It's 7:16 in the morning, and I am sitting on the dusty, dirty floor of DAAP's third floor, waiting to be taught how to weld. Vanessa said they were meeting for an orientation this morning at 7, but as time creeps closer to 7:30 I grow progressively more convinced that I misheard her. Underneath the door of the shop, however, a light creeps out and dances on the finish of the concrete floor; either a light is always left on in the shop, regardless of whether or not it is open, or my comrades will emerge from the room in several moments as master welders, leaving me to return for orientation yet another time.
*sigh*
Well, I suppose I should explain how I found myself at this particular moment. The last time you heard from me was in mid August, during a particularly amusing fight with Bryan. This morning I'm bundled up in a coat, scarf, and moderately practical shoes. Two months have passed, I've been to Paris and back, started school and am half way done with the quarter. My, how time flies.
Paris was spectacular and unlike anything I have ever seen. Like many others I know, I've been bitten by the illusion that I will learn French, snag a fabulous Parisian job, and be living in the Marais in a matter of years. Will this happen? Perhaps not. I will, however, certainly return to the city of light many times in the next couple of years. The city and the way of life is beautiful. I have many pictures to post.
School has also been going well. I spend 60 hours in the studio a week, but I've done well in most of my work. I have yet to find motivation for some classes- drawing, for instance- but I've felt inspired in most other areas. I've developed a solid routine that involves taking the bus, packing a lunch, working my ass off during the week so that I can spend time with Bryan on the weekends; basically I'm finally doing all the stuff I should have been doing last year.
I look up from my laptop to find the shopkeeper, Jim, rushing towards me with profuse apologies and mutterings about sleeping in, a sick cat, and some distorted comment about "that damn dishwasher repair man". He unlocks the door of the shop, waves me in, and asks me to throw my bag in a corner and grab a welding mask. A glance at a torn piece of loose lief taped to the office door informs me that I'm a day early for the orientation. I keep this bit of information to myself in hopes that I can get certified today and sleep in tomorrow. Jim is bustling about the office, clearly still half-asleep, ironically droning on about the importance of alertness and awareness while welding.
Within half and hour I am savvy to the processes of the spot-welder, plasma cutter, and welding machine. A mark is punched on my shop ID to indicate my ability. Tootsie Rolls are thrust in my hand with further apologies for the tardiness. Another comment about "that degenerate" the repairman can be heard among his ramblings. I saunter off towards the cafe for a bagel and coffee.
I am, once again, where I so often find myself to be: in studio. I have drawing to do and a bit of research to conduct. I look out the window and see students walking towards their first classes of the day, and I think of the friends I haven't seen in ages and the normal college diversions I don't have time for. I allow myself to look up for a moment more before grabbing a sheet of 11x17 copy paper and beginning to draw.
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Oh, I could kill him! I could absolutely kill him! Twenty five minutes ago I was tired, worn out by an exhausting double at work and quite ready for bed, but now my blood is surging and I am anything but tired. The nerve! I ask you! I don't think I should let it pass lightly, to be honest with you; just as with dogs and children, boyfriends will continue bad behavior if left unchecked. But I ask you! Am I a fucking dog owner? A mother? I think not! Gngngngngnkigkjfsdjksgkj!!!
Argh. Anyways. Things are as they usually are. I've been working a lot lately in preparation for school and for a trip to Paris, the thought of which would be much more enjoyable were I not traveling by the good grace of the aforementioned jackass. My birthday was last Sunday, which was absolutely perfect- the aforementioned jackass was not a jackass at all last weekend, but rather a perfect gentleman, regardless of his current jackass status- and yesterday I ordered an expensive, delightfully unnecessary digital SLR camera. I've made good money all this week at work, too, though I think it might finally be time for me to serve at a fine dining establishment. Everything is fine, with the exception of the boy.
Honestly! It would be too fucking simple if he were logical, wouldn't it? Too ideal, too easy. Real relationships aren't ideal, but rather so stuffed with bullshit at times that the only real solution to the problem is a particularly large bottle of liquor.
The aforementioned jackass just texted me, saying that he acted like a jackass and to please call him. I called him. Why the fuck did I call him? God, I have no spine. I do, however, have a large bottle of liquor. I am a spineless drinker.
At least I drink good liquor.
Argh. Anyways. Things are as they usually are. I've been working a lot lately in preparation for school and for a trip to Paris, the thought of which would be much more enjoyable were I not traveling by the good grace of the aforementioned jackass. My birthday was last Sunday, which was absolutely perfect- the aforementioned jackass was not a jackass at all last weekend, but rather a perfect gentleman, regardless of his current jackass status- and yesterday I ordered an expensive, delightfully unnecessary digital SLR camera. I've made good money all this week at work, too, though I think it might finally be time for me to serve at a fine dining establishment. Everything is fine, with the exception of the boy.
Honestly! It would be too fucking simple if he were logical, wouldn't it? Too ideal, too easy. Real relationships aren't ideal, but rather so stuffed with bullshit at times that the only real solution to the problem is a particularly large bottle of liquor.
The aforementioned jackass just texted me, saying that he acted like a jackass and to please call him. I called him. Why the fuck did I call him? God, I have no spine. I do, however, have a large bottle of liquor. I am a spineless drinker.
At least I drink good liquor.
