This is just a head's up that tomorrow will feature massive updates. And lots of pictures. Think hours of reading.
Clear your schedule.
Sunday, April 12, 2009
Thursday, April 2, 2009
I'm about to get my mind blown by spring.
Oh, hey! I remember you. Sorry I went AWOL. Classes and stuff. It's okay, though, since I'm back now. Let me give you a brief overview of how my past couple weeks have gone.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Sleep.
Eat.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Sleep.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Sleep.
Watch Meet the Spartans.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Throw up in kitchen sink while friends are present.
Finish eating.
Go to class.
Eat.
Sleep.
Write Division III proposal.
Sleep.
Snood.
Eat.
Snood.
Sleep.
Eat.
Sleep.
Eat a Big Mac.
Skype.
Sleep.
Eat.
Read.
Eat.
Sleep.
Eat.
Climb Arthur's Seat.
Eat.
Snood.
Sleep.
There's the basic outline. Let me fill in a few details, however. Like what I ate. And why I got sick.
I made a corned beef. This was our "Second Saint Patrick's Day," or more accurately, "Ashley couldn't find a corned beef anywhere in Edinburgh and so instead they had 'Evacuation Day Burgers and Guinness' and now they need to eat that corned beef" Day. I bought a brisket from a butcher, made a lasagna for dinner that night and friend came over to help me eat it. It was delicious, if burnt. Anyway, the brisket. I poured salt all over it, wrapped it in damp paper towels, and put it in the fridge. Then I left it, re-salting every so often. On Tuesday, I prepared it by simmering it for five hours. There were concerns from some of the residents of Flat 13 that the meal would be too greasy, and a certain Flat 8 person (okay, okay -- Robert) wanted to fry the cabbage in butter. I was given eyebrow-waggles for cutting the carrots into pieces too big to cook and the potato into pieces too small to dominate the other vegetables. However, when the meal was ready to eat, there was Irish soda bread (made by eyeballing the ingredients because, hey, there's no such thing as measuring cups in the UK). They use scales.
Helpful hint: if you enjoy baking and plan on studying abroad, I advise you to bring your own measuring cups.
Either way, the meal was delicious, even if I didn't slice the meat properly. And also, I made the most amazing burgers ever made in the UK. Because Wannaburger was a huge, over-priced disappointment. The meat had been over-worked; they added too much and didn't let the beef speak for itself at all, which is a real problem for me. You shouldn't taste the pepper more than the cow. Also, they call it seven ounces, and that may be. But it is not juicy -- it's dry, possibly a result of the meat being over-mixed -- and it's certainly not thick. I felt like I was eating a veggie burger. The patty was made with a press so it had the perfect uniformity of pre-fab burgers bought in bulk for a cook-out. And about as much succulence, as well. Also, price-wise, you were paying between 8-10 pounds for the burger. The burger. Doesn't come with fries. You have to order the fries on the side. And then, they give you a very small serving of them, for a pound-twenty-five. They don't even have a very impressive selection of them.
I also learned that Robert and his mother convince his father to go to the Mall of America by promising they'll go to Hooters afterward. Why is that so upsetting to me? I ask because I feel like my mother might actually have the answer to that question.
My creative writing workshop -- well, Will, Beth, and I -- had lunch together before the last class and were sitting around. Will said something really funny when I had a mouth full of drink and, uh, no, it didn't go out my nose. I know I've been known to spray things out my nose before. But no. I held it in and ran to the sink, thinking I could spit it out there. And I threw up because I was laughing too hard. In a sink full of water and dishes. With the stopper in place. Hallelujah.
Eh, it's funnier than it is embarrassing.
Yeah, I also wrote my Div III proposal and have my Div III committee pretty firmly in place.
Chair: Lesy
Member: Michele Hardesty
Just Because She's Awesome: Professor Hillary Moss, from Amherst
Then Lloyd made us watch Meet the Spartans and a little piece of my heart died. Granted, the "Shaq, Kobe, Tommy Lee" list was kindasorta funny, but it was only funny if you actually knew serious details about Carmen Electra's love life. Which I happen to know. Kill me now, please. I am offended by the existence of this movie, which was so unfunny it hurt. How stupid do filmmakers think people are? And Lloyd had been doing so well, too. I was willing to forgive him for Sign of the Cross, but when I went to hand in my logbook and he laughed, asked me if I "enjoyed that," referring, obviously to Meet the Spartans, everything in my body revolted. I stared at him, the other Ashley-face firmly in place. I waited, trying to find words to express my distaste. And finally settled on simplicity. "No."
But now I'm done with classes and loving the new episodes of Gossip Girl. I got a package this morning and I don't know who it's from because I need to go pick it up. But the post offices here keep the strangest hours. 6:00-12:30. What? Who does that? That just means I can't pick it up until Tuesday, which is fine. I'm used to waiting to see who sent me stuff, though it used to be easier to guess.
