and talking to me. (I realize that's weird and I'm okay with that.)

Here we go:

I don’t remember exactly when I was told that no two snowflakes were alike. There were a lot of snowflakes in Massachusetts, and each year I eagerly awaited being able to take my sled out for the first time. Our long, winding driveway sloped down to the street, perfect for sledding, bad for steering. Careening into young trees was a regular occurrence.

All those perfect, original, individual snowflakes got packed together into lopsided snowmen and elaborate snow forts. Nick and I would barricade ourselves across the lawn from each other and hurl snowballs back and forth. When we got tired, we’d throw them at birds and squirrels. We nearly always missed, except for one time I nailed a fat squirrel in a tree. It fell off the bare branch, making a poof in the snow as it landed, and then got up, dazed, staggered for a moment and leapt off deep into the trees.

When I was about six or seven, my mother dug out a microscope (I believe it was hers, from when she was in middle school) and a piece of black cloth and we looked at the snowflakes under the lens, outside in the cold. Taking her gloves off, Mom focused the view for me and let me peer at the crystalline structures, intricate as the twists and ladders of the DNA on the poster in my room. It had come free in a magazine and was an advertisement of some sort. Mom explained that each snowflake was different, just like a person. I peered down the barrel of the microscope, simultaneously understanding and confused. There were just so many; how could there be that many different ones? But there in front of me, under the glass and on top of the velvet, were perfect snowflakes. They were all different.

****

The man had never been married. One could presume that it was because his mind was so singularly focused that he couldn’t put forth the effort to care about someone else. He could barely care for himself. He frequently forgot to eat, and postdocs would bring him back Thai or sandwiches and leave them on his desk, where he would notice them and eat them. If no one brought him food, he might go eight or nine hours without eating, despite the fact that he passed a vending machine on his way from his office and lab to the stairwell. The stairwell, narrow and concrete and with peeling (probably lead) paint, let him go up three floors to the roof, where he could smoke his cigarettes, which had a slightly sweet, mellow smell to them. The postdocs smoked harsh-smelling Camels and Marlboros.

He was well-liked by his coworkers, even if they didn’t really know him. The lab technicians found him fair; when Joseph’s daughter had asthma attacks at school, he could always leave and meet her and the school nurse at the emergency room. When Schuchi’s brother found cheap last-minute tickets from Atlanta to Logan, she brought him into work with her one afternoon. Her brother sat on a stool and cheerily told everyone about how he just couldn’t get used to traditional Southern cooking, much to his new fiance’s dismay.

The man didn’t appear to have any hobbies, even though it was rumored that he came from an extremely wealthy family and he could have taken up whichever expensive hobby would have been befitting to an intelligent, healthy middle-aged man. He never talked about going skiing in Vermont over the weekend or visiting the Cape. Occasionally he joined his staff at the Irish bar down the street from the lab—no matter where you were in the greater Boston area, there was an Irish bar down the street—but he would spend his time getting other people to talk than doing any talking himself. Everyone assumed he was just devoted to his work. After all, he had been a member of the Whitehead Institute and the National Academy of Sciences, and now he was devoted to a stack of books and papers that was taking over a table in his office. It wasn’t related to his work cloning stem cells derived from the livers of rats. But whenever someone asked him what the metastasizing pile was, he merely waved a hand and said, “Just some things I’m thinking about.” No one was able to get more information than that.

I Am A Rock Star

I have two more weeks to finish schoolwork, and I almost couldn't give a damn. Today I had an hour-long phone interview with the recruiting editor at the Star-Telegram, and he set up a second interview for the day I get back in Fort Worth (a Wednesday). Just to top it off, I have the Tyler interview on Thursday, the day after. And then I have a third interview on that Friday in Temple.

I rock the journalism world. Like a mo fo.

I feel smug. I feel confident. I feel giddy and excited and my stomach is filled with butterflies. I feel like I really, really need to get some sleep before this all happens, but I don't really foresee that happening. I will be up at work and frantically finishing schoolwork and partying until I leave the day after class ends. Then I land Wednesday morning, have an interview Wednesday night, and have interviews and interviews and driving and driving.

I can't wait!

What makes it even better is that I planned this all perfectly, somehow, and luck helped out afterward. Scheduling that week in Fort Worth was intended to give me time for interviews, but when I booked it I didn't have any interviews to fill the days. Now I do. I won't get to see as much of Dan and my friends as I'd like, but it'll be ok--a lot of them will be in the same position of doing last-minute job things.

I feel like celebrating Thanksgiving for real, now, in December. Let's get thankful. I know I am.

Inspired Confliction

The closer I get to the end of the schoolyear, the more excited I get, and the more worried I get as well. It's the job thing. There's not really anything else to get worried about. After everything is turned in for classes, I go home and do a last-minute job hunt. The editors from the Tyler Morning Telegraph asked that I drive there (the Rose Capital of Texas) on Thursday for an interview . . . "Drive over, we'll take you to lunch and we'll only keep you for four or five hours." That's got to be a good sign, right? I talked to the managing editor for a half hour on the phone, and he was quite enthusiastic that I wanted to do cops and then could move into health. The health writer has been there for like 50 years or something and is looking to retire soon.

I feel fairly confident that they will make me an offer. I feel fairly confident it's going to be hard to accept. If I can ever get in touch with one of the managing editors at the Star-T, I can see if there's any chance of getting a job there. Lee said he could get me started as a correspondent--freelance work, essentially--at about $600 for a 15-inch feature and $100-$200 for news stories. If I could assure I get a couple stories a week and figure something out with health benefits, that could be a real possibility.

The thing is that being in Tyler would be a pain. For a while now I've been resigned to the fact that I probably won't end up in Fort Worth, but the closer the prospect gets, the more I really don't want that to happen. I don't want to have to try and move the horses to a barn as good as the one they're at now. I don't want to try to find an entire apartment to rent, and to buy all the bullshit that comes with living on one's own. I don't want to see Dan and Julie every once in a while. Even if I have weekends off to go home, Dan will be working and so will Julie. If I have days off in the middle of the week, which may be more likely, then they'll have work AND school. If I go to Tyler, it would have to be for a year and a half or two years.

