Emily

Still can't get enough of Emily.

JoAnne Says: May 28th, 2008 at 9:12 am

Hi Emily.

So this is the point in the Emily movie where Emily decides to pursue Academia by becoming a bespectacled Professor and we are thwarted through the time/space portal to watch “Emily, Aged” (Jamie Lee Curtis? I don’t know, I don’t do casting) change lives with her revolutionary thoughts. We see her jumping on desks, flippantly taking irreverent jabs at the government, sometimes not wearing underwear, demanding free-association introspective writing diaries from her freshmen every other week…then, all the students write her a symphony while she’s coaching high school basketball and her deaf son yells “Carpe Diem”!

For what it’s worth, you have spawned all of THIS. Cool. You are like Moses! All of the Hebrew children are talking about the spliced red sea, not just the ones who live for American Idol but the pretentious “bookish” ones! Plus, we’re all still hanging out at red sea rock bottom: our laptops are great hiding places, our ‘publish’ buttons conveniently remove the “think before you…” censor. So. Lest we all not judge. Or! Judge Emily = Judge Yourself. (I think I’ll make t-shirts.)

Joking aside: You write fantastically. I thought the article was honest. It inspired me to do much thinking about my own writing -how I use the medium of “blog” to express myself in this big, big world- along with much writing about my own writing, writing about your writing, and some other writing that has nothing to do with much of anything, but you should still be credited for inspiring it. Thanks.

We are listening and talking – thanks for leading. A+ group discussion.

What is blog? Baby, don't hurt me.

EMILY GOULD is a soul-sex goddess, and she doesn't even know what that is.

The ten page NY Times Magazine foray into her life (something like "I'm Anne Hathaway in the Devil Wears Prada except instead of a fashion magazine, I deal in BLOGGING and I have tattoos") makes me realize two things.

1. Blogs are Zach Morris at "The Max". He goes everyday to make sure that Slater doesn't steal his woman. Sometimes, the Saved By the Bell viewer gets the extra special treat of watching real time "freeze" as Zach breaks the fourth-wall (as they say in the biz). "Time out!" Zach tells it like it is. According to Zach. Then he pulls a little caper to manipulate the scene to his favor. "Time In!" And Tiffani Amber Theissen struggles with physical comedy as her character's limbs have been reapportioned to land in Zach's waiting embrace.

So, this is news? Bloggers are narcissists. We like to go to the predictably streamered and smelly gym that is the open-forum of the internet. In our own corner, near the locker rooms (the blog hosting real-estate for the young and broke), we are allowed to be the coolest kids at the seventh-grade dance - plus - we get executive editing rights to the re-telling of how the first slow dance goes down.

Sanctity of the TIMES aside (the argument that Gould's article doesn't reflect a 'standard' that the publication upholds is one of snobbery, not to mention it is a larger can-of-worms issue that frankly, is not as interesting), what did we really expect from this article? From Gould? Did we expect anything else from ourselves as readers? As bloggers?

I, like Gould, have posted my public life more times than not. Soul-sex, I named it in college one day to the giggles of my private-liberal-arts-Lutheran-all-girled-dormitory pals.

When you connect with a dude intellectually, on some very special and revered level - when you deliever any sentence starting with "I know we just met, but..." - when he agrees with you that Howard Dean's outdoor voice was inspiring and not terroristic - when first date conversation turns all "I'm afraid to love again! Who is God! Where is God?" and so on and so forth.

I was an unabashed soul-sex slut. Some girls were chasing the female orgasm; count on me to be fishing for original poems and reported shout-outs in therapy. "I think your thoughts on Respighi are really changing my world, I told Dr. McPsychoanalyzesalot so; he thinks you're good for me" and I was a satisfied woman.

My xanga blog seemed like a great way to be doted on as a truth-revealer to the scams of relationships (among a few funny bits here and there). I loved tales of my bitter and angst-ridden soul-sex insecurities. Although the writing was definitely a cathartic exercise, such a small school should make one pause before stapling internal organs on the outside of their sweaters. Cause those things don't come off easily, and I learned that a couple years later, while attempting to shove my heart back into my chest.

Emily Gould learned it too but decided to keep talking about it.

I haven't yet decided if that was ultra sweet or if she's a moron. No matter. If we've learned anything from her musings, it's that what I think as an anonymous spectator of her issues isn't important...but she did make me (and 1120 commentators on the nytimes.com site) THINK and that is irrefutably cool.

Another thing for sure? Her blog is great, and she is an impressive young writer. I am jealous, yet I love. Which brings me to the second thing Emily Gould taught me today.