Arthur's Seat is really beautiful. It's the Queen's property and I heard rumors that you can drink in public there, camp, etc. It's also scary going up if you're the least bit klutzy, because you'll fall or stumble at least once. It's not a long hike, but it's intense for something so short. I did it in about twenty minutes and was hurting a little bit. But the view is incredible and totally worth it. It was really nice to see the water, too.
Spring is about to pop here. Today, I am wearing capris and a tee shirt. No sweater. No coat. It's gorgeous. The trees outside the windows in the kitchen and my room are turning green with buds so ready to burst I'm surprised they haven't yet. There are blackbirds everywhere; I'm almost afraid to bake a pie. (Come on, you know where that's from.)
Anyway, I'm off to London with Robert and meeting up with Byron for some musical pilgrimage that Byron and I have planned since, uh, well, I was in tenth grade. At last, my loves, at last! I'll be back on the 6th, but I'm hoping I can con some sports bar into playing Opening Day at Tropicana. (God, I hate indoor fields.) Then on the 7th, I'm off to Shetland for Easter. So you may or may not get updates before the twelfth. I can make you no promises, other than that you WILL hear about London and Shetland both, eventually.
Cheers, lovey.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Sleep.
Eat.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Sleep.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Sleep.
Watch Meet the Spartans.
Write paper.
Hand in paper.
Eat.
Throw up in kitchen sink while friends are present.
Finish eating.
Go to class.
Eat.
Sleep.
Write Division III proposal.
Sleep.
Snood.
Eat.
Snood.
Sleep.
Eat.
Sleep.
Eat a Big Mac.
Skype.
Sleep.
Eat.
Read.
Eat.
Sleep.
Eat.
Climb Arthur's Seat.
Eat.
Snood.
Sleep.
There's the basic outline. Let me fill in a few details, however. Like what I ate. And why I got sick.
I made a corned beef. This was our "Second Saint Patrick's Day," or more accurately, "Ashley couldn't find a corned beef anywhere in Edinburgh and so instead they had 'Evacuation Day Burgers and Guinness' and now they need to eat that corned beef" Day. I bought a brisket from a butcher, made a lasagna for dinner that night and friend came over to help me eat it. It was delicious, if burnt. Anyway, the brisket. I poured salt all over it, wrapped it in damp paper towels, and put it in the fridge. Then I left it, re-salting every so often. On Tuesday, I prepared it by simmering it for five hours. There were concerns from some of the residents of Flat 13 that the meal would be too greasy, and a certain Flat 8 person (okay, okay -- Robert) wanted to fry the cabbage in butter. I was given eyebrow-waggles for cutting the carrots into pieces too big to cook and the potato into pieces too small to dominate the other vegetables. However, when the meal was ready to eat, there was Irish soda bread (made by eyeballing the ingredients because, hey, there's no such thing as measuring cups in the UK). They use scales.
Helpful hint: if you enjoy baking and plan on studying abroad, I advise you to bring your own measuring cups.
Either way, the meal was delicious, even if I didn't slice the meat properly. And also, I made the most amazing burgers ever made in the UK. Because Wannaburger was a huge, over-priced disappointment. The meat had been over-worked; they added too much and didn't let the beef speak for itself at all, which is a real problem for me. You shouldn't taste the pepper more than the cow. Also, they call it seven ounces, and that may be. But it is not juicy -- it's dry, possibly a result of the meat being over-mixed -- and it's certainly not thick. I felt like I was eating a veggie burger. The patty was made with a press so it had the perfect uniformity of pre-fab burgers bought in bulk for a cook-out. And about as much succulence, as well. Also, price-wise, you were paying between 8-10 pounds for the burger. The burger. Doesn't come with fries. You have to order the fries on the side. And then, they give you a very small serving of them, for a pound-twenty-five. They don't even have a very impressive selection of them.
I also learned that Robert and his mother convince his father to go to the Mall of America by promising they'll go to Hooters afterward. Why is that so upsetting to me? I ask because I feel like my mother might actually have the answer to that question.
My creative writing workshop -- well, Will, Beth, and I -- had lunch together before the last class and were sitting around. Will said something really funny when I had a mouth full of drink and, uh, no, it didn't go out my nose. I know I've been known to spray things out my nose before. But no. I held it in and ran to the sink, thinking I could spit it out there. And I threw up because I was laughing too hard. In a sink full of water and dishes. With the stopper in place. Hallelujah.
Eh, it's funnier than it is embarrassing.
Yeah, I also wrote my Div III proposal and have my Div III committee pretty firmly in place.