Monday, July 30, 2007
"But till I am thirty, I know that my youth will triumph over everything- every disillusionment, every disgust with life. I've asked myself many times whether there is in the world any despair that would overcome this frantic and perhaps unseemly thirst for life in me, and I've come to the conclusion that there isn't, that is till I am thirty, and then I shall lose it of myself, I fancy. Some drivelling consumptive moralists- and poets especially- often call that thirst for life base. It's a feature of the Karamazovs, it's true, that thirst for life regardless of everything; you have it no doubt too, but why is it base? The centripetal force on our planet is still fearfully strong, Alyosha. I have a longing for life, and I go on living in spite of logic. Though I may not believe in the order of the universe, yet I love the sticky little leaves as they open in spring. I love the blue sky, I love some people, whom one loves you know sometimes without knowing why. I love some great deeds done by men, thought I've long ceased perhaps to have faith in them, yet from old habit one's heart prizes them. [...] I want to travel to Europe, Alyosha, I shall set of from here. And yet I know that I am only going to a graveyard, but it's a most precious graveyard, that's what it is! Precious are the dead that lie there, every stone over them speaks of such burning life in the past, of such passionate faith in their work, their truth, their struggle and their science, that I know I shall fall on the ground and kiss those stones and weep over them; though I'm convinced in my heart that it's long been nothing but a graveyard. And I shall not weep from despair, but simply because I shall be happy in my tears, I shall steep my soul in emotion. I love the sticky leaves in spring, the blue sky- that's all it is. It's not a matter of intellect or logic, it's loving with one's inside, with one's stomach. One loves the first strength of one's youth. Do you understand anything of my tirade, Alyosha?" Ivan laughed suddenly.
"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world."
"Love life more than the meaning of it?"
"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov"
"I understand too well, Ivan. One longs to love with one's inside, with one's stomach. You said that so well and I am awfully glad that you have such a longing for life," cried Alyosha. "I think everyone should love life above everything in the world."
"Love life more than the meaning of it?"
"Certainly, love it, regardless of logic as you say, it must be regardless of logic, and it's only then one will understand the meaning of it. I have thought so a long time. Half your work is done, Ivan, you love life, now you've only to try to do the second half and you are saved."
-Fyodor Dostoyevsky, "The Brothers Karamazov"
Friday, June 01, 2007
Today I completed and turned in my last studio project. Though my last exam is not until Wednesday, I experienced the true pain and horror of design finals last week. Two days ago I turned in my design drawing process book, yesterday I turned in my space studio work, and today I turned in a portfolio of the work completed this year. The portfolio is a pdf created in InDesign, and it turned out quite lovely. Considering, however, that my technological incompetence turns the posting of pictures into a complex debacle- even with blogger’s super user-friendly setup- an attempt to post a pdf would result in the spontaneous combustion of my head. We don’t want that. Rather, I plan to bombard you with massive amounts of pictures.
This school year has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced: a dream-like blur of stress and expectation that consumed me so wholly, so completely, that I only now feel as if I’ve returned to the world I knew before. Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic; foundations studies, though challenging weed-out classes, are nothing, nothing, compared to program work. My life, however, has changed because of it. Not only have the components of my life shifted, but I have stumbled upon a sense of specified purpose that I am moving towards at break-neck speed. This time next year I will be returning from a co-op in a design firm. The summer I start on Wednesday will be my last; after this year the breaks between quarters will be two weeks long at most. Come September I will begin my industrial design classes, and in the blink of an eye I will be facing graduation.
I’ve been dreading summer. I’m worried that I’ll have nothing to do. I’m also worried that I will burn out of the restaurant industry much sooner than I am allowed to. Waiting tables is my bread and butter for the next 4 years, yet I’m already sick of it. I absolutely loathe it.
I have fun travel plans for this summer, however. Rob will be marrying his delightful fiance Jasmin on July 7th, and I will be traveling to Salt Lake to attend the wedding, and in September Bryan and I will spend 5 days in Paris. Until then I will be working, sleeping in, dressing up, going out, and saying goodbye to the summers of my youth. This is, after all, the last one.
This school year has been like nothing I’ve ever experienced: a dream-like blur of stress and expectation that consumed me so wholly, so completely, that I only now feel as if I’ve returned to the world I knew before. Perhaps I’m being a bit dramatic; foundations studies, though challenging weed-out classes, are nothing, nothing, compared to program work. My life, however, has changed because of it. Not only have the components of my life shifted, but I have stumbled upon a sense of specified purpose that I am moving towards at break-neck speed. This time next year I will be returning from a co-op in a design firm. The summer I start on Wednesday will be my last; after this year the breaks between quarters will be two weeks long at most. Come September I will begin my industrial design classes, and in the blink of an eye I will be facing graduation.
I’ve been dreading summer. I’m worried that I’ll have nothing to do. I’m also worried that I will burn out of the restaurant industry much sooner than I am allowed to. Waiting tables is my bread and butter for the next 4 years, yet I’m already sick of it. I absolutely loathe it.
I have fun travel plans for this summer, however. Rob will be marrying his delightful fiance Jasmin on July 7th, and I will be traveling to Salt Lake to attend the wedding, and in September Bryan and I will spend 5 days in Paris. Until then I will be working, sleeping in, dressing up, going out, and saying goodbye to the summers of my youth. This is, after all, the last one.
Wednesday, May 30, 2007
I have 10 minutes to write before work; I just skimmed over a friend of a friend's blog, and I immediately felt guilty for neglecting my own. My busy schedule has little room for niceties such as writing, I'm afraid, and because of it I've written very few posts over the past year. This is disheartening, considering that I used to post 7 days a week, but oh well; such is DAAP, after all. Though I'll have no written record to document this past year, I have all sorts of school work that I'm gathering for my portfolio. I've learned to draw this past year; I draw quite well, actually. I suppose I've grown quite a bit but have yet to reflect upon it.
Reflection will come soon; one week from today I will be free for the summer. Granted, I'll be working 40 hours a week, but I suspect my free time will be exponentially more plenteous than it was during the school year. I hope to write and draw plenty over the summer, seeing as this is the last 3-month carefree break I'll ever enjoy, but we'll have to see if any of these lofty goals come to fruition.
note: I've sacrificed my editing time for the sake of quantity. Don't judge if I've misspelled every other world. I am a product of the spell-check generation, after all.