Julie shouldn't have to babysit Topper anymore. And Dan and I are sick of trying to be in the same place at the same time. He graduates in a few months, and then he'll have to get a job. The likelihood that we'll get jobs in the same city are really slim if the city is anything smaller than Fort Worth.

Obviously, I only have one choice. I have to get an agent and get my novel sold and get a nice fat advance.

I don't know how my parents will take it if I decide to stay in Fort Worth and turn down a steady job in Tyler. I don't know how Dan and Julie will take it if I turn down being able to help them out in order to go to Tyler. I know I'd rather be in Fort Worth. I know I can get by on less money there because I'll have less to pay for--sharing an apartment with Julie would be significantly cheaper than trying to furnish and live in an apartment of my own in another town.

I'm absolutely conflicted.

On the other hand, at least I'm inspired. One of Ellen's book agent friends came into class and was talking about the process of getting a book published. She was talking nonfiction, but the more she talked, the more absolutely confident I felt that I could do this. As soon as I get established somewhere I'm gonna start searching for an agent. Wouldn't that be a riot? I'd be a rock star. Even if I got a smallish advance, if it let me live in Fort Worth, work part-time and write, that's all I need.

Earlier this week I ran across some writing I'd done back before college, my senior year of high school. At home I have two massive binders with printed copies of tons of stuff I've written, and I can go back through everything regularly. Since my parents have moved, all of that is in a box in storage somewhere with the rest of my books. I haven't read anything that I'd written just for fun in a long time. It's an experience. Some of the stuff was downright silly, but there were surprising good bits that I could hardly believe had come out of my head.

The combination of the agent and my old stuff made me feel like writing again. I haven't really done anything on my draft since coming up here. I decided I need to relocate my story--it would make more sense to set it here in the Boston area, actually. The Dallas area would have worked, but this is better. And I've done a lot of reading of people I really admire, so now I want to change my writing style a bit. It would be hard to change it too much--my voice is apparent from ten miles away with almost everything I've done--but I'm looking forward to it all. I'm quite serious in that I will get this out.

Also, if you ask me what I'm working on, I'll give you the same old answer: I can't tell you. It's quite silly and superstitious of me, but no one may ever know what I'm working on until it hits stands. Yes, I'm afraid of failure.

Just a few more weeks.

Call Me and We'll Do Something

I woke up Monday thinking I was getting sick with a cold and praying it wasn't another throat infection because I reeeeeeally don't want to deal with a doctor. My throat was sore, my body hurt, I had a headache and I felt like I was burning up. Megan recommended vitamins and echinacea, so I trekked down to the drug store for Tylenol and some magical herbal supplements. I don't take vitamins or anything on a regular basis, and I always lose my Tylenol (I swear I have 8 bottles somewhere), and the cool damp air felt good.

Yesterday I felt better, and it helped that Ellen was out of town and I could nap when I would otherwise be faking that I had something good for my narrative. I do have something good, it's just all scattered right now, and I couldn't be bothered because I wanted a nap. Plus, I had a cover letter to perfect.

The cover letter was for the Star-Telegram. Phil Record told me to send stuff in to Larry Lutz, the recruiting officer/assistant managing editor, and I'm hoping to goodness they have something for me. Anything. Please. Dan worked with my on his cover letter, passing on what he learned from his editor, who's been coaching Dan on internship applications. It took three or four tries before I got a cover letter that worked.

I overnighted my stuff to Larry, and it's all I can do not to call right now to see if he got it. I'm going to call Phil instead, and let him know I sent it in (maybe he'll talk to Larry for me) and find out when I can call. I feel like a girl who just met a guy she really, really liked and she wants to call to hang out or something but doesn't want to sound desperate. (I admit, that analogy is from Catherine, who was one of my editors.)

I don't want to sound desperate, but I sort of am. I desperately want this job, to be able to live with my sister, to be in the same town as Dan again, to have Topper and Mexican food and Blue Mesa margaritas and mild winters and big skies.

Tonight I might try to go running. I haven't been since before school started, and I've been a total of like 4 times since last school year. I was on my bike a lot, which is great, but I don't want to deal with traffic and all the debris on the road from the rain. But I'm feeling schleppy and need to get out.

I found a bit of an antidote to my sleeping problem. I found that if I leave my reading light on I can more easily fall asleep. It's kinda pitiful that I have to trick my body into thinking I'm taking a nap in order to sleep.

So close and yet so far away. I can't believe it's been a year and a half already, but in some ways it seems so damn long.

To Do List

I have one month and one day til my last assignment is due and I'm done. That means I have to find a job and send off the last two internship applications. That means I have to finish Ellen's piece and somehow come up with something to do for Falla---something I can do in one day, something I can take care of quickly. I have to finish my piece for the Globe.

In the meantime, however, there's a whole slew of movies to see and drinks to have with people. I'm crossing my fingers that Dan's a finalist for the Globe internship and gets flown up here for an interview, too, because that would be exactly what I'll need--a good break in the last rush of chaos. Boston is so much more fun when you have someone to do everything with. Life in general is more fun that way. But if not, I'm back home in a month, so all will be well.

I pulled my jumper necklace out the other day because I was missing Topper. It's a James Avery charm of a horse and rider going over a jump, and I put it away for a while because I'm afraid of the loop breaking and losing the charm forever. They don't make that charm anymore, and I'd be so sad if it were gone. When I'm at home I may ask to have a new loop put on it, just as reinforcement.

The plan is for me to go home for about a week, bum around with Topper and Dan, and Julie and I fly out for Christmas. Dan and I will meet up back in Boston, do last-minute stuff, celebrate New Year's and then leave on the 1st. I don't even know what to think about everything. It'll be funny to know I won't be driving back up here in another three months.

Things are good.

Slow Season

Yesterday was one of those cold days where there are clouds but they're so compact and low that the sky looks fake. The particular color of blue wasn't helping any. By late afternoon I was sorry I didn't have a scarf and gloves. My legs are starting to get itchy, which means it's becoming winter.

I booked a flight back to Texas today for the day after Ellen's piece is due and after the last day of classes. The exciting thing is it only cost $99 ($117 after taxes) and Dan can actually pick me up. We also think we have an in at his uncle's beach house in Connecticut, so we can leave on the 1st and stay there. We can stay out all night and still make the short drive down there. Then we'll head back to Texas with my computer, my TV, my bike and my little table in my car and get him back to work and me back home.