Chair: Lesy
Member: Michele Hardesty
Just Because She's Awesome: Professor Hillary Moss, from Amherst
Then Lloyd made us watch Meet the Spartans and a little piece of my heart died. Granted, the "Shaq, Kobe, Tommy Lee" list was kindasorta funny, but it was only funny if you actually knew serious details about Carmen Electra's love life. Which I happen to know. Kill me now, please. I am offended by the existence of this movie, which was so unfunny it hurt. How stupid do filmmakers think people are? And Lloyd had been doing so well, too. I was willing to forgive him for Sign of the Cross, but when I went to hand in my logbook and he laughed, asked me if I "enjoyed that," referring, obviously to Meet the Spartans, everything in my body revolted. I stared at him, the other Ashley-face firmly in place. I waited, trying to find words to express my distaste. And finally settled on simplicity. "No."
But now I'm done with classes and loving the new episodes of Gossip Girl. I got a package this morning and I don't know who it's from because I need to go pick it up. But the post offices here keep the strangest hours. 6:00-12:30. What? Who does that? That just means I can't pick it up until Tuesday, which is fine. I'm used to waiting to see who sent me stuff, though it used to be easier to guess.
Arthur's Seat is really beautiful. It's the Queen's property and I heard rumors that you can drink in public there, camp, etc. It's also scary going up if you're the least bit klutzy, because you'll fall or stumble at least once. It's not a long hike, but it's intense for something so short. I did it in about twenty minutes and was hurting a little bit. But the view is incredible and totally worth it. It was really nice to see the water, too.
Spring is about to pop here. Today, I am wearing capris and a tee shirt. No sweater. No coat. It's gorgeous. The trees outside the windows in the kitchen and my room are turning green with buds so ready to burst I'm surprised they haven't yet. There are blackbirds everywhere; I'm almost afraid to bake a pie. (Come on, you know where that's from.)
Anyway, I'm off to London with Robert and meeting up with Byron for some musical pilgrimage that Byron and I have planned since, uh, well, I was in tenth grade. At last, my loves, at last! I'll be back on the 6th, but I'm hoping I can con some sports bar into playing Opening Day at Tropicana. (God, I hate indoor fields.) Then on the 7th, I'm off to Shetland for Easter. So you may or may not get updates before the twelfth. I can make you no promises, other than that you WILL hear about London and Shetland both, eventually.
Cheers, lovey.
 |
| From Edinburgh |
Tuesday, March 17, 2009
I'll be in the dark but you'll be out of sight
Updates coming soon, I promise.
But you have no idea how busy (and happy) I've been lately.
But you have no idea how busy (and happy) I've been lately.
Tuesday, March 10, 2009
Every girl should get daisies
Today, I cleaned my room, did my laundry, vacuumed, and bought a wallet. [Yes, K, truly. I know, right?] And some Gerbera daisies. And I think I figured out how to put my pictures into my blog so that you can see the whole thing... For dinner, I made myself a delicious Monte Cristo sandwich, and decided that I want to write more about food here.
Like how I sometimes go online and look at Bartley's menu and daydream.
But really, tomorrow night is a Flat 13 dinner -- I'm making macaroni and cheese and already the "But it's not orange" and "You use extra sharp? I use mild" comments are pouring in from all sides. And then I'm told that it's a traditional Scottish dish, but I'm pretty sure that it's American. Unless it's American the way Harry Potter is American, which I doubt.
Like how I sometimes go online and look at Bartley's menu and daydream.
But really, tomorrow night is a Flat 13 dinner -- I'm making macaroni and cheese and already the "But it's not orange" and "You use extra sharp? I use mild" comments are pouring in from all sides. And then I'm told that it's a traditional Scottish dish, but I'm pretty sure that it's American. Unless it's American the way Harry Potter is American, which I doubt.
Sometimes it's hard to tell the wishing from the well.
Podcasts were pretty clearly invented by the devil. Podcasts, blogs, facebook, email, all of it. Invented by the creepy androgynous floating creature in The Passion of the Christ.
Star lyrics I'm dying over:
"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'
The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.
You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."
Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.
He deserved it.
"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."
It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."
I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.
At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.
Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.
Father. My. Children.
Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."
Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)
Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.
"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."
Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.
Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.
Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.
Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.
By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)
Star lyrics I'm dying over:
"The rain fell hard on the roof that day.
You telephone from far away.
I see the ocean from my room.
All I could say was,
'Are you coming home soon?'
The static whispered in my ear
But in a moment your voice was clear.
'I need some time,' you said to me.
That's when I knew you were gonna make me lonely.
You were gonna make me wish for the time
Right before I was born, when every living breath
Was another new dawn.
Or the time I was five at the top of Peak Hill
And the wind almost took me away."