Reflection will come soon; one week from today I will be free for the summer. Granted, I'll be working 40 hours a week, but I suspect my free time will be exponentially more plenteous than it was during the school year. I hope to write and draw plenty over the summer, seeing as this is the last 3-month carefree break I'll ever enjoy, but we'll have to see if any of these lofty goals come to fruition.
note: I've sacrificed my editing time for the sake of quantity. Don't judge if I've misspelled every other world. I am a product of the spell-check generation, after all.
Tuesday, April 17, 2007
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Oh dear god. I am back in school after a short spring break respite. It was all too short, I’m afraid; it feels as if I finished my winter finals yesterday, yet here I am, flipping through 6 new syllabi and buying books again. I finished winter quarter with exactly the same grades as fall quarter: all A’s save an A- in Wolf’s impossible drawing course. I am proud of myself and confident in my chances for a scholarship, so I’ll be holding my breath from now until May.
Much to my dismay, Space studio this quarter is going to resemble fall quarter and not winter quarter; fall quarter was marked by the dreaded, time-consuming “paint-chip” color exercises, whereas all winter work was completed on a computer and consequently less tedious. This quarter, however, we are completing a series of exercises all executed by folding paper. I began school on Monday, and my first all-nighter of the quarter will be tonight.
I am taking my studio courses, a political philosophy course, and an analysis of Shakespeare course, which I am quite excited about. Work is the same: Wednesday and Friday evenings at Mimi’s cafe, resulting in a weekly income of $150. Mum discovered she could add me onto her car insurance, which would save me $75 a month, but I don’t have 6 months pay upfront, unfortunately, and can’t take advantage of the opportunity.
Bryan’s birthday is on the 10th, and I’m terribly worried that finances will prevent me from providing him with a fantastic birthday. When I express these financial concerns he always bats the issue away with a “don’t get me anything”. I know him though, and I know how he loves surprises. I’m going to bake a magnificent cake and collect a few excellent gifts. I’m a resourceful gal, after all, and I always seem to pull through ordeals such as this.
Today will be a taxing day. I have drawing studio in 10 minutes, at which time I will begin a still life that I’ll have to finish over the weekend. I then rush to Mason to work at 5- and I think I’m closing tonight, to boot- and then I must return downtown for a couple of hours of studio work. I look forward to the summer, when I will have completed the first year of my major with flying colors. All is well, dearest readers, though you and I don’t see too much of each other any more. I’ll try to report back more often.
Much to my dismay, Space studio this quarter is going to resemble fall quarter and not winter quarter; fall quarter was marked by the dreaded, time-consuming “paint-chip” color exercises, whereas all winter work was completed on a computer and consequently less tedious. This quarter, however, we are completing a series of exercises all executed by folding paper. I began school on Monday, and my first all-nighter of the quarter will be tonight.
I am taking my studio courses, a political philosophy course, and an analysis of Shakespeare course, which I am quite excited about. Work is the same: Wednesday and Friday evenings at Mimi’s cafe, resulting in a weekly income of $150. Mum discovered she could add me onto her car insurance, which would save me $75 a month, but I don’t have 6 months pay upfront, unfortunately, and can’t take advantage of the opportunity.
Bryan’s birthday is on the 10th, and I’m terribly worried that finances will prevent me from providing him with a fantastic birthday. When I express these financial concerns he always bats the issue away with a “don’t get me anything”. I know him though, and I know how he loves surprises. I’m going to bake a magnificent cake and collect a few excellent gifts. I’m a resourceful gal, after all, and I always seem to pull through ordeals such as this.
Today will be a taxing day. I have drawing studio in 10 minutes, at which time I will begin a still life that I’ll have to finish over the weekend. I then rush to Mason to work at 5- and I think I’m closing tonight, to boot- and then I must return downtown for a couple of hours of studio work. I look forward to the summer, when I will have completed the first year of my major with flying colors. All is well, dearest readers, though you and I don’t see too much of each other any more. I’ll try to report back more often.
Friday, March 16, 2007
Queen Bee and the Ruffians
I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.
The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.
When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.
I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.
Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.
“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.
“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.
“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”
“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”
“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”
“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”
“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.
“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”
“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.
“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”
“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.
As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.
They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.
I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.
“25%” I said.
“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”
“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”
“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”
“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.
“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”
I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.
I smiled as I set their drinks down, plucked the straws from my shirt pocket and placed them beside each glass. Things looked promising for this bunch, much more so than any of the other uneventful guests I’ve waited on this evening. I haven’t received any spectacular tips, nor have I been forced to suffer through hellish customers- I very rarely stumble upon truly intolerable individuals at work, come to think of it- but the night is young and full of perilous possibility.
The older woman on the left side of the booth is anxiously charming, and had arrived before the two younger women who sat beside her now. Her hair was drawn up into one of those masterful hairdos common among older women, rigidly set into unyielding arcs and curls that seem flowing and natural until the creature beneath it moves, and by the coif’s inability to sway with its master one realizes that the hair might as well be set in stone.
When I had asked her what she would like to drink she glanced around, torn between reservedly ordering and gregariously gushing hello. She delicately ordered a pinot grigio before allowing her smile to nervously wither. Her counterparts- loud, oblivious, miller-lite swilling girls- disappointed me, to say the least. I didn’t know quite what to think; upon the arrival of the first bird I’d felt an amazing tip was a sure thing, but if the bill ended up in the wrong hands- and it had a 66% chance of doing so- I wouldn’t be surprised to receive a lackluster 15%.