Tomorrow starts my week of posting for SciTini, as I'm the acting managing editor. My start wasn't very good. No one turned in a single thing on time, and I finally got in a story for Monday . . . and that story was supposed to be turned in a week ago. It kinda ticked me off. I'm trying to revamp one of my own stories (an additional one) so I have stuff to put up. The whole thing just has me angry because that's the central thing of being a journalist: meeting deadlines. If you are consistently late, you shouldn't be in journalism. It's shoddy work. Seriously. Now, I don't know if these people have been consistenly late--I'm only ME for one week--but from the way everyone's been talking, I think everyone's late all the time. Am I the only person who's only been late once?

I'll get off my soapbox now. But things get me riled up when they're close to my heart, and deadlines are close to my heart.

Now that my last article is underway for the website, I'm feeling funny. It's almost like I've got too little to do. I'm only working on approximately 4 stories now--Ellen, sports writing, the Globe and then the once I'm slowly piecing together about blood doping. It's remarkable. I'm not saying it's not nice, it's just odd after being so near-overwhelmed with stories. I never knew how busy I was until just now, when it's letting up a bit.

Chelsea is coming into town in about two weeks--I haven't seen her since she went back to Tulane at the end of last fall semester, so it's exciting to see her again. Someone to eat pizza with!

Like I don't eat enough pizza every Saturday at work. We're in the middle of tourney season now, so things have been a little slower than usual. I'm almost dreading tomorrow night because Sundays are slow to begin with. Once the first edition is out, there's not a lot to do.

I'm watching Breakfast at Tiffany's and wondering why no one acts like Audrey Hepburn's characters anymore. I'm glad most women don't wear turban-type hats anymore, though.

Into Darkness Again

My last post was my 100th. I feel kinda special.

The clocks got turned back Sunday night. I had a wicked headache during work on Saturday, and my back felt like it was on fire. Even the copyeditor asked me if I was okay-- "You look like you feel pretty bad." It was also pouring like a hurricane, and so it made my normally 20-minute drive into a 45-minute ordeal due to an accident. So I thought I could get an extra hour of sleep and was excited, but couldn't fall asleep because my back hurt so badly.

I ended up crawling out of bed and digging up the bottle of Vicodin from the summer's sprained elbow. I took a third of one and finally fell asleep. I'm beginning to realize that when Topper and I had that fall and when my back got screwed, it was permanent. The DO and the specialists haven't done anything, so I don't know why I'm surprised that every once in a while I can't sleep,

I'm glad I horde my prescription painkillers. The summer after my freshman year--four years ago--my arm got shattered and an infection nearly rotted it off. I rationed those pills until almost the end of my junior year.

Liz, Molly, Karen and I went to see Marie Antoinette on Friday. It was beautiful. The dresses kept making me wish I had one, or could go back then for just a few weeks. I know it was miserable--disease, filth, uncomfortable, horrible class distinctions, on and on, but how pretty and sumptuous those clothes of the upper class.

The time change has me kind of on edge. I can't explain it, except to say it's a good time to be writing. Last night was the kind of night where if I were at home I'd pull out my notes and do some review and work on my novel. Novella. Novela? One hundred pages still isn't really a novel.

My mother called on Thursday and I was telling her how I can't sleep regularly or well and hardly anything sounds appetizing except pizza and fruit. No wonder my sleep schedule is all screwy, I guess.

The bright side of Saturday is Erin is finally wired to the world again. I'd missed her since she got married. I don't know how to explain my relationship with her . . . she's about the perfect friend: you can drink with her, shop with her, dance with her, cuddle with her, talk about anything with her, and copyedit with her. And even though we've seen each other only a few times over a few years, but nothing ever changes. In some ways, she knows me better than almost everybody. She knows the deep, integral stuff about me, not the obvious stuff from day-to-day life. It's refreshing. I absolutely adore her, and it was exciting to know I can find her online again.

Dan wants to buy his bike by about Thanksgiving. He certainly has enough money saved. It's almost intimidating. I've almost got my credit card paid off--only $600 left to go.

The end is so close and so far away.

Falling

It's fall again. I wore my long wool coat for the first time since May (ha!) yesterday. That coat and I are perfect together, and we've seen a lot. We went to London, trekked through England and Wales and Scotland, saw DC and Texas and now Boston. The trees are quite pretty right now, and the air is perpetually crisp and the sky is prettier lately. It's not too cold or too rainy yet, and daylight savings is still a week away, so my crankiness from the dark hasn't rolled around yet.

In approximately six/seven weeks the semester will be over. My school assignments will be done. I can go home. I will (cross fingers) have a job lined up for January. I will be done with the Globe with a couple of bylines under my belt--even if most of them are from the sports section. I will go to Florida for a bit with my sister, and then Dan and I will move my unshippables back to Texas.

I'm in a mild state of disbelief because it all happened so quickly, the end is approaching rapidly, and yet from day to day things seem to take forever, and part of me wants everything to finish up, already. Being in school is great, but there's a static that you hit. Nothing changes, seemingly. It's the same assignments, the same school stress, the same cycling of semi-clean clothes and five things to eat. I guess I'm finally ready for the real world. I'm ready for some change.

That's not to say that things are bad or anything. My life feels so good and so right--the way it was last school year, just minus some of the school anxiety, now, I guess since I'm accustomed to it here now. I'm just looking forward to some new challenges.

Work is good. It's gratifying. And there's not a ton of places to go with it--I'll get the one or two bylines from the health section if I can, and a few more from sports--but it's like a new hobby right now. It's something that I'll be done with rather quickly, but it'll be fun while it lasts, and it will help me out later. If I can hurry up and get this one article done, I may have a really good clip for future job applications.

I want the last Harry Potter book to come out. Last summer--not the one that just ended, but the one of more than a year ago--I drove to a bookstore in Austin with Dan the day it came out because I had to have a copy. He was skeptical that there would be any copies left, but there were. Even the drug store was selling them.

The prospect of being back in Texas is exciting. I sent clips and a resume out to two papers not too far from Austin last week--close enough to spend the weekends in Fort Worth and still hang out in some new cities.