Seriously, them intrepid Canucks be crazy. And am I intentionally avoiding the subject? Am I stalling like a kid trying to write fifteen pages on a book he hasn't read? Probably, but my best papers have been about books I never read; let's be honest. Or, books I only half-read. (And because some of those papers were apparently pretty memorable, I won't name them. Because it would suck to disappoint certain high school teachers.) It's just that, where Clyde is concerned, there's a whole lot of "bursting into tears" involved. And I think I scared the guy working box at Festival Theater.
He deserved it.
"Do you have any Jackson Browne tickets left?"
"Yes, plenty!"
"Really? Wow, awesome. I'll be back this afternoon!"
"Wait -- I thought you said Ry Cooder. Jackson Browne is sold out."
It didn't even take thirty seconds. I was down then UP then crashed into the hard, cold earth like a Russian space shuttle. In what universe does "Jackson Browne" sound like "Ry Cooder"? I get it; they both cover Warren Zevon songs. That's not acceptable. So yes, my knees gave out and I instantly started crying. I could barely get out, "Oh-kay." He started to tell me that I could check back, but I'm pretty sure I had my "Other Ashley" face on by that point, and I looked murderous. Jesus Christ, I don't even remember the last time I had that face on. The one I don't control, that looks like someone who isn't me, the one that almost made me believe that I maybe had an evil twin. The face that my mother explained to Heidi as, "I can just see the moment of the change and I can't describe it. It's like Ashley is completely replaced by someone else. Someone evil."
I cried the entire walk back to my flat. I'm checking every day from now on.
At least I saw Lloyd before the news. Am I ashamed of my reaction? No, but he doesn't need to see that. I saw him as I walked TOWARD the theater, and there was a super-awkward "Not quite sure how to handle this and acknowledge you... I know I should, but, uh... Hi." moment. I'm just saying, my walks are always awkward, tears or no.
Josh Ritter is about the coolest cat around. I was listening to NPR's "All Songs Considered" interview with him and they ask him about looking audience members in the eye, and he just went off on a three minute ramble about Edward Hopper. Seriously, boy, why are you doing this to me? One of the best living songwriters, easy, and then you gotta go and bring it all back to art and windows and "Don't you want to know her story?" Not as much as I want to give you my ovaries? And then, later, he says, "When a baby smiles at you, it's proof that you exist," as a means of explaining what good music makes you feel.
Father. My. Children.
Aside from that, he's just very affable and sincere and I liked his story about potatoes that then led into "Temptation of Adam." ("What five letters spell apocalypse, she asked me./I won her over singing W-W-I-I-I and she smiled and we both knew that she'd misjudged me." So good, ferrilz.) And he's one of only two men I've ever listened to who can write songs about telling women to take off their clothing and not have it sound completely grimey. "You were naked as a window/But I'll take all that nothing/Over nothing at all."
Decidedly less charming? Jens Lekman. But is that really fair of me? Oh, who cares? I'm not his biggest fan and never would be. Though, he had one thing right. It sure was the opposite of hallelujah. (I'm assuming that was the message you wanted me to take away from Night Falls Over Kortedala, yeah?)
Now, Jakob -- Dylan, children, please, the only one that matters -- is sort of a rad little pistol. He played the Folk Festival this past August and I'm listening to the podcast of it (seriously, who needs to actually GO to shows anymore?) and how on Earth can you not laugh? First of all, Dylan. Newport. Legen -- wait for it, and I hope you're not lactose-intolerant because the second part of this word is -- dairy. [In desperate need of a new How I Met Your Mother.] And then he says, "I thought I'd do us all a favor and just begin with the acoustic guitar. And for those who are wondering, I couldn't make up my mind, so it is acoustic, but it does plug in." Trouble-makkar, I see what you did there. Clever boy.
"I was born in the summer of Sam, smaller and sooner than planned/In the spitting image of a man raised by wolves."
Daddy Dylan? I think my favorite Dylan song is pretty obviously "My Back Pages." The Joan Osbourne/Clyde cover version of that song for the "Steal My Movie" album is stellar.
Do you think that if I pull a "strategic hover" near the load-out things will just fall into place for me? If I stand at the load-out, where the trucks roll in? If I sniff all around it, like a half-grown female pup? If I'm not hard to talk to and look like I have no where to go, do you think they'll give me a pass so I can get in to see the show? What if I wear a badge saying, "Hello, my name is Rosie"? I do think that I would be obligated, then, to leave with the drummer. And we all know how I feel about drummers... (Wait, scratch that, Susannah -- exception to every rule, don't forget.) Saddest song he ever wrote, by his own admission.
Back to Scotland. Exam schedule is out and all my exams are the second week of May. Because we all know how well Ashley can multitask. After that, what will I do? Probably write, right? Adventure all over? Climb Arthur's Seat? Every. Single. Day. Work on pulling together my Div II, most likely, and getting myself organized for Div III. Working on my PC app, because apparently, April 1st is just the deadline if you want an on-campus interview before you leave for the summer. Maybe this was the wrong semester to go to Scotland. But you know what? There was never going to be a perfect time and this seems as good as any other, really.
