pot luck

All in all, [the drug] is a good thing to stay away from unless you are looking for trouble.  If it's a thrill you're after, you'd better stick to roller coasters and detective yarns.
--"What [The Drug] Can Do To You," The Woman (with Woman's Digest), February 1942

I start my new job on Tuesday at a drug policy organization that has rejected me for two positions and that I, in turn, have rejected for one. Finally, we are on the same page. At least, it seems. I hope.

I first heard of this organization in May 2005, when I was poking around on craig's list and idealist for jobs in the D.C. area. It had a need for a Legislative Analyst, responsible for monitoring initiatives in 10-15 states as well as writing all the member correspondence for those states. I was very interested in the position (it actually sounded perfect to me), but I thought that my lack of experience in the field would disqualify me. However, I ran across the same advertisement three months later, in August, decided it was a sign, and applied.

Now this organization, while fighting to minimize the harm associated with a drug that is stereotypically used by a chill, laid-back, hippie crowd, is populated exclusively by first child, Type A, anal-retentive personalities. (So yes, it's a perfect fit for me.) "Fastidiousness" is actually cited on the website as the paramount trait valued by the organization. The application process, then, is extremely specific and intensive; the parameters dictate (step 1) five parts for a cover letter (no more than one page) and resume (no more than two pages), (step 2) an additional writing sample, (step 3) a phone interview, and (step 4) an in-person interview. The philosophy, as far as I can tell, is that the organization can teach the ins-and-outs of drug policy to an inexperienced but motivated go-getter but cannot instill professionalism in a passionate but inarticulate slacker.

The organization's HR director in August was--in addition to being efficient, meticulous, and detailed oriented--also rather humorless and hard to warm up. In other words, maybe not the person you would want as the face of the organization for potential candidates. (I'll call her "bird," the meaning of her German last name.) I truly believed that I had blown the phone interview because all of my witticisms and clever comments fell completely flat, and damn it, I know I can be quite charming! But I nevertheless made it, as one of three final candidates, to the in-person interview, and I knew when I left the organization's Capitol Hill offices on the afternoon of my birthday that I had kicked ass. I believe my exact words to my mom were, "If I don't get this job, it's not because I didn't do everything I possibly could."

Well, a few weeks later I was informed that I didn't get the job (I lost out to a man with 10 years of drug policy experience) but that they were very impressed with me and wanted to find a way for me to be involved in the organization. I was very disappointed but wanted to entertain their counteroffer, Volunteer Coordinator for a "tax-and-regulate" state initiative. The catch? The state was Nevada, and the campaign was based in Las Vegas. Thus began the research into and soul-searching over whether I could stomach a life in Sin City. I ultimately decided--thanks in large part to llschoolj's reporter friend who works for the Las Vegas Sun--that I just couldn't (although I was surprised to discover that reportedly there is an active Jewish community there). So I turned the position down, and bird responded in a manner that made me certain that I had just burned all bridges with the organization.

Fall turned into a long, hard winter of elusive jobs just out of reach, and when I saw in late December that the same organization was again looking for a Legislative Analyst, I decided to write bird to ask if she would consider my application again. I figured the worst she could do would be to laugh off icily dismiss my request. She informed me that she was no longer in charge of hiring but that she would forward my email to the woman who was; the organization doesn't reactivate applications, she added, but I was welcome to reapply. Encouraged by this response, I nonetheless decided not to do so because I didn't want to go through all that mischegas again. But then late last month the organization posted a notice for an Executive Assistant--not a policy job, and therefore not an ideal job, but one for which I knew that I was imminently qualified. After completing step one of the application process, I received a highly encouraging email response from the new HR director (whom I will call "color" since her last name is one): bird had passed along my name as someone she was "very impressed with," and color was "very pleased" that I had chosen to apply for another position.