I sang for my tip regardless as I always do, and slowly eased into a little light humor with the table. The queen bee and one of the ruffians revealed an interest in fashion, and we lamented Marc Jacob’s latest disappointments together. When it came time to order the three were jovially requesting suggestions and asking questions. The fashionable ruffian asked me if I had ever had the veggie stack, and in what I thought was perfectly acceptable good humor responded, “Well, as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes”.
Queen bee misheard me. She must have. Her jaw dropped to the table with an earsplitting thud as if I had just referenced a type of specialty fellatio native to Singapore. Mouth agape, she pointedly gasped at her fellow diners. They must have heard me correctly and thought nothing of it, because they didn’t react to bee’s shock. I stood there awkwardly, almost ready to ask the woman what the hell her problem was and offer another pinot. I decided against it, and, blushing, walked away.
“I have a question for you”, I told Alexis, a fellow server, at the side station.
“Yeah?” she said as she prepared four waters.
“I know it’s not exactly typical, but does the sentence ‘as a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know too much about meatless dishes’ offend you?”
“Damn, girl. You think some crazy shit. I swear to god just yesterday you were all confused about why humans have eyebrows and getting mad at the bread tongs. Now you’re just trippin me out.”
“Oh, I asked my dad about it, by the way. He said they’re to keep the sweat from running into our eyes. And he didn’t have to think about for a second, but it makes perfect sense. I don’t know how he knows all the stuff he knows.”
“Huh”, Alexis muttered. “That does make sense, now that I think about it.”
“Anyways, the comment thing”, I hurriedly said, noticing that I had just received another table that needed tending to.
“As a carnivorous Norwegian I don’t know meatless dishes”, she said to herself, looking up and pausing. “No, doesn’t offend me. Sounds weird though. The word ‘meatless’ is questionable.”
“This woman misunderstood me, and now probably thinks I’m uncouth and inappropriate or something”, I said, squinting my eyes.
“Don’t you hate that” she sympathized. “Cause you can’t help but think that they thought you said the worst possible thing. Once I offered a man desert, and he looked at me, all mad-like, and was like ‘I’m married’. You don’t know what to say, you know?”
“Just another thing to love about the service industry”, I said, grinning. I walked up to my new table and took drink orders. When bee’s and the ruffian’s food came up I had no choice but to return to the table. I delivered their food and acted as comfortable as possible, but found myself not making eye contact at times. Bee was still acting bizarre, though her behavior was not too different from the nervous unease she had displayed earlier. Maybe she had just escaped from a mental institution and showed up at the ruffian’s door for refuge, posing as a long-lost grandmother. She certainly didn’t fit in with the bunch.
As I placed her meal in front of her she was once again marked by overt indecision. She smiled graciously, but before the words “thank you” reached her lips her smile fell, she pursed her lips, squinted her eyes, and looked up at me cockeyed as if she were contemplating throwing a drink in my face. I once again consider my escaped nut-job theory.
They ate their dinner, ordered a couple more drinks, and were soon ready for the bill. Queen bee, much to my dismay, reached for the checkbook and held it in her jewel-clad fingers. Great, I thought to myself: now I’ll be lucky if they pay for just the meal.
I hurried away and doted upon my other tables in an attempt to distract myself. I walked to the kitchen to fix some bread, and when I returned to the garden room bee and the ruffians had gone. Among the glasses of partially finished wine, rumpled linens, and sucked-dry beer bottles on their table was the checkbook. I pocketed the check and walked to the side station. Alexis saw me pull the book from my apron and asked an ambiguous but all too well understood “Well?”. I glanced down, puckered my lips and looked to the window.
“25%” I said.
“Did she pay, or did one of the other girls at the table?”
“No, it was her”, I confirmed. “Crazy get-all-offended lady. She paid and left the tip.”
“Crazy motherfuckers”, she laughed. “It’s so funny; you become a part of these people’s lives for an hour out of the evening, you find out what they like to eat and drink, and how they speak, and sometimes where they’re from and shit. But nothing, absolutely nothing says as much about people as what kind of tip they leave. I will never stop being surprised by people. Crazy motherfuckers.”
“That was downright profound”, I chuckled.
“Well think about it. We know these people better than their friends and family, because tipping is personal. There are no pretenses when it comes time to tip. No more acting. It’s the one act that forces you to put your money where your mouth is.”
I smile at her insight, and reach for the water pitcher. I circle round my tables, an obsequious, smiling vulture, assessing their conditions from above, sneaking plates off of tables, silent and unknown, all while wondering what it was Queen bee thought I had said to her.
Monday, January 22, 2007
Advances in technology and procedure have revolutionized our society and pulled us out of the dark abyss of antiquity in almost every aspect of daily life. There are practices, however, that still plague us with their inconvenience, inefficiency, and incompetence. The process of purchasing textbooks, for example, is in dire need of further evolution. Though buying used textbooks online is a good way to avoid the anguish of paying full price, many times the process is just as painful.
For the most part my experiences with sites such as amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com have been positive; in a matter of minutes I’ve been able to locate the needed textbook for a twentieth of what it costs new and commence the new quarter. The organization and clever layout of the popular sites makes ordering books completely painless. For a brief moment we naive students dance our celebratory dances, ecstatically calculate our hundreds of dollars in savings, and aggressively put two figurative fingers up to the system with all the mutinous rebellion we can muster. But when our books have yet to arrive three weeks later, our camaraderie begins to dwindle and we look ashamedly to our hated nemesis: the bookstore.
It seems a step in the wrong direction to shop at the bookstore in light of our many options. The truth of the matter, however, is that textbooks are actually fairly priced, and campus bookstores only keep 4.5% of textbooks sales (after operating costs, personnel, and taxes have been paid). There is no big-business villain clutching a dollar-stamped bag to blame for the price of textbooks. “Academic books, especially specialized ones for graduate courses, have a lower sales volume than popular books, causing costs to be spread out over a smaller base number, thereby increasing a book's unit cost,” explains a statement recently released from the University of Cincinnati’s Department of University Relations.