Anyway, tonight Ashley and I went for fish and chips and got deep-fried Mars Bars. Because if I went to Alabama, I'd eat a deep-fried Twinkie. And I've decided that deep-fried Mars Bars are my new favorite food. Because it's chocolate. And grease. What part of that is a fail? Oh, hey, there's a Canoli Season type picture of me with my delicious treat, and it's probably the grossest picture ever taken of me. Needless to say, I love it. So here you go, some pictures of Mars Bars, and because I never got them up, the pictures of the imported snow from ages ago.
By the way, blame D for all the new updates. :)
Sunday, March 8, 2009
"What a coincidence! I happen to love beautiful twenty year old girls."
So Mom emails me yesterday:
Yes.Yes.Yes. I'll try again. Which means I'll be seeing Jackson Browne April 3rd, happy birthday James, and April 15th, presumably. If I go to visit Athena. So that means three Jackson Browne shows by the end of July.
And the Young Dubliners are playing Foxboro on August 14. Which means I'll be having that pint with YOU, sir. So basically, I'm geeking, right? Kristin and I are scheduled for a beautiful night with Bren, and I've got three evenings with Clyde lined up.
"But, Ashley," you say, "what on Earth does that have to do with the man who happens to love beautiful twenty year old girls?" Oh, so you've been paying attention and remember last spring when Todd Snider left me a touching voicemail about my mother's drinking habits! When Todd Snider made working on finals seem not-so-rotten. And you're saying, "Surely, he can't be hitting the big city again so soon, could he?"
And remember, children, how I feared that he would play NoHo while I was in Scotland?
PARADISE. JUNE 12.
And then you have Paste Magazine, reporting on the fact that Snider just went through ANOTHER label. (He better change the lyrics to "Age Like Wine" accordingly.) They quoted Yep Roc, the label he just signed with. (Isn't J.Prine on Yep Roc? Or was it my dear Keb'?) Anyway, the announcement reads:
Good things, that's what it means.
Peace. Love. Anarchy.
He's here July 19......at the Pavillion. Remember last time? I'll try again if you will. Love, Mom
Yes.Yes.Yes. I'll try again. Which means I'll be seeing Jackson Browne April 3rd, happy birthday James, and April 15th, presumably. If I go to visit Athena. So that means three Jackson Browne shows by the end of July.
And the Young Dubliners are playing Foxboro on August 14. Which means I'll be having that pint with YOU, sir. So basically, I'm geeking, right? Kristin and I are scheduled for a beautiful night with Bren, and I've got three evenings with Clyde lined up.
"But, Ashley," you say, "what on Earth does that have to do with the man who happens to love beautiful twenty year old girls?" Oh, so you've been paying attention and remember last spring when Todd Snider left me a touching voicemail about my mother's drinking habits! When Todd Snider made working on finals seem not-so-rotten. And you're saying, "Surely, he can't be hitting the big city again so soon, could he?"
And remember, children, how I feared that he would play NoHo while I was in Scotland?
PARADISE. JUNE 12.
And then you have Paste Magazine, reporting on the fact that Snider just went through ANOTHER label. (He better change the lyrics to "Age Like Wine" accordingly.) They quoted Yep Roc, the label he just signed with. (Isn't J.Prine on Yep Roc? Or was it my dear Keb'?) Anyway, the announcement reads:
While Todd could not be reached for comment as he doesn't do technology or wear shoes, his road manager Elvis was overhead saying to, 'leave the unmarked money in a paper bag by the phone booth...Someone named Ashley is geeking all over the place. Do you realize what this means?
Good things, that's what it means.
Peace. Love. Anarchy.
Wednesday, March 4, 2009
Stay up all night with me.
Some song lyrics that are sort of blowing my mind right now:
"Summer leaves you like the girl that gets away."
"See, I miss you most days in kaleidoscope ways./Calling you up keeps me normal."
"She don't have her momma's hips yet so she stole her momma's lipstick."
[The Alternate Routes]
"In a town where you could sum up every girl with just one sentence/Give or take the subject or the verb,/She shows up like the devil said penance --/Won't nothing ever be clear no more?"
"My love put the deep in the ocean/My love talked the sky into going with the blue."
"Lilly, I guess the best trick is to see the magic/Once you've seen the wires."
[Cory Branan]
"You left some stars in my belly."
[Jeff Buckley]
"As I recall, your eyes were bluer than robins' eggs./My poetry was lousy, you said./Where are you calling from?"
[Joan Baez]
"How many times have you heard someone say,/'If I had money, I would do things my way'?/But little they know, that it's so hard to find/One rich man in ten with a satisfied mind."
[This one is a bit sketchy -- The Band? Bob Dylan? Who was it, Mom?)