At Goodwill yesterday I found a pair of unworn designer German shoes in my size. They cost me $5. Things are good.

The Departed

I went to go see the movie The Departed on Friday night with my friend Andrew while I was at home. Technically, we went with my friend John Ashley, too, because I hadn't seen him since sometime in the winter, but he showed up after previews had already started, and then left about 5 minutes after the movie was done. It was sort of lame, but he had friends (who also came to the movie with him) who needed rides home.

The movie was definitely worth the $6.50. Heck, I would have even paid $10 or whatever it costs up here. It was gritty and yet funny, and as always, it was weird to see something set in Boston. I feel like I live in a giant movie set. Except for NYC and maybe LA, I don't think any American cities get into movies quite the same way. (DC doesn't count because people always show the posh, political/military aspect of it, not the seedy, disgusting side where crimes are horrific, the way the city can change from an acceptable music venue on one street to the ghetto one block over.) But I go to see it (I think the guy lives on Elm Street, which would be hilarious, because it's probably one of the scary Elm Streets, like the one I first thought I lived on and was disappointed before I found the right Elm up a few miles north.)

It was good to be home, as always. I arrived Wednesday afternoon, and my sister and I hung out (and also spent time at the barn because we thought Topper was colicking, but he wasn't, the dork). Dan was supposed to pick me up around 11, when he got off work, but he ended up getting called out to a standoff in Forest Hill (a Fort Worth suburb) around the time I landed. He didn't get done with it until 7 the next morning, when the guy surrendered. So we got to spend Thursday doing nothing but sleeping and then napping.

The rest of the week was the norm, except Tuesday night I got to go to a dinner at the chancellor's house with all the deans and chairs of departments and Dr. Sanjay Gupta. That was cool. I got to wear nice clothes and see my dean half-drunk (he's from Cambridge, near where I live) and get Dr. Pepper cake, which was served for dessert. I didn't get to actually meet Dr. Gupta, much to my professor's dismay, but it was nice to have the faculty reassure me about my job prospects and everything. They're so great.

Tonight at work I was sitting eating Sour Patch kids (you can buy them in the little cafeteria) and joking with another guy across from me. There was a total moment of flashback to my newsroom, editing, snacking, giggling, yelling to see what files were open or done, whatever. I'm glad to have that back. And I'm going to get it back again for good with a job. If I survive that long.

There's a lot of stuff with school right now. I need to remember to breathe deeply. I also may buy a trainer so I don't have to kit up and leave my house for hours to get a good ride.

The leaves are changing. Summer is gone, completely, and I think the warm weather is gone too. Well, the warm according to my standards. It's still nice. It's just not hot.

London never felt like a movie set to me, although I'm sure it ranks even higher than Boston as setting. I wonder why it never had that certain surreal feeling? It was surreal in some ways, sure, but not in the same way. And I know that when I leave here, it will all be even stranger.

Scary Serious

I'm in the middle of stories right now, and there's two in particular that are surprising me. They've suddenly exploded into "real" stories--something I give a shit about and could actually publish, unlike most of what I've done in this program. Ellen's class last semester wasn't too bad; I largely wrote about stuff I was interested in. But almost everything for either of Doug's classes was crap. It was the pitch he liked the most, usually, and I was always largely ambivalent about them.

But the first one I'm doing now is one I've actually been doing for a week and a half or so for sports writing. It started off about whether blood doping is becoming more easily accessible to rising cyclists, and now it's turned into what's wrong with testing for blood doping, because the agencies who prosecute aren't really being scientific. I got in touch with doctors, I'm getting in touch with Tyler Hamilton, and it's all turning into something professional. I mean, Hamilton is probably one of the biggest names in cycling.

And the other story is for Ellen's class, the narrative we have to do. I think I got the okay today from Parlee cycles (incidentally, they made Hamilton's bikes) to come crash the place for a while and follow people around, etc, for my story about new materials for bikes. I could probably pitch and sell either or both of these to a magazine and actually get published, which is a nice feeling.

My parents were in town this weekend too, which made me happy even though it rained Sunday. I was still working, so they did a lot of stuff on their own, but I think that's good. They do well together like that. And then I'm on my way home on Wednesday for a week. Last night I was driving home from work in the middle of the night and felt genuinely joyous. (It's easy to be happy; being joyous is a little harder to come by.) I was on I-93 and coming out of the tunnel and could see Boston all around me, lit up in the cloudy dark, and I felt content.

Things are going so fast. I'm glad. Dan goes out almost every night with friends and I want to be back to that--going out with him and my sister and people I've known for years. You can sit out on patios and drink beer and margaritas in the warmth.

Just a few more days.

Longer Deadline, Please

I finished my op-ed Saturday night after work so I didn't have to get up early Sunday to get it in by noon. I got home at the reasonable hour of 2 last night after work, and slept late (if restlessly) and spent the afternoon at school, giving intermittant help to radio kids and finishing my webzine article/calling about my sports feature. Now I'm at the delicious point where there's nothing more I can do for the night, so I'm watching the movie Clueless.

It makes me happy when you can watch a movie and get taken back to when you first saw it. I saw Clueless when I was in 6th or 7th grade, at a sleepover of my friend Jessica, who was the only girl in band who played the drums. Her dad was also military, and in their hallway was a little painted plaque that said "Home is where the Air Force sends you." I still love this movie. When I was in middle school I thought how cool it would be to be like Cher, and now I just watch and totally love the character. Alicia Silverstone is so pretty, and the character cracks me up--this mix of self-absorption and good will and naivete´.

Class is going to be a bitch tomorrow. I'm get increasingly worried about my feature. We had 6 business days to pull it all together, and that's not a lot. The final product will be a great piece, because I've totally got the people and the expertise to make it happen--it will just all happen after the deadline. I guess it will be in time for class rewrites and getting it sorted to pitch to a magazine. I never thought I'd see the day when I felt like I didn't have enough time for a story. But then, I guess there haven't been any here at BU that I cared about as much as this one.

The guys at work were making fun of me on Saturday for cycling and going to TCU. The guys generally make fun of me anyway, because I can't understand the coaches with thick accents who call up and I didn't know how to spell Tewksville (sounds like Tooksville), but it's fun. I make fun of them. Guys are usually easy to make fun of, and everyone's so good-natured that you can say almost anything.