Thus there is no easy fix to the problem of high textbook costs. Students have found ways to get creative, but any alternative method will have its pros and cons. No company can mass-distribute used goods for the low prices that individual sellers can, and unfortunately that is where the steals are found on sites such as amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com (buying books new from these sites provide the consumer with the dependability of a big seller, but is seldom much cheaper than the bookstore). Buying from an individual seller is cumbersome, and anyone who has ever dealt with Ebay will know that; few sellers are easy to get in contact with, professional, and prompt. The sellers that carry the texts students need are most often other students and therefore even less likely to execute an online transaction with professionalism. Orders are sometimes cancelled- as were three of mine this quarter- or delayed, and at times the savings made possible by this bothersome process are completely negated, especially if one has to hunt down and photocopy library copies to complete the first couple of assignments. Ordering textbooks a month ahead of time also has its disadvantages; if you’re anything like me and the other 20% of students who refuse to buy a text until reading has been assigned- nothing is more frustrating than dropping $60 on a book that the teacher never uses- then ordering books prematurely is not the most attractive option.
It seems as if whether we buy our books from the bookstore or order them online we will be left wrathfully swearing under our breath. As seamless as amazon.com may make the process seem, textbooks will continue to act as the vile bane of our existence for some time to come. Though tiresome the old adage may be, it certainly rings true in this case: “If it seems to good to be true, it probably is”.
For the most part my experiences with sites such as amazon.com and barnesandnoble.com have been positive; in a matter of minutes I’ve been able to locate the needed textbook for a twentieth of what it costs new and commence the new quarter. The organization and clever layout of the popular sites makes ordering books completely painless. For a brief moment we naive students dance our celebratory dances, ecstatically calculate our hundreds of dollars in savings, and aggressively put two figurative fingers up to the system with all the mutinous rebellion we can muster. But when our books have yet to arrive three weeks later, our camaraderie begins to dwindle and we look ashamedly to our hated nemesis: the bookstore.
It seems a step in the wrong direction to shop at the bookstore in light of our many options. The truth of the matter, however, is that textbooks are actually fairly priced, and campus bookstores only keep 4.5% of textbooks sales (after operating costs, personnel, and taxes have been paid). There is no big-business villain clutching a dollar-stamped bag to blame for the price of textbooks. “Academic books, especially specialized ones for graduate courses, have a lower sales volume than popular books, causing costs to be spread out over a smaller base number, thereby increasing a book's unit cost,” explains a statement recently released from the University of Cincinnati’s Department of University Relations.
Thus there is no easy fix to the problem of high textbook costs. Students have found ways to get creative, but any alternative method will have its pros and cons. No company can mass-distribute used goods for the low prices that individual sellers can, and unfortunately that is where the steals are found on sites such as amazon.com or barnesandnoble.com (buying books new from these sites provide the consumer with the dependability of a big seller, but is seldom much cheaper than the bookstore). Buying from an individual seller is cumbersome, and anyone who has ever dealt with Ebay will know that; few sellers are easy to get in contact with, professional, and prompt. The sellers that carry the texts students need are most often other students and therefore even less likely to execute an online transaction with professionalism. Orders are sometimes cancelled- as were three of mine this quarter- or delayed, and at times the savings made possible by this bothersome process are completely negated, especially if one has to hunt down and photocopy library copies to complete the first couple of assignments. Ordering textbooks a month ahead of time also has its disadvantages; if you’re anything like me and the other 20% of students who refuse to buy a text until reading has been assigned- nothing is more frustrating than dropping $60 on a book that the teacher never uses- then ordering books prematurely is not the most attractive option.
It seems as if whether we buy our books from the bookstore or order them online we will be left wrathfully swearing under our breath. As seamless as amazon.com may make the process seem, textbooks will continue to act as the vile bane of our existence for some time to come. Though tiresome the old adage may be, it certainly rings true in this case: “If it seems to good to be true, it probably is”.
On November 7th, 2006, Ohioans voted to ban smoking in public places. Two months later, after the proverbial smoke has cleared, the disgruntled, defeated individuals opposed to the bill have angrily sauntered home for a consolatory cigarette, and the victors zealously enjoy the triumph, public smoking can still be found in restaurants, bars, and doorways all over the city; eyebrows are beginning to raise. Though the bill has been enacted since December 7th, the Ohio Health Department, which is responsible for enforcing the ban, will not do so until regulations have been decided upon. The board of health has until June to begin enforcement of the ban, though Health Department spokesman Jay Carey said that they anticipate enforcement to begin in early April.
Until then, Cincinnati will wait in limbo. The Hamilton County Health Commissioner has been quoted as saying that 90% of the county’s restaurants and bars were smoke-free upon inspection, yet a Cincinnati Enquirer article published last Friday named several establishments that still proudly permit smoking. Due to the legal complications impeding enforcement of the ban, the Health Department hands out what little punishment it can to those blatantly resisting the law: an informational letter politely outlining the demands of the law, a metaphorical slap on the wrist so mild it almost seems playful. Like the rent-a-cops that patrol our nation’s malls, the helpless ban nearly begs you to steal its pristine hat and engage in a game of keep-away. Restaurants that feel no need to post the required “no smoking” signs now flaunt signs that instead say “smoking permitted”.
A lack of uniform compliance to the new law will give the owners of many establishments reason to complain, and rightfully so; a state-wide smoking ban will not prevent smokers and non-smokers alike from frequenting restaurants and bars, but a poorly-enforced one will detrimentally impact businesses in full observance of the law. Though a surge in bar patrons across the river in Kentucky wouldn’t be too surprising, I doubt smokers would abandon their favorite bar in Mason, Ohio in favor of one 35 minutes away simply for the right to smoke inside. If, however, bars across the street allowed smoking, one could easily understand how smoke-free bars would lose business to their local, dissentious brethren.