Today [being Tuesday] I woke up at 9:30. Slogged my way out of bed and into a shower, more like. Practically passed out when the steam took over. Anyway, smiled at some cute construction workers in yellow vests on my way to the library, where I failed to discover that Emma was not coming to our creative writing workshop, but did become a follower of my mother's blog. I kept checking my email, hoping she'd sent her story so I could work on it over hot chocolate. I gave up after, er, fifteen minutes, and went for hot chocolate.
"I need to leave by quarter of twelve," I told myself, thinking I could do some of the writing for my project in the time between noon and 2 PM, when I was heading to the fabric shop with Robert. (I needed a second opinion on some swatches.)
That's funny. You'd think that an hour at the coffee shop would be enough time to drink all the hot chocolate I could want. But then you'd be neglecting that fact that Paddy O'Furniture says to me, almost as soon as I walk in, "Any music requests? Or is too much to ask you to make a decision today?" I pulled Cory Branan from somewhere beneath my ribcage, in the vicinity of my liver, I would say, but that music was, surprise, unavailable to him.
"JACKSON BROWNE!" I exclaimed.
And there you have it. I stayed for an hour and a half. 12:30. Only forty-five minutes off schedule. I contemplated leaving after my second hot chocolate, but "The Road" came on, and I hadn't heard it in, like, a month, which in Jackson-days is practically a lifetime. "A whole month?" he teased. Then "You Love The Thunder'' played and it was just a big mess of Ashley-geek everywhere. Oh, and "Late For The Sky" led to a discussion of how my all-time favorite song is actually "Jewel Box" by Jeff Buckley. Off Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk, of course, but second to last on the second disc. He hadn't heard it because he never ventured too deeply into that particular disc. Can't say I blame him. In fact, I think I jealousy said, "Lucky!" (I'd give back "Satisfied Mind" if you'd take back "Your Flesh Is So Nice.")
But I saw him digging "Doctor, My Eyes." Everyone enjoys that song. (By the way, "digging" is directly lifted from Erich, my ping-pong buddy.) Then I apologized for making him listen to music from the 1970s, as something off Running on Empty played. And he said, "It's okay; this album came out the year I was born." Touche, sir.
Anyway, Edinburgh Fabrics is sort of... I don't want to say unhelpful because he did help me, and he bent the rules, but they're not gracious about anything, really. Beautiful fabrics, but they don't sell any pieces of fabric under 25 centimeters, which is legit, I think. Unless your idea of a swatch is less than a square inch off the corner. But I explained I needed about ten unique samples and I needed two of each -- and that it was for a school project -- at which point, he was like, "I can sell you ten centimeter pieces." So that was lucky, I guess. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. So, helpful, yes, but not gracious. Oh, Fabric Place, you will be sorely miss.
Swatches, people. Swatches.
Sometimes, when I'm walking through Edinburgh and I'm just minding my own business, with my iPod on my "Adventuring Shuffle," I am taken by surprise. For instance, the other day, I was feeling sort of dreary. Not miserable, just a bit lost and confused and "Why do I have to make life decisions NOW?" And then, ohohoh, you hear that intro?
It stopped me in my tracks, those snares and that bass. You can't be unhappy when you're working on a steak and run into Waddy at the Rattlesnake Cafe.
Sometimes, John Hiatt does it, too. "She has the wind as a witness; she has feelings that fly by night./She believes in forgiveness, but it's not love if it holds too tight./You can fly beside her, but you gotta go where your heart says go./She lets the bright lights guide her, through the wind and the driving snow./Where it comes from, she don't know."
Speaking of snow, I hear the folks back in my fair city got absolutely dumped on. Who's jealous? Ashley's jealous. I don't WANT to be done with snow for the winter. Flowers are pretty, but petals don't fall in quite the same way. It's like how pine burns steady and all that, but nothing burns with quite the passion of birch bark.
Oh, and I also had my workshop for my ten-pager for creative writing. There is something deeply wrong and unsettling about it and I can't touch on what, precisely, it is. Will and Beth thought it was fantastic; Will was especially fond of the first two pages and the ending. I like to think that the first two pages constitute some of my most lyrical writing to date, but who knows. Will actually said he got choked up at one part, but I think that was hyperbole, Big W style.
Either way, there's something off -- I'm counting on either Sara or Stace to identify it for me so I can fix it before submission.
So when did "equal" begin meaning "the exact same"? Forgive me for not being totally enlightened, and Sara would kill me if she was reading this but I know lots of girls who would do secret fist pumps and "Hell yeah"s. "Equal" does not actually mean "the exact same." I guess, yeah, technically, that would fall under the jurisdiction of "equal," but what about this: evenly proportioned or balanced? There needs to be balance, not sameness.
There are rules and roles.