2. Blog entries are not meant to be autobiographical essays. This is how I know I'm not blogging correctly. (Sasha Frere-Jones). It's also how I know I'm not a real writer, not yet. First there happens to be that whole issue of being unpublished. (Potato. Poh-tah-toe.) Second - blogs are precise. Short. They are the Accuradio 30-second BBC news spots to Dan Rather's rambling hour. The time it takes, even, to obviously state that my blogs are anything but sparkling gems of brevity...

So I believe that this post will conclude "Message in a Bottle". I gotta move. I'm not traveling anymore, so it's a good time to transition... AND! I am tired of humming the Police everytime I log on. Literarily, it's time that I learned to maneuver this genre just as I am giving fiction and reporting and editorial comment and essay the same effort.

I'll let you know when I have the address of my new, cramped apartment: the one that forces me to exercise the closet-shoe organizer, saying what I need to say but being wiser about using the space that I have.

If it wasn't for Diane Court, I wouldn't have gotten into Cornell.

job·bing / [jawh - beengh]
- adjective
1. to sit at the computer belonging to one's parents for multiple hours attempting to find an employment listing completely unrelated to the degree which person possesses and is still engaged in the recurring act of distributing funds to someone named Sallie Mae
2. being super rich and awesome and not taking crap from that silly old PC guy

Right now I should be jobbing, but the daunting Craigslist postings for administrative assistants -

Laid..Off?..Fill-Out-Survey..Job..Made_Me..$157-in-2 Days.-So Can..You - (Minneapolis / St Paul)

- is a BORING, typo-infested list longer than Warren Jeffs is used to waiting for the bathroom. (Ah, ha, ha! Get it? Big family? One bathroom? Three girls, a Guy and a Polygamous Sect-Friendly Pizza Place!)

Alas, I cannot focus on finding work; I am far too troubled by the ever-changing United States of America that I have returned to. Specifically, the study of mass culture and moral identity through the volatile medium of Prime Time television and mass distributed glossy-print media. And stuff.

• After two hours of Grey's Anatomy season finale last night, I discovered producer Shonda Rhimes' answer to the WGA strike: letting San Fernando Valley high schoolers take a stab at it! Two of the sub-plots featured 9-12th grade characters: a couple engaged in a star-crossed affair and a Luke Skywalker aficionado.

(I can just see things heating up in the writer's room! High schooler #1: Let's do a plot line where like, it's like, that movie with Claire Danes? You know, Romeo and Juliet? High schooler #2: Yeah! And one where a kid gets dared to jump in a big vat of cement and he does it because there's this girl there that he wants to kiss but she pretends not to love him because he's not cool. Just like me. Except without the cement.)

But the real gem:

Meredith: I'm still mad at you and I don't know if I trust you, I wanna trust you, but I don't know if I do. So I'm just gonna try, I'm gonna try and trust you. Because I believe that, we can be extraordinary together. Rather than ordinary apart.

Ahhhhh, the 'stuff that legends' are made of.

• At least Betty was cute.


• Gas is expected to reach $4 this weekend. OPEC, schmopeck. I blame Tina Fey. Yeah, that's right. And you, Marie Claire, are an enabler:

When you cover-girled Ms. Fey without the scar (yes, the very mark on her face that makes it acceptable for girls like me to not shave excessive amounts of arm hair - that may or may not resemble alpaca wool sweaters) you forgot that the scar is the flag of La Revolución! Fey proves that funny girls can be HOT with some quirky weird flaws too and that's really ok because we all accept ourselves and love ourselves because we're soooooooo witty and smart.

You messed with the natural order of the universe and in turn, someone actually asked 7 people he knew to track down Kevin Bacon, there was an incident aboard the space shuttle Columbia where an astronaut brushed his teeth without spending trillions of tax dollars AND Nestlé crossbred the Twizzler with the Spree, giving my sister a cavity. Not to mention the cyclone thing in Myanmar. All you, Tina Fey.

• Since I've been residing in Iowa, I have heard Ace of Base, in public, twice, and it has led me to conclude that Iowa is but one big soft-rock radio station. It's really great at first with a "OOOOhhhh, man! I love this song!" and a triumphant fist pump upon receiving a nostalgic audio waft of fifth grade. But then. You hear it again. You realize that Wilson Philips is a daily occurrence and after more than 3 minutes, soft-rock's hallowed synthesizers and repetitive percussion tracks are old news.