My sister still hasn't named her cat. Since it's almost certain Dan and I will inherit the cat at some point, we gave our suggestions from last year when Dan was thinking of getting a pair of kittens. Then tonight I told her she should name him Tucker. I just want him named. It's okay to call the Pony "the Pony," because that's him, it fits. But to have both your animals named like that is unacceptable. Especially when there's so many good names out there.

I need good books but I keep forgetting to write down the names of the ones I want to buy. My parents get here in days. Then I go home. I think about it all about once every hour.

Fortnight's Forecast

I'm so tired right now that I slipped into a numbness that wasn't broken until Dan called and told me he was going to buy fish food. The numbness came on this morning, around 10, and when I got home after a VERY long day of classes I changed and had a brownie and turned out the lights at 9:30. Then Dan called, and then my sister called (she got a new job at the Stateline Tack inside a Petsmart, which is awesome because we own half the horse stuff Stateline sells, and she's getting a cat tomorrow), and then I was snapped from "numb" to just "exhausted."

Sunday night I finished up at work and got home by 2, got some food and wound down until 3, and then got up way too early Monday, even though I could have slept until noon. Plagued by my normal Monday night insomnia, I got little sleep last night too, so here I am run-down. My head feels like it's stuffed with all the thick city air, like the rain brought down all the smog and it got stuck in my cranium.

Writing is quickly piling up, and I'm getting a bit anxious. Next week I have an explainer due, an essay or op-ed to write, a game story to do, and a serious narrative pitch, and the week after I have a 1200-word feature due for sports writing. There's going to be a lot of reporting to do. The next two weeks will be uncool. But then my parents are coming to town, which will be great, and there will be a nice bike race to do as well. And then, two days after my parents leave, I go home for a week, where I can meet Julie's new cat and go with Dan down to College Station for a bike race he wants to do.

I need more books. And as soon as I can come up with some I want, I will buy them. While I forgot to ask my editor how much I'm getting paid, another agate told me he thinks it's 10 or 11 dollars an hour, so I should make double per month what my TA-ship pays. Not only can I buy books, but I can completely pay of my credit card and hopefully even squirrel away some money for the venture into the real world.

Tomorrow I'm going out for a ride. I haven't been out in more than a week, and even if it's raining I may go out. (Cross fingers for dry, though.) Right now, I'm going to eat a bowl of warm soup to hopefully make me drowsy and then crashing.

Papa Gino's Resembles Cardboard

Today was my first day as a Globe employee. I slept late, since it's a Saturday, of course, then ran a few errands and leisurely got ready for it all. It was a bit of a task getting there (an hour of walking to the T, waiting for the T, sitting on the T, walking from the T), but I shouldn't complain because once I get on the T I just sit and read a book. Plus, I'll be driving tomorrow night, since I get out when the paper gets done--sometime between 1 and 2 a.m.

I got a 5-minute explanation of what to do when you answer phones and that was about it. There were two other agates there, and at the busiest point of the night there were probably 5 of us. And because the slow-moving beauracracy (is there any other kind?) still hasn't processed my paperwork, I don't have an employee ID or anything and couldn't get into CCI, the software for all the editing and writing. So I spent my day answering phones, writing down scores and plays by football teams, and looking up random things for people.

Am I the only person who wouldn't really consider calling a newspaper to find out if a game was playing, who won a world championship women's basketball game, what was on ESPN tonight or how baseball playoffs work? I got questions about all those tonight. One guy wanted to know about the Florida-Tennessee rivalry and who won last year. Then he wanted to know about Clemson and Florida State. Another didn't really speak English but wanted me to read him every score from every women's FIBA game today. Here are a couple other phone conversations.

Me: Sports, this is Liz.
Guy: You said Lynn?
Me: Liz.
Guy: Alright. Hey, do you know what's on TV tonight?
Me: Um . . .
Guy: Some games. I'm looking for some games. How about ESPN? What's on ESPN:
Me, frantically getting to the ESPN website: I've got it coming up here on the computer, give me just a second. You know, the Sox are on Fox right now . . . uh, looks like Clemson and Florida State tonight.
Guy: How about ESPN 2?
Me: We've got Texas playing Rice.
Guy: Texas? And Rice? (He sounded disappointed)
Me: TCU is playing on OLN. They're playing Texas Tech.
Guy: Rice is nice. TCU? Texas Christian U?
Me: Yep. I went to TCU, so that's what I'd be watching.
Guy: You want to go to that game?
Me: I'd love to be at that game.
Guy: You want to fly down to that game with me? We can fly to the game. Let's go to the game.
Me: Sure, I'd love to, if you can get me there by kick off. Kick off was seven minutes ago.
Guy: Why don't you give me your number so we can fly to the game. (At this point I'm laughing, he's laughing, and I realize that he is, indeed, as I suspected with the "rice is nice" comment, drunk.)

Another gentleman called and asked for a score. I put him on hold, found the score (I think it was the Harvard game, although I don't remember), and picked back up to tell him. This is about the fifth time I'd had to look up and obscure score for someone. He says thanks, and then asks, "How's your sense of humor today?" I was almost expected something snarky from him after that, so I said, "Well, it depends what it's about." And then he told me the following--a recent survey asked people in the U.S. if they thought immigrants should learn English, and 47% said yes, they should, but 53% said 'no hablo ingles.' It was funny, partially because it was totally not what I expected--a guy calling and telling me a joke. I liked it.

The other agate clerks were nice, but I got the feeling they didn't have the time for me. One stringer named Brendan and I talked a bit, since he sat at a desk by me, and he talked about TCU and then left to cover a game. Another AC took that desk, and his name was Roie (Row-ee) and he sat by me for the rest of the evening, which was nice. We discussed a bit of everything, especially once things got quiet, after 7:30 or so.

And then I left when I was done.

After I filled out paperwork on Thursday, when I was walking out and talking to Dan, he pointed out that I forgot to ask how much I got paid. Whoops. But there was pizza tonight, and it was barely acceptable, but the cinnamon sticks were yummy, and since by that point it was all guys left, I could eat them without too much competition. And as long as I get some food and get to beg for a science or health brief or one teeny-tiny story, pay is secondary.