This past Saturday I visited three bars and two restaurants around the city to see how many were following the new law, and to hear the general opinions of the employees and patrons. Only one of the five had posted a sign and effectively removed smoking; not only were the other four full of customers happily and proudly puffing their favorite tobacco, but the employees behind the bar in three of the establishments spoke with me while Bogarting Marlboros. One patron- who good naturedly said I could cite him as only “Jimmy the Greek”- represented the opinions of most of the individuals I spoke with: until inspectors start handing out tickets, he’s not going to stop smoking in his favorite bar unless “someone puts a gun to [his] head”. Expensive fines, however, will succeed in prohibiting Jimmy and his friends from smoking in public. Only one patron refused to entertain the thought of complying: “It’s my right to smoke, and these tickets sound more amusing than intimidating”, the patron said, as he tapped a cigarette in an ashtray in front of him.
Bruce Rose, of Northside’s newly smoke-free Blue Jay Restaurant, however, says that the majority of serious restaurants will not risk blatant disobedience to the ban, and that the restaurant he works in hasn’t lost a bit of business because of the smoking ban. A red “no smoking” sign is the first thing that greets costumers as they walk into the Blue Jay, and ashtrays and cigarettes are nowhere to be seen. Bruce isn’t thrilled about the change because he himself is a smoker, but he doesn’t particularly care whether or not other Cincinnati bars resist the ban. “Why would they?” he asked, well aware of the lack of enforcement.
Such is the tone amongst many in regards to the unprepared and sloppily executed ban. Regardless of whether or not one supports or disagrees with the law, we can all see how premature enactment has led to confusion and made it hard for all of us to take it seriously. Is Cincinnati really delusional enough a city to think that sense of duty alone will hold controversial change intact? Enacting the ban before enforcement is possible was a mistake, but at least it has given smokers downtown something to laugh about until the city cracks down on smoking later this year. And who knows? Even April may not bring the transformation we’ve all been expecting since last November. “Come on, honey,” Jimmy jovially laughed as he looked around the strident, raucous inhabitants of his local bar. “If a health inspector walked in here and started writing us tickets, do you honestly think we’d let him leave?”
Until then, Cincinnati will wait in limbo. The Hamilton County Health Commissioner has been quoted as saying that 90% of the county’s restaurants and bars were smoke-free upon inspection, yet a Cincinnati Enquirer article published last Friday named several establishments that still proudly permit smoking. Due to the legal complications impeding enforcement of the ban, the Health Department hands out what little punishment it can to those blatantly resisting the law: an informational letter politely outlining the demands of the law, a metaphorical slap on the wrist so mild it almost seems playful. Like the rent-a-cops that patrol our nation’s malls, the helpless ban nearly begs you to steal its pristine hat and engage in a game of keep-away. Restaurants that feel no need to post the required “no smoking” signs now flaunt signs that instead say “smoking permitted”.
A lack of uniform compliance to the new law will give the owners of many establishments reason to complain, and rightfully so; a state-wide smoking ban will not prevent smokers and non-smokers alike from frequenting restaurants and bars, but a poorly-enforced one will detrimentally impact businesses in full observance of the law. Though a surge in bar patrons across the river in Kentucky wouldn’t be too surprising, I doubt smokers would abandon their favorite bar in Mason, Ohio in favor of one 35 minutes away simply for the right to smoke inside. If, however, bars across the street allowed smoking, one could easily understand how smoke-free bars would lose business to their local, dissentious brethren.
This past Saturday I visited three bars and two restaurants around the city to see how many were following the new law, and to hear the general opinions of the employees and patrons. Only one of the five had posted a sign and effectively removed smoking; not only were the other four full of customers happily and proudly puffing their favorite tobacco, but the employees behind the bar in three of the establishments spoke with me while Bogarting Marlboros. One patron- who good naturedly said I could cite him as only “Jimmy the Greek”- represented the opinions of most of the individuals I spoke with: until inspectors start handing out tickets, he’s not going to stop smoking in his favorite bar unless “someone puts a gun to [his] head”. Expensive fines, however, will succeed in prohibiting Jimmy and his friends from smoking in public. Only one patron refused to entertain the thought of complying: “It’s my right to smoke, and these tickets sound more amusing than intimidating”, the patron said, as he tapped a cigarette in an ashtray in front of him.
Bruce Rose, of Northside’s newly smoke-free Blue Jay Restaurant, however, says that the majority of serious restaurants will not risk blatant disobedience to the ban, and that the restaurant he works in hasn’t lost a bit of business because of the smoking ban. A red “no smoking” sign is the first thing that greets costumers as they walk into the Blue Jay, and ashtrays and cigarettes are nowhere to be seen. Bruce isn’t thrilled about the change because he himself is a smoker, but he doesn’t particularly care whether or not other Cincinnati bars resist the ban. “Why would they?” he asked, well aware of the lack of enforcement.
Such is the tone amongst many in regards to the unprepared and sloppily executed ban. Regardless of whether or not one supports or disagrees with the law, we can all see how premature enactment has led to confusion and made it hard for all of us to take it seriously. Is Cincinnati really delusional enough a city to think that sense of duty alone will hold controversial change intact? Enacting the ban before enforcement is possible was a mistake, but at least it has given smokers downtown something to laugh about until the city cracks down on smoking later this year. And who knows? Even April may not bring the transformation we’ve all been expecting since last November. “Come on, honey,” Jimmy jovially laughed as he looked around the strident, raucous inhabitants of his local bar. “If a health inspector walked in here and started writing us tickets, do you honestly think we’d let him leave?”