And if I have to be the one who gives birth, I think you can muster the strength to be the one to do the asking. And facebook-asking does not count. Especially not when you see me multiple times a week, anyway. I'll cook your dinner, but you have to buy me dinner first.
Long day tomorrow. (Today by the time this gets posted.)
10:30 - meeting with Professor Wormald to discuss an independent project, those damn Hampshire students
11:10-1 - Class
1-whenever: SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS
Then finishing my project in a likely all-nighter, Michael Lesy style. I think the night I completed work on my first Lesy final remains the single greatest night of my college career. I can't even tell you how in love with that project I was, how much it meant to me.
Maybe, maybe, maybe hot chocolate in between Spartacus and my project.
More lyrics? Yes, I think you want them. You think so, too.
"Yes, you're sensitive, quite expensive your life's become./Yes, you're beautiful, indisputable, in place of fun."
"Isabel, she treads so lightly/Floating in her gypsy dresses./Even as her words cut deep/I can't deny the truth in them./On the phone, she talks a lot/And me, I listen hopelessly/So directionless, I head into oblivion."
[Ben Jelen]
"Feeling better since I surrendered;/You can't climb until you're ready to fall./You're not a land mine/You're not a gold mine./No, you're not mine at all."
"I remember all the little things you said/Quesadillas made with cheese/And a rock band who were Japanese./So for once, in my life/I saw what I wanted/And took a bite."
[Ben Lee]
"Can you love me like crosses love the nape of the neck?"
"He's stolen hearts like they're horses and horses when hearts can't be found."
"Sometimes I've been corrupted, but I've never been in love."
[Josh Ritter]
"People will tell you what to do/Where your head should be./They don't tell me anything/I haven't already heard before, only better said./We all want focus/We crave company/But we're cross-eyed and punch-drunk from too much scenery."
"You know, I learned how to kiss you/Watching a movie starring James Dean."
[The Judybats]
"Summer leaves you like the girl that gets away."
"See, I miss you most days in kaleidoscope ways./Calling you up keeps me normal."
"She don't have her momma's hips yet so she stole her momma's lipstick."
[The Alternate Routes]
"In a town where you could sum up every girl with just one sentence/Give or take the subject or the verb,/She shows up like the devil said penance --/Won't nothing ever be clear no more?"
"My love put the deep in the ocean/My love talked the sky into going with the blue."
"Lilly, I guess the best trick is to see the magic/Once you've seen the wires."
[Cory Branan]
"You left some stars in my belly."
[Jeff Buckley]
"As I recall, your eyes were bluer than robins' eggs./My poetry was lousy, you said./Where are you calling from?"
[Joan Baez]
"How many times have you heard someone say,/'If I had money, I would do things my way'?/But little they know, that it's so hard to find/One rich man in ten with a satisfied mind."
[This one is a bit sketchy -- The Band? Bob Dylan? Who was it, Mom?)
Today [being Tuesday] I woke up at 9:30. Slogged my way out of bed and into a shower, more like. Practically passed out when the steam took over. Anyway, smiled at some cute construction workers in yellow vests on my way to the library, where I failed to discover that Emma was not coming to our creative writing workshop, but did become a follower of my mother's blog. I kept checking my email, hoping she'd sent her story so I could work on it over hot chocolate. I gave up after, er, fifteen minutes, and went for hot chocolate.
"I need to leave by quarter of twelve," I told myself, thinking I could do some of the writing for my project in the time between noon and 2 PM, when I was heading to the fabric shop with Robert. (I needed a second opinion on some swatches.)
That's funny. You'd think that an hour at the coffee shop would be enough time to drink all the hot chocolate I could want. But then you'd be neglecting that fact that Paddy O'Furniture says to me, almost as soon as I walk in, "Any music requests? Or is too much to ask you to make a decision today?" I pulled Cory Branan from somewhere beneath my ribcage, in the vicinity of my liver, I would say, but that music was, surprise, unavailable to him.
"JACKSON BROWNE!" I exclaimed.
And there you have it. I stayed for an hour and a half. 12:30. Only forty-five minutes off schedule. I contemplated leaving after my second hot chocolate, but "The Road" came on, and I hadn't heard it in, like, a month, which in Jackson-days is practically a lifetime. "A whole month?" he teased. Then "You Love The Thunder'' played and it was just a big mess of Ashley-geek everywhere. Oh, and "Late For The Sky" led to a discussion of how my all-time favorite song is actually "Jewel Box" by Jeff Buckley. Off Sketches For My Sweetheart The Drunk, of course, but second to last on the second disc. He hadn't heard it because he never ventured too deeply into that particular disc. Can't say I blame him. In fact, I think I jealousy said, "Lucky!" (I'd give back "Satisfied Mind" if you'd take back "Your Flesh Is So Nice.")