Tonight I was scratching my knee and thought about scars. I had an editor once who said mistakes in stories were like scars--they add character. I think he was trying to convince a copy editor that one of his own stories was fine. I have a scar on my left knee from my knee cap getting kicked and cracked by a horse, and a scar on my right knee from my tights when I fell in ballet. An inch-long red line on the heel of my left hand from my first cycling accident this summer. A little half-circle on a knuckle from slipping scissors when I was in elementary school, probably 3rd or 4th grade. It was in New Mexico. A pencil-top eraser of red on my right shoulder, from a not-happy end-of-the-semester worry in the spring, and a large thumbprint of light pink on my left shoulder, which I don't even want to get in to.

I like my scars, in some way, because they're me and have stories behind them; I guess I feel about them the way people feel about their tattoos. And I like knowing about other people's scars and tattoos. The markings, discreet or unmissable, of where we have been and what we have done. The whole business of it all probably came to mind because I was thinking today of how I'm happy with where I've been, what I've done, with pretty much everything right now. Like some scars, there are things I wouldn't want to explain, but . . . things are good. I'm happier here this semester. Perhaps it's because I can see the end coming. Perhaps it's because I'm still caught in the heady last bits of summer (and the weather is still nice!). Perhaps I've made some semblance of peace with Boston (until it rains again), because my classes are good, I have jobs, and I have a bike, and I know how things will work.

But right now I think I'm getting too philosophical, and I'm trying to watch the movie "My Life," a 1993 flick of Michael Keaton, a terminal cancer patient making video diaries for his unborn son, and Nicole Kidman, looking delicate and pretty and blonde and not annoying, like in Bewitched. Much like that awful movie with Brad Pitt and a skin disease, it's got a lot of pathos and funny clothing of the time, which look bad now because they were trendy then. Like Brad's flick, this has a cultural healer that's called upon to try to help a hopeless case. I have to go inventory other similarities now, and reassure myself that yes, I have chosen the path of light as journalism and pray I will never think of making a movie.

One Step Closer to Media Domination

My feet are killing me. I feel like I've been walking on nubs, or I only have nubs left, or my nubs are on fire, or something like that. I started with heels at 7am and got out of them at 4, when I finally got home. I didn't think I'd be in them as long, and I didn't expect as much walking, but I was wearing slacks and had to make a good impression.

I was dressed up to go to the Boston Globe and fill out paperwork. I'm officially an employee there, now, which is pretty cool and has the potential to be a lot cooler. My sports writing professor, Jack Falla (covered hockey for SI, he's a very well-dressed gentleman who I find very amusing), had mentioned on Tuesday that the Globe might need help on the sports desk, basically doing agate clerk work. So I e-mailed the sports editor and he practically jumped through the computer and dragged me in.

Three days a week, mostly nights, and I'm going to have to learn to drive since the T will be closed. (For example, Sunday night I stay til everything's put to bed, which could be 2 a.m.) The good news is their sports desk is pretty small these days, so I'll meet everyone, and when I told Bob I was a science journalism student, he actually suggested I go harass the science reporters and beg for a story or two.

I'm so in.

Dan knows it too. This is a job he actually did for like four years at the Star-Telegram, and with his connections he got himself a reporting job. One of his dreams is to write for the Globe, and he adores Boston, so I told him I'd work the networking. I admit, I wouldn't have a problem moving back up here again--for a bit--as long as we could live a little further outside the city. Out where there's cyclists and horses and fewer street cleaners 12 feet from the house.

Classes are ok, although things are quickly picking up. The web magazine has been going 9 times smoother than I expected, a hugely pleasant surprise. The copyflow system is good, and I was able to convince people to go for earlier deadlines. You've just got to go earlier with a publication. If you're just writing for the hell of it, milk it to the last moment, but not in a copyflow system.

My parents are coming to town! Or at least my mom definitely is. The weekend of October 1 and the bike race. They've never been to Boston, and I hope they're both able to come. My dad's work schedule is sort of hellish, but they didn't do anything for their anniversary this year and they need to see Boston while there's still a daughter there, so they can check off two things at once.

And then a few days after they leave, I go back home for a week. It'll be fall break at TCU, so Julie and Dan won't have class on Thursday or Friday, which means sleeping late and staying out late. I'm excited. My sister was going to come here over her fall break, but like me, she's been between paychecks, and she's of the mind that Boston will always be there to see--she's right, too.

Today I had no feet. Tonight it's raining. Tomorrow I'm going to buy cake from Shaw's to celebrate my new job and a great start to the semester. And then Saturday night, my first night at the Globe, I will contemplate my future as a reporter and how to take over the world of newspapers.

Respect My Authori-tay

Friday night was the Hyatt event, which ended with a $114 tab and me drinking some good whiskey sours and eating soup (naturally, everyone has soup at a bar, right?) and then not being able to sleep because of all the sugar in the drinks. Kate had gotten an invite on a ride out in Concord, and so we plotted to drink lots of water (check), leave early (check) and go out (half-check). I didn't go. I completely wimped out on the 9:15 Saturday morning ride of hills and falls. Evidently 3 of the 5 riders fell. Can you believe that? What are the odds? You can bet I would have made it four.

I admit I don't remember what I did yesterday, but I know I saw the movie Little Miss Sunshine last night, and I enjoyed it thoroughly. It was as funny as I expected and the plot was what I expected for the most part, but a nice little part surprised me. The peanut M&Ms for dinner there were also especially good.

There was a women's group ride advertised to start this afternoon at 1 at the Belmont Wheelworks, so I packed my bike up and my jacket to head over. I got there the same time another girl rolled up. Her name was Katelyn, from Vancouver, and she introduced me to the four other women who showed up. There was one catch--they were all on the Wheelworks racing team. I was the only non-team member who showed, so I was sort of worried, but then we started out.