With the remembrance of the United States’ astronomical obesity and energy consumption statistics burning brightly in the back of our minds, one is likely to guess, fatalistically enough, that the United States is losing the recycling game as well. Such is not the case: in a list that peaks at 49% and bottoms out at 4%, recycling statistics comparing European and North American countries showed that in 2001 the United States recycled 32% of the 409 million tons of generated waste.
The University of Cincinnati’s recycling statistics are no less impressive; in 2004 the University recycled 4,902 tons of waste, and, according to UC’s Administrative and Business Services website, has 115 toters in 29 buildings across campus devoted to recycling mixed office paper.
Do you use any of them?
As embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve used these bins no more than three times during the school year (and that’s a rather optimistic estimate). I even know where many of the ninety-gallon toters are located- one sits strategically outside the freshman studios in the DAAP building, probably less than fifteen feet away from my locker and studio classes- yet I can’t recall embarking on the arduous, fifteen-foot pilgrimage to the recycling bin (There goes my right to condemn American apathy, I suppose).
This realization, however humiliating, has led me to the belief that if UC’s recycling habits have room for improvement- and of course they do- the students and faculty should be the first to change. UC has provided students with an easy, accessible way to recycle. If the average student is anything like me, however, then UC students are not taking advantage of the opportunity.
Clearly recycling needs to be brought back to the attention of students and faculty. The 1990s boasted a nation-wide elevated awareness of the importance of recycling, but the past few years have shown waned enthusiasm. In 2002 Americans only recycled 21% of plastic bottles, as opposed to the 37% we recycled in 1995. Has this trend of indifference extended to the University of Cincinnati?
When I first began pondering this article, I thought of several improvements that needed to be made to UC Recycling: I find the absence of those ever-amusing can-crushing devices to be quite bothersome, and I’ve always been befuddled as to why America doesn’t have the quad garbage/recycling bins I’ve seen on every corner in Norway, Germany, and Spain. Reflecting on the minimal use I get out of the bins we do have on campus, however, makes me wonder whether or not we’d actually make use of additional options. Stuffing our recyclables into the wrong compartment of a quad container out of stupidity, carelessness, or juvenile and sick amusement seems a behavior much more likely to be displayed by American college students.
What could be done to recapture our concern? Perhaps flyers posted above trash cans, a brief reminder given by teachers at the beginning of each quarter, or campus-wide incentives (“STUDENTS GRANTED DISCOUNTED PARKING PASSES FOR RECYCLING”) would bring student’s attention back to our crucial need to recycle. As inconsequential as these actions may be, I suspect they would successfully encourage students to recycle (especially the parking thing; I bet we’d ceremoniously offer our grandmothers to the heathenistic gods of recycling- all while wearing loin cloths and war paint- if it meant free parking). The many benefits of recycling are well known, and it is an activity many agree with but simply forget to support. Hopefully we can focus our efforts and, as students, faculty and employees, aid UC’s efforts to recycle and produce less waste. Which, as estimated by the Environmental Protection Agency, “are equivalent to planting approximately 3,300,000 trees.
The University of Cincinnati’s recycling statistics are no less impressive; in 2004 the University recycled 4,902 tons of waste, and, according to UC’s Administrative and Business Services website, has 115 toters in 29 buildings across campus devoted to recycling mixed office paper.
Do you use any of them?
As embarrassing as it is to admit, I’ve used these bins no more than three times during the school year (and that’s a rather optimistic estimate). I even know where many of the ninety-gallon toters are located- one sits strategically outside the freshman studios in the DAAP building, probably less than fifteen feet away from my locker and studio classes- yet I can’t recall embarking on the arduous, fifteen-foot pilgrimage to the recycling bin (There goes my right to condemn American apathy, I suppose).
This realization, however humiliating, has led me to the belief that if UC’s recycling habits have room for improvement- and of course they do- the students and faculty should be the first to change. UC has provided students with an easy, accessible way to recycle. If the average student is anything like me, however, then UC students are not taking advantage of the opportunity.
Clearly recycling needs to be brought back to the attention of students and faculty. The 1990s boasted a nation-wide elevated awareness of the importance of recycling, but the past few years have shown waned enthusiasm. In 2002 Americans only recycled 21% of plastic bottles, as opposed to the 37% we recycled in 1995. Has this trend of indifference extended to the University of Cincinnati?
When I first began pondering this article, I thought of several improvements that needed to be made to UC Recycling: I find the absence of those ever-amusing can-crushing devices to be quite bothersome, and I’ve always been befuddled as to why America doesn’t have the quad garbage/recycling bins I’ve seen on every corner in Norway, Germany, and Spain. Reflecting on the minimal use I get out of the bins we do have on campus, however, makes me wonder whether or not we’d actually make use of additional options. Stuffing our recyclables into the wrong compartment of a quad container out of stupidity, carelessness, or juvenile and sick amusement seems a behavior much more likely to be displayed by American college students.
What could be done to recapture our concern? Perhaps flyers posted above trash cans, a brief reminder given by teachers at the beginning of each quarter, or campus-wide incentives (“STUDENTS GRANTED DISCOUNTED PARKING PASSES FOR RECYCLING”) would bring student’s attention back to our crucial need to recycle. As inconsequential as these actions may be, I suspect they would successfully encourage students to recycle (especially the parking thing; I bet we’d ceremoniously offer our grandmothers to the heathenistic gods of recycling- all while wearing loin cloths and war paint- if it meant free parking). The many benefits of recycling are well known, and it is an activity many agree with but simply forget to support. Hopefully we can focus our efforts and, as students, faculty and employees, aid UC’s efforts to recycle and produce less waste. Which, as estimated by the Environmental Protection Agency, “are equivalent to planting approximately 3,300,000 trees.