But I saw him digging "Doctor, My Eyes." Everyone enjoys that song. (By the way, "digging" is directly lifted from Erich, my ping-pong buddy.) Then I apologized for making him listen to music from the 1970s, as something off Running on Empty played. And he said, "It's okay; this album came out the year I was born." Touche, sir.
Anyway, Edinburgh Fabrics is sort of... I don't want to say unhelpful because he did help me, and he bent the rules, but they're not gracious about anything, really. Beautiful fabrics, but they don't sell any pieces of fabric under 25 centimeters, which is legit, I think. Unless your idea of a swatch is less than a square inch off the corner. But I explained I needed about ten unique samples and I needed two of each -- and that it was for a school project -- at which point, he was like, "I can sell you ten centimeter pieces." So that was lucky, I guess. I think he just wanted to get rid of me. So, helpful, yes, but not gracious. Oh, Fabric Place, you will be sorely miss.
Swatches, people. Swatches.
Sometimes, when I'm walking through Edinburgh and I'm just minding my own business, with my iPod on my "Adventuring Shuffle," I am taken by surprise. For instance, the other day, I was feeling sort of dreary. Not miserable, just a bit lost and confused and "Why do I have to make life decisions NOW?" And then, ohohoh, you hear that intro?
It stopped me in my tracks, those snares and that bass. You can't be unhappy when you're working on a steak and run into Waddy at the Rattlesnake Cafe.
Sometimes, John Hiatt does it, too. "She has the wind as a witness; she has feelings that fly by night./She believes in forgiveness, but it's not love if it holds too tight./You can fly beside her, but you gotta go where your heart says go./She lets the bright lights guide her, through the wind and the driving snow./Where it comes from, she don't know."
Speaking of snow, I hear the folks back in my fair city got absolutely dumped on. Who's jealous? Ashley's jealous. I don't WANT to be done with snow for the winter. Flowers are pretty, but petals don't fall in quite the same way. It's like how pine burns steady and all that, but nothing burns with quite the passion of birch bark.
Oh, and I also had my workshop for my ten-pager for creative writing. There is something deeply wrong and unsettling about it and I can't touch on what, precisely, it is. Will and Beth thought it was fantastic; Will was especially fond of the first two pages and the ending. I like to think that the first two pages constitute some of my most lyrical writing to date, but who knows. Will actually said he got choked up at one part, but I think that was hyperbole, Big W style.
Either way, there's something off -- I'm counting on either Sara or Stace to identify it for me so I can fix it before submission.
So when did "equal" begin meaning "the exact same"? Forgive me for not being totally enlightened, and Sara would kill me if she was reading this but I know lots of girls who would do secret fist pumps and "Hell yeah"s. "Equal" does not actually mean "the exact same." I guess, yeah, technically, that would fall under the jurisdiction of "equal," but what about this: evenly proportioned or balanced? There needs to be balance, not sameness.
There are rules and roles.
And if I have to be the one who gives birth, I think you can muster the strength to be the one to do the asking. And facebook-asking does not count. Especially not when you see me multiple times a week, anyway. I'll cook your dinner, but you have to buy me dinner first.
Long day tomorrow. (Today by the time this gets posted.)
10:30 - meeting with Professor Wormald to discuss an independent project, those damn Hampshire students
11:10-1 - Class
1-whenever: SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS SPARTACUS
Then finishing my project in a likely all-nighter, Michael Lesy style. I think the night I completed work on my first Lesy final remains the single greatest night of my college career. I can't even tell you how in love with that project I was, how much it meant to me.
Maybe, maybe, maybe hot chocolate in between Spartacus and my project.
More lyrics? Yes, I think you want them. You think so, too.
"Yes, you're sensitive, quite expensive your life's become./Yes, you're beautiful, indisputable, in place of fun."
"Isabel, she treads so lightly/Floating in her gypsy dresses./Even as her words cut deep/I can't deny the truth in them./On the phone, she talks a lot/And me, I listen hopelessly/So directionless, I head into oblivion."
[Ben Jelen]
"Feeling better since I surrendered;/You can't climb until you're ready to fall./You're not a land mine/You're not a gold mine./No, you're not mine at all."
"I remember all the little things you said/Quesadillas made with cheese/And a rock band who were Japanese./So for once, in my life/I saw what I wanted/And took a bite."
[Ben Lee]
"Can you love me like crosses love the nape of the neck?"
"He's stolen hearts like they're horses and horses when hearts can't be found."
"Sometimes I've been corrupted, but I've never been in love."
[Josh Ritter]
"People will tell you what to do/Where your head should be./They don't tell me anything/I haven't already heard before, only better said./We all want focus/We crave company/But we're cross-eyed and punch-drunk from too much scenery."
"You know, I learned how to kiss you/Watching a movie starring James Dean."
[The Judybats]
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