And once again, we were off. Writing sample, phone interview, in-person interview (processes made much more pleasant this time around because color, like her nickname, is lively and personable). And once again, I knew I had done my absolute best. And once again, I was crushed to find out that I had been one of the top two picks and that the decision had been "agonizing." The counteroffer this time, however, was in the D.C. office, but in a temporary, entry-level, hourly-wage position with no benefits. Again, the research and soul-searching. This time, I decided it was a foot in the door. I called to accept the position, and I had to talk to bird instead of color (the latter was on vacation), but my informing her of my decision was followed by a brief silence, then, "Did [the director] call you?"

Oh, G-d, I thought. Now what? Are they reneging on the offer? "No," I replied slowly. "I haven't talked to him." "Hmmm. Well, there may be another, better position for you, but he wasn't sure of the timeline, and he said he was going to call you," she explained. "Let me talk to him and get back to you." Five days later, bird called again. "Okay, the timeline is still unclear, but if and when the position comes up, we will consider you for it. This is a significant break from our policy of requiring those in temporary positions to complete them," she reminded me. "See you on Tuesday. Welcome to [the organization]!"

Here goes nothing.

a gift of love

A young man studying for conversion turned to his teacher and said, "But, Rabbi Kushner, Fitzpatrick isn't a Jewish name." To which Kushner replied, "It will be."
--Anita Diamant, Choosing a Jewish Life

I received a call at 8:28 this morning from someone who told me that I should become a rabbi. Oh, and by the way, she said, Happy Valentine's Day.

First, a little background. When I made the decision to convert to Judaism three years ago (that story will have to wait for another time), two of my biggest supporters were the Episcopal chaplain of the boarding school at which I worked, and his wife, also an ordained minister. In fact, I would say that "supportive" doesn't properly characterize their reaction. "Wildly enthusiastic bordering on envious" is more like it. The two met in a Hebrew class, and while they share a passion for the language of the Jews and do belong to that wacky and most liberal of Christian denominations, I was still surprised--though gratifed--by their interest. I mean, my mother (a Southern Baptist, just a slightly different breed) cried when I told her.

However, the chaplain and chaplainess would probably be considered "quirky" even in the Episcopal church. They practice yoga, own prayer crystals and chakra bowls, perform reiki, and at dinner regularly countenance the extremely frank sexual discussions that are the hallmark of otherwise repressed dorm staff. But seriously, while some of these things may not be my cup of tea, these two have guided me though some tough times. I love and respect them very much.

So the chaplainess called me this morning to tell me that she had been thinking about me, that she and the chaplain are reading a book on Jewish spirituality, and that they have hired a "life coach." (There was an interesting article that I read in the Times about a month ago concerning the popularity of such services, but of course it is now $#@%&!Times Select.) All of this had come together in her mind to the decision that I should go to seminary. "And I have a great one for you--a friend of mine told me about it. Let me find the email. [Sounds of rifling through papers.]" I should also mention that the chaplainess was driving to work, "doing like 80 on the highway." So I made the radical suggestion that she call me back later with the information. Yikes!

This is not the first time this idea has floated through my head. After I read The Chosen, which detailed the rigorous course of study prescribed by an Orthodox yeshiva, I wanted to spend the rest of my days studying Talmud, just like Reuven and Danny. Of course, after reading The Brothers Karamazov I also wanted to be a Russian orthodox monk, just like Aleksei. So maybe I am just susceptible to romantic religious ideals. But the chaplainess's confidence touched me: "You're brilliant," she said. "And you have such a gift for languages." And I have been pondering my strengths lately, one of which, I have determined, is straight from my mother: an eagerness to give of myself for the betterment of others.

Could I actually become a rabbi? I have had stranger impulses. It's possible I may have to change my last name, as "Rabbi Pearce" doesn't exactly ring kosher--not like, say, "Rabbi Schooler" (ahem) or "Rabbi Berman" (ahem) or "Rabbi Mamber" (ahem AHEM). Then again, maybe Kushner is right. It will.

brundibar the bumblebee

I don't know how to do children's books. I don't believe in children's books. I did it because this was the form that pulled me or drove me, not because I had a passion for children. . . . I have very little respect for books that are written -- quote -- for children.