Thursday, January 18, 2007
I have a million things I could be doing right now: the form assignment that was assigned less than 30 minutes ago, the comparative literature essay that is due next Thursday, the 15 sketches for drawing that is due next Wednesday, the stock portfolio for economics, review of art history, and so on and so forth. However, I have decided to give in to my complete inability to focus, and piddle about instead during my one-hour break between form studio and economics. I’ve been at school since 9:30 this morning (and I’ll be in class until nine this evening!), and have lost motivation.
The day has been productive, so to speak. Despite printing problems I had this morning I was able to attend all three classes punctually and prepared. Quite honestly, though, I always have printer problems. Printing at home is not an option, because neither my father nor Bryan has a printer heavy-duty (read: decent) enough to do the trick, the computer graphics center does not allow the use of specialty paper, and kinkos is full of useless middle-aged delinquents too preoccupied with their general failure as human beings to be of any assistance (I’ve made a couple of enemies there). Not only does my father’s printer do a horrible job, but also upon warming up it hisses, beeps, and rattles with such fury that I suspect complete possession by a most violent spirit. Between the printer demon of hell, the CGC’s flimsy paper, and kinkos band of ruffians, I am left with no way to print my assignments, save my own creativity and resourcefulness. In the end I conceded to the gods of big business, and went to kinkos- the one up in Mason, not the criminal-ridden one down here by UC.
I don’t feel very well. All I’ve had to eat today is the breakfast I had back home in Mason and vending-machine junk from DAAP. Subsequently my eye has been twitching maniacally since the early afternoon. Half way through studio, when I muttered to my studio mates about my ailment, Whitney relayed to me the fact that such conditions are brought on by unhealthy eating habits. I nodded with interest as I plunged my hand back into a bag of potato chips I had purchased earlier.
Economics is upon me, I’m afraid, so I must dash. This is the last class of the day, luckily enough, considering that it’s three steady hours of dry economics.
The day has been productive, so to speak. Despite printing problems I had this morning I was able to attend all three classes punctually and prepared. Quite honestly, though, I always have printer problems. Printing at home is not an option, because neither my father nor Bryan has a printer heavy-duty (read: decent) enough to do the trick, the computer graphics center does not allow the use of specialty paper, and kinkos is full of useless middle-aged delinquents too preoccupied with their general failure as human beings to be of any assistance (I’ve made a couple of enemies there). Not only does my father’s printer do a horrible job, but also upon warming up it hisses, beeps, and rattles with such fury that I suspect complete possession by a most violent spirit. Between the printer demon of hell, the CGC’s flimsy paper, and kinkos band of ruffians, I am left with no way to print my assignments, save my own creativity and resourcefulness. In the end I conceded to the gods of big business, and went to kinkos- the one up in Mason, not the criminal-ridden one down here by UC.
I don’t feel very well. All I’ve had to eat today is the breakfast I had back home in Mason and vending-machine junk from DAAP. Subsequently my eye has been twitching maniacally since the early afternoon. Half way through studio, when I muttered to my studio mates about my ailment, Whitney relayed to me the fact that such conditions are brought on by unhealthy eating habits. I nodded with interest as I plunged my hand back into a bag of potato chips I had purchased earlier.
Economics is upon me, I’m afraid, so I must dash. This is the last class of the day, luckily enough, considering that it’s three steady hours of dry economics.
I hope all is well, my dearest readers, and that we are collectively pulling through the sludge of post-holiday January unscathed. What a dreadful time of year this always is; money is tight, everywhere, and the few people dining out let their pending Macy's bill prevent them from tipping decently. Winter is snuggling into the landscape, settling down for a long, lingering nap, and we poor inhabitants simply don't have Christmas/Hanukah/Kwanza to distract us from the inclement weather. Speaking of, however, who in the US actually celebrates Kwanza? Is its inclusion yet another half-assed attempt to recognize the mistreated African Americans of this country, the majority of which have never been to Africa and couldn't care less about Kwanza? Honestly. That's neither here nor there, I suppose, but is a rant of the season regardless.
Things are well here in Cincinnati. I am back in school, however, and have decided to be honest and realistic about my abilities: I won't write when I'm in school. Though the therapeutic benefits of the activity are direly needed when I'm in the middle of a quarter, there's simply no time. Luckily enough for me, I've decided to make time, in a way; I now have a weekly opinion column for the University of Cincinnati's News Record. As silly as it sounds, I'm quite proud of it and roughly 50% of the stuff I write (sometimes time runs out and one must publish rubbish. I am not excusing this, but it happens nonetheless). Its basically similar to the things I whine about here, but published consistently. If you are interested, go to newsrecord.org and click on opinion. On the opinion page you will find the brilliantly titled column "sensible skeptical", and, quite luckily, no picture (the one they took for the hard copies is horrid). I would post a direct link, but I am tired and cold and ready for bed. It's late and I must get up early to complete studio work. Also, I think I am catching Bry Bry's cold. That is all.
Things are well here in Cincinnati. I am back in school, however, and have decided to be honest and realistic about my abilities: I won't write when I'm in school. Though the therapeutic benefits of the activity are direly needed when I'm in the middle of a quarter, there's simply no time. Luckily enough for me, I've decided to make time, in a way; I now have a weekly opinion column for the University of Cincinnati's News Record. As silly as it sounds, I'm quite proud of it and roughly 50% of the stuff I write (sometimes time runs out and one must publish rubbish. I am not excusing this, but it happens nonetheless). Its basically similar to the things I whine about here, but published consistently. If you are interested, go to newsrecord.org and click on opinion. On the opinion page you will find the brilliantly titled column "sensible skeptical", and, quite luckily, no picture (the one they took for the hard copies is horrid). I would post a direct link, but I am tired and cold and ready for bed. It's late and I must get up early to complete studio work. Also, I think I am catching Bry Bry's cold. That is all.
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