It was 30 miles (putting me at 100 for the week, my goal), and I really have no idea where we were except out on little roads with lots of trees and around a lake, and it was about an hour and a half ride. I started off in the back, just to stay out of the way, but moved my way up through and talked to everyone. They were pretty nice, and I don't know how much they were holding back (we were all still conversing, so we were all working equally hard), but I stayed with them comfortably through everything. It was great. Additionally, I could beat most of them up hills and stay with the other ones. Most of my riding has either been with Dan or on my own, so I never know how I compare to others. Dan says I'm above average, but he's obligated to say that since he convinced me to get into this whole thing. So it was a pleasant ride, and boosted my confidence quite a bit. It was nice to ride and chat with a few new people, not too many to be intimidated, and to have the skills to keep up.

I told Dan all about it because he taught me everything. Plus, I like keeping him abreast of the good stuff since all he saw was me crashing and bonking over the summer. I can say I'm an authority of learning about cycling, but I'm getting better about knowing stuff.

Since it was chilly, I made soup for dinner. Naturally. I didn't make it like heat-up-a-can-of-Campbell's, but I did it from scratch, the way I used to regularly in the winter in Virginia. There's a pot to feed me for days, and I'm looking forward to it. As long as I don't mix with too many whiskey sours, it'll be good.

Just Like a Gunshot

I had class early this morning, which was very bizarre because I was getting off the T and walking home at 10:40 a.m. and was done for the day. I watched a bit of ER reruns, the old ones before they got too crazy, and then went to Target. I admit it was a totally frivolous trip, but I just got my financial aid and I deserve it after this summer. Besides, I don't think I'll do it again.

After that I came back, ate lunch on the back porch, basked in the sun and my new magazines. I resisted napping and went for a ride with Kate instead. We met at the MM trail in Arlington and were pumping up our tires before heading out, and while Kate was finishing her front tire I told her about how Dan rented a bike in the spring from Wheelworks. The men in the shop checked it over and inflated the tires and it was resting against the checkout counter by Dan as he filled out paperwork and paid. I was looking at Shot Blocs or Sport Beans or something, I'm sure, when there was suddenly this loud pop like an explosion or gunshot. Everyone flinched hard. The tube had exploded. I was telling Kate this story, and about a half second after I said "It was just like a gunshot" there was the noise again as Kate's tube exploded. Needless to say, we were shocked and had to make sure not to talk about anything else negative unless that happened as well. I'm thinking we have magical powers.

Tomorrow we have a meeting about our webzine. While I'm excited, I'm also nervous. I know I'll probably get short-tempered and frustrated because I have this vision of how things should run (I'm sure we all have a vision) and I will want things done my way. The last publication I did long-term work at was mine; I called the shots on everything, and I was the ultimate decider on how things should be handled and presented and I did a really good job--I have proof. But I'm going to need to remember that this webzine doesn't have the same aims and the others in the program don't have the same knowledge. I think things will be much better once the site is going and we're turning out stories and everything else, but getting to that point will be interesting. Our class spent about 20 e-mails trying to even decide on a time to meet tomorrow. It'll be interesting to see how long it takes to get stuff done tomorrow. I hope I'm pleasantly surprised.

On the seven-day forecast for the ten o'clock news they show the little clouds or suns and the high and low temperatures, but they also have a little Patriots helmet image on game days. And I thought Texans took their sports too seriously. Evidently, not like these people. I have to say, it's strangely endearing, like a kid's obsession with dinosaurs or mummies.

Classes With Class

Today was the first day of classes, which was sort of a bitch after a great Labour day of a grill-party at Molly's and a baseball game (Red Sox won) at Fenway. Additionally, I haven't gone riding since Thursday (Friday was a day off since Eric was in town, Saturday was thinking it was going to rain, Sunday it really did rain, yesterday was a fun day and today was 12 hours of classes with one-hour breaks on four hours of sleep). I got up early enough to shower and wear something other than sweatpants, but I dunno how long this will last.

But there have been very good things. For example, Kirk and I came up with a brilliant movie idea--a children's movie about moths and baseball. It sounds a bit like Angels in the Outfield, but believe me, it's much better. At least, it was better last night with grossly-overpriced beer in a cheap-ass plastic cup. Molly and Kirk also had some wonderful headlines for Steve Irwin's obit. (Am I the only person really pissed that he's getting the same kind of coverage as a dead head of state?)

Even classes were ok, and Kate and I successfully filled an hour with talk of cyclists and bikes and other important things, like swimming with Olympic gold medalists (which she has now done). As soon as she marries Zabriskie, she can die a happy woman, even if he does currently have a beard. (Aerodynamics and cyclists . . . they shave their legs but grow beards, as Kate pointed out. What good does that do?) I'm actually pretty confident about Ellen's class and the web class this semester, and I think the website will be killer. I'll put the link up here so everyone can see that yes, I still remember how to slap a good headline and deck on something. Horvit and her little copyediting-happy-heart would be proud.

Speaking of Horvit, her husband--an investigative journalist at the Star-Telegram--talked to Dan about the story I wrote for the Weekly. He thought it was pretty good, from what Dan said. Actually, I think Dan's had everyone at the Star-T read it and everyone generally approves, which makes me feel good. All of them also comment on the snarkiness of my sinfully-snarky editor. What can you do? The really scary thing of all this is that if Mark Horvit read my story, Dr. Horvit probably did too. It's a horrible thought. She taught me reporting and copyediting and I never felt even remotely up to her standards. I always felt like I was a vague but sad disappointment to her, and so the thought of her seeing another story of mine makes me quake. Even on the Brite stories, which must've had SOMETHING right, since it got me a scholarship and a national award for reporting, came back from her with a 78 on them or something and a dozen comments on what I did wrong.

Horvit never wrote a single comment about something that was good. I don't know if I've ever gotten one from Doug, either, even though he might say something nice. Maybe that's why I'm more partial to Ellen. Even if I know my story is really good, it's nice to hear others at least make a nod to that.

I got my Trek Travel catalog today. I still haven't opened it, I'm so excited. I also haven't opened my two Newsweeks that arrived simultaneously today as well. Want to know what I did read, though? The Princess Bride. Great movie, no denying, although I'm not one who walks around quoting it or anything like that. But the book mildly annoyed me. If you read it, you probably know what I'm talking about. There's all these little asides and parentheticals that probably either come off as incredibly charming and precocious or damn annoying after a bit. And when I was done, I realized hey, I write this in constant tangents and parentheticals and useless side notes . . .

But people don't pay $6.95 or whatever it is a paperback costs to read this.