So then it's back to jobbing, with my search queries on Monster.com eliminating the following threads: Iowa, Photo Shopping Arm Hair and Shonda Rhimes. I'm sure it will be no time - no time at all - before I'm working again.

Take time to realize.

Travelers: Let's motion for a government-funded reintegration program. We could have support meetings and classes; we could cry together. We could have a sympathetic audience to whine about how things are so different. We could address important questions. (For instance: Miley Cyrus? Really? The creative backbone of our nation? When? How?)

I'll bring the brownies.

BACK IN THE (mostly middle) UNITED STATES:

1. Jet lag is real and lasts for longer than you think. It's weird to have not lived a day that you remember being present for. Because of this pyschological time/space muddle (admitedly, I still don't understand leap year) I've been a little bit John Nash. And not in the way that made me smarter at math...in the imaginary friend way.


2. My dad learned to play the guitar while I was gone. He's helping me slowly back into the music scene; our Partridge Family act practices every night after dinner. With Jil on guitar as well, me on keys and Ma with the syncopated handclaps, we can decently get through "Brown Eyed Girl".
Speaking of Dad and his aspirations; his comic timing (previously limited to: so, a guy walks into a bar, and...) recently became immaculate. So we sit down to watch the Cardinals play the Brewers the other night. We've got beer, warm popcorn. Dad stretches. Belches. Reaches into his shirt pocket and produces a harmonica that I didn't know he possessed. Plays "Take Me Out to the Ballgame" which is only identifiable by the rhythm of his phrasing. Deadpan, he slips the offending metal noisemaker flippantly on the coffee table, returns his gaze to the television. Jil and I: in tears.

3. Jil took me to see Colbie Caillat in Des Moines the other night. The bartender takes one look at my ID and says "'84, huh?". I suppose that was weird amongst the uniquely Iowan mix of 'tweens screaming "Bubbly! Play Bubbly!" after each number and the "Girl's Nite Outing" housewives in silk babydoll blouses and gel-infused spiked haircuts. Oh, Iowa.

Punching the Corn

It would be safe for me to put money on the fact that Causeway Bay, the shopping mall Mecca of Hong Kong, has the world's largest concentration of neon lights. Forget Vegas, baby.

As I shoved my way through the dense mass of humanity, I had to blink rapidly to bear the optical stress. So when I saw it I thought I was hallucinating.

I was not.

Standing in the throng of passersby was the greatest life-sized ear of corn, containing a man handing out flyers from beneath his flouncy, poofy Lycra exterior.

There was this Chinese girl. And when I say "girl" it must be noted that Chinese women are genetic lottery winners: not only are they predominantly quite skinny, they remain with the features and complexion of a 16-year-old until about 48. So I guess maybe she could've been like, 36, and if that's true that makes her even cooler because as she grazed past the corn she punched it.

Yes, reached out and playfully gave it a right jab.

I was so completely glad that she did, because I wanted to. Badly. Like when in the airport, I like to run and jump to see if I can touch the multitudes of signage hanging from the ceiling. It was the same strong compulsion but I restrained, you know: home court advantage. Americans are notorious for doing crap like starting wars over corn.

Back in the city, and loving it, I thought about the corn yesterday. I saw an older gentleman swing around a pole supporting scaffolding by Columbia University. He did a brilliant Gene Kelly "Singin' in the Rain" chase step and then continued on his way.

Anybody who revels in the fact that they can score a 3-pointer with a wadded up paper towel and the kitchen trash can, anyone who thinks it's ultimate to bound over all the cracks in the sidewalk, anyone who recognizes this fine line between OCD and unrelenting immaturity...I say: Keep up the good work. These actions are indicative of your spunk, spirit and general haphazard spontanaiety. Isn't it good to be reassured that you're a whole lot of fun?

So today, dear reader. Go for it. Pass it on. Reach for the Stars. Go for the Gold.

Punch the Corn.

I feel it in my fingers, I feel it in my toes...

To the most ultimate travel buddy in existance:

Thank you.

Thank you for always having my back, for shoving my pack in high places when I couldn't reach, for blocking traffic, for standing guard when I opted not to use a "restroom" per se, for saving my life when motorbikes tried to take it, for yelling "YOU'RE NOT GONNA DIE, JUST PEDAL!" when I was scared to ride my bike against Chiang Mai traffic. Thank you for being honest when Asian clothing didn't suit Irish hips.

Thank you for singing Mariah Carey on bikes and in caves, for fending off Swedes and blessing Brits, for picking me up when I fell (metaphorically, of course but also literally, when I characteristically biffed up the stairs in Australia's coolest nightclub), for suffering through U23D. Thank you for making up silly songs with me, for inspiring me to give up doing anything half-assed, for teaching me the art and value of shopping around. Thank you for loving a tennis ball.

Thank you for being fearless, for taking chances, for dancing in all places, discounting sand resistance. Thank you for telling me when I was wrong. Thanks for travel-day hugs and country-flag patches for my backpack, for dashing for the salt when I had leeches, for not one- but TWO - years of awesome birthday events. Thank you for being "just as dorky as me", for the invaluable feeling of not having to stand alone.

Thanks for sharing: beer, soap, socks, toothpaste, laughter, watermelons, chopsticks, ideas. Most of all I thank you for our conversations: your words have meant so much, have inspired so much, have made me think, giggle, argue and cry.

Thank you, Gina, for everything that you are and will accomplish in life. You are beautiful, brave, AMAZING. Your friendship is an indelible part of me.



There will be more post-op commentary on this blog, but continue the adventure with Gina in India: http://ginavriens.blogspot.com

In the Navy...

My first clue that today was extra special (or "specious" as Gina and I like to say after seeing the word miss-printed so many times across Asia) was at the grocery store in super hip Hong Kong (right next to our super CRUMMY overpriced hostel).

I was obliviously buying an apple and some milk, when I realized that all the checkers were plastered in stickers. Mostly, they were in Chinese, but I recognized the Olympic rings, the Beijing games logo...and flames. It sparked my curiosity - and spark it was indeed: One sticker featured the torch with 5.2.2008.

Out of the Hu Jintao and predecessors-imposed government block of news information, Gina found a newspaper in English.

Lucky us! Torch relay was coming through Hong Kong on this very day!
Unluckily for me, I am still a lot shorter than lots of Chinese.
This is the torch passing:





This is the police carting away a Western protester with "Free Tibet" written across his face. Also in the unlucky cards I've been handed: slow reflexes.



As we continued to walk, emersed in the joyous spirit, ceremoniously waving our Samsung-sponsored free flags, we ourselves were flagged down in HK's port-side party district, Wan Chai. The US Navy was spending their last night in town, and a throng of sailors sensed our shared Yankee-ness as we paraded past their own spirit-filled refuge from the USS Kittyhawk.

The following is a collection of fun facts that, over a span of 7 hours, Gina and I collected from our new Naval friends and the hippie-haired Chinese bartender.

In no preferential order:

1. The USS Kittyhawk, based in Japan, will return to the states shortly and be completely MELTED into a huge chunk of steel. Or it might go to North Carolina to hang with it's winged namesake. Nobody is really sure on this one.

2. Nobody really likes being in the NAVY...but shhhh...don't tell anyone that a majority of these guys want to pack it in for Canada. It's really quite sad; from the complaining about their barracks, to the bemoaning of our government officials that wouldn't let them retire, to the simple fact that they can't watch CNN. They weren't even allowed to go to the torch passing. Could be trouble.

3. Speaking of trouble, the Navy has a faction of "moral compasses" called the S.L.G. (Shore Leave Guard). They patrol the party areas when the ship has docked, all night long, to make sure everyone actually gets back on the boat. They have to wear these really dorky polo shirts with a giant S.L.G. so even the drunkest of the drunken sailors can find a "safe ride" to the carrier. I had the best time talking with the polo shirted enlisted men and it became a fun game to see if I could make their evening any better, seeing as they had to hang at the bar without drinking. There were MULTITUDES of them walking around, which became even funnier.

"Soo....S.L.G., huh? Selling lovely Guavas? Single, Lonely Guy? Sore Ligaments Galore?" It was JoAnne dorky flirting at my best effort. The similarly dorky Navy guys thought this was funny, the daft ones didn't get it and very seriously explained to me the importance of their assigned duty.

4. An S.L.G. polo gets washed by ONE guy whose SOLE duty is to wash all of the S.L.G. polos. That's all he does. On an aircraft carrier. All day long.

5. There are over 29,000 Chinese characters in their alphabet. Or something like that. Pictured is the difference between "Human being" and "Human being in jail".



6. Most likely, the woman who spoke no English but taught me how to correctly say "The fire is burning my eyebrows" on the train from Xi'an to Guangzhou, probably also liked to pet my arm hair because A1. It's ridiculously furry. and B2. I guess not a lot of northern Chinese women can grow hair on their arms. This was the bartender's best guess.

Six of my deepest, pressing questions: answered. What more is there? Life's mysteries unveiled. Guess it really is time to come home.