(I didn't pay. I borrowed the book from my roommate.) And I just saw a commercial for the movie All the King's Men, and every time I see Jude Law I fume at his horrible, horrible face. He's not even remotely attractive because he always has this smarmy look, no matter what he's doing. If only everyone looked like Dave Zabriskie . . .

Crappy Judge of Character

My parents are in Tampa and were battening down the hatches for assorted hurricanes and tropical storms and whatever else, and the Times this morning was talking about the remnants of Ernesto in the mid-Atlantic region, so (I'm getting to my point, stay with me) this morning's gray and very windy sky didn't seem like great weather for, well, anything except Halloween. I slept till after noon, when Dan woke me up, and decided not to ride because I didn't want to be 18 miles from home when it started death-throes-of-a-hurricane raining. It's spring-style windy out there, too (oh, you all from the Southwest know exactly what I'm talking about), and I don't like dealing with that unless I'm at Benbrook.

I wimped out is what I'm basically saying. And I judged everything wrong because it didn't end up raining at all.

After watching the second half of Donnie Darko (thank goodness for good movies) I spent the afternoon reading and thinking and pondering and mulling over things on the back porch.

The weather affects me way too much.

There's this horrible (and I mean HORRIBLE) movie called Dirty Love that I think I mentioned before. Dan and I found it on some obscure movie channel over the summer, and I'm watching it again right now. It's a Jenna McCarthy flick (it's not porn, in case you were wondering) about a girl who's boyfriend cheats on her, so she's trying to get over him. Carmen Electra (prettier than McCarthy in my book) thinks she's black and it's got the skinny geeky kid from American Pie (hate that movie). (I use a lot of parentheticals, don't I?) It's so highly amusing in so many ways, probably because it won Razzies for worst movie, worst director, worst screenplay and worst actress of the year. Yay for obscure stuff. Another great obscure movie with a blonde--Splendor. I think I saw that a dozen times in the wee hours of the morning as a freshman.

I tried looking for the second and third books of the Regeneration series by Pat Barker today and it didn't work. It was a used bookstore, though, and it's not like I would have bought them right now, but what the heck. Browsing never hurts. Last night I was going through some Wilfred Owen and Sassoon poetry and got really ticked off at the state of politics today. More particularly, the state of war right now.

And so because it's a brooding day outside and I spent a good portion of the day brooding, I think other people should brood too.

If in some smothering dreams you too could pace
Behind the wagon that we flung him in,
And watch the white eyes writhing in his face,
His hanging face, like a devil's sick of sin;
If you could hear, at every jolt, the blood
Come gargling from the froth-corrupted lungs,
Obscene as cancer, bitter as the cud
Of vile, incurable sores on innocent tongues,
My friend, you would not tell with such high zest
To children ardent for some desperate glory,
The old Lie; Dulce et Decorum est
Pro patria mori.
(W. Owen, 1918)

I would rant outright, but I think everyone knows what I'm talking about right now. And while I don't completely think everything about Iraq is evil-intentioned or built on lies, I do think things are way out of control and speaking as someone who's part of the military way of life, all the soliders and airmen (including those of our allies) need to be sent home asap.

I'm done now. Blustery days make me wish it either WERE Halloween or I could be home enjoying it with my sister out at the barn for a wild ride on Topper. But it's only another month until I can probably go home and Halloween will be just a few weeks after that.

I Got A Pet Hedgehog

I really don't have a pet hedgehog, but I do have the song "Commerce, TX" by Ben Kweller now, thanks to my handy iTunes card. I saw BK a couple years ago at the Ridglea theater in Fort Worth when he opened for Dashboard Confessional, and I admit I liked him more than DC. Kweller rocks, and he's goofy and plays the piano. What more could you want? Additionally, that night he was wearing a sweater than looked like one I have. It was my dad's when he was in college, many moons ago, and so perhaps he also pilfered his parents' closet.

Guys, it's been sunny for two days here. TWO days. I debated even mentioning it because I was afraid the sun would sheepishly hide again and we'd be stuck with rain, but that's ok. I've already decided I'm taking tomorrow off, since Eric will be back in town. I like the sun. I can sit outside on the porch and read while I sun myself. I feel obligated to say that I am against skin cancer and against sunburns, but I am all in favor for warming yourself in the warmth until you feel nice and toasty. Basking with a book is greatness.

And that meant two days of riding out in Bedford and Concord, following those little maps I bought. They're keepers. I've only done one of the rides (just did it two days in a row), but it's enjoyable and takes about an hour. It's a nice change to be passing houses and tiny farms and riding stables instead of worrying about all the inline skaters and road crossings on the MM trail. I had NO idea inline skating was still so alive. Or maybe it's just a Massachusetts thing.

The only thing that sort of irritates me about the riding is that there are a ton of riders out there and they don't wave. Maybe this isn't a big thing. Maybe Texas is incredibly weird. But at least there, cyclists acknowledge each other--a half smile, a grimace if you're dying up a hill, a raising of the fingers off the bars in a wave. It's a signal that hey, yeah, I'm a cyclist too, I'm out here trying not to get killed by an SUV, isn't it cool that we can go out and damn, isn't that climb a bitch? There should be some camaraderie.

So I decided to start waving at everyone I passed. I saw some of the same people that I saw yesterday, and I figured I'd rather have a reputation as someone who's too friendly than someone who ignores everyone else. And half the people either waved back or smiled. Maybe you just have to initiate things here. Maybe they're all tri people--Dan said they evidently don't acknowledge each other the way cyclists do. Beats me. But I'm gonna wave.

And I found a website that will let you cycle (and wave, if it's not an obscene gesture there) in other countries. Ok, I didn't find it, Dan did, but it's quite the site to drool over. (www.trektravel.com) It's all about cycling, eating decadent foods and staying in plush surroundings. We're gonna rent a castle in Ireland, we decided. It will be fabulous. And it will be quite well-juiced on Guiness, I'm sure.

There's a jumping stable on the route that you pass, and yesterday there was a girl schooling her horse out in the arena. It made me really miss Topper. But the bike will suffice until I can get back home.

That and the awesome song "Legs" by Darondo. It's some '70s funk/R&B song that makes me want to dance. Amazing what you can find on the internet.