I was pleased to read in the Times on Friday that the Czech children's opera Brundibar will be staged at at the Yale Repertory Theater in New Haven through March before it moves to the New Victory Theater in New York through May. I am an absolute nut about Czech children's opera.

Okay, maybe not. But I was pleased to read about it, since it is a project of Maurice Sendak. This summer, I visited the Jewish Museum to see its exhibit "Wild Things: The Art of Maurice Sendak." I'll admit that before I went, I was just hoping to learn a little more about one of my favorite books as a child, to find out what other works Sendak had written, and to buy some fun Wild Things merchandise (because I am ever the child of my mother, who never met a museum gift shop she wouldn't gladly skip the actual exhibit for). And I did score a cool shirt, but I gained so much more.

First of all? I didn't even know that Sendak was Jewish. The location of this exhibit certainly tipped me off, but before that? No clue. But then again, I'm not very bright. Secondly? I had no idea that Where the Wild Things Are was so controversial upon its publication in 1963. Parents' groups objected to the "scary" monsters depicted, as well as Max's "insubordination" towards his mother. This surprised me because as a child, I certainly wasn't afraid of Max's playmates, nor was I inspired to commit acts of rebellion after reading the book. Of course, it won the Caldecott Medal the next year, which just goes to show you what potential censors know.

I was most shocked to learn what a dark and tormented man Sendak was (and still is, if recent interviews are any indication). He was raised in 1930's Brooklyn by his recent-immigrant parents who were tortured by the loss of their families back in Eastern Europe. On the morning of young Maurice's bar mitzvah, they received word that his paternal grandparents had died in Poland, victims of the Holocaust. As a kid he was haunted by the spectre of the Lindbergh baby kidnapping, the events of which unfolded in nearby New Jersey and the Bronx. The Wild Things were actually based on his aunts and uncles, but Sendak has said that for him, they also represent the demons he has tried to fight his whole life. Even Brundibar became for him "the epitome of all this loss. I wanted to stop dwelling on it, the way I used to dwell on the Lindbergh case. I felt that if I could just do Brundibar right, then maybe this would be the end of the fever."

As he noted, his work has been therapuetic for him, as have his passions for Melville and Mozart. His set design and costumes for The Magic Flute were originally created for Houston Grand Opera's production in the late 1980's, and his dog's name is Herman.

This staging of Brundibar (Czech for "bumblebee") is based on Sendak's 2003 children's book of the same name, written in collaboration with Tony Kushner, who penned the libretto for the current production. That book, in turn, is inspired by the original Czech opera,

by Hans Krasa, with a libretto by Adolf Hoffmeister, which was first performed in 1942 at a Jewish orphanage in Prague. . . . [T]he story is simple and affirmative: two children, Aninku and Pepicek, caring for their ailing mother, are told by the doctor that she must have milk if she is to recover. They go into town and, while trying to raise some money by singing together, are chased away by a nasty hurdy-gurdy grinder named Brundibar . . . After being joined by other children and some talking animals, though, Aninku and Pepicek prevail in true operatic fashion: they raise a bucketful of cash, drive Brundibar out of town and return home with the precious, life-sustaining milk.

What gives the opera additional poignancy is that shortly before the first performance, Krasa, a Jew, was arrested and sent in an early transport to Theresienstadt, the "model camp" that was in fact a way station for Auschwitz. Under Krasa's direction, Brundibar was subsequently performed 55 times at Theresienstadt, with a cast of imprisoned children, for an audience that sometimes consisted of visitors sent by the Nazis, trying to demonstrate how humane they were.

"Think of it," Mr. Sendak said. "There was this bunch of children, and after every performance a part of the cast was sent off to Auschwitz, and then the next group of kids took over."

The costumes and music for Brundibar were part of the Jewish Museum's exhibit this summer, and both are gorgeous. New Havenites and New Yorkers, I encourage you to see this wonderful production!

NYT article

PBS feature on Brundibar

NPR interview with Sendak

atta girl, sar

A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves--a special kind of double.
--Toni Morrison

Today is scout finch's birthday, and while she's not really my sister, we're the closest thing either one of us had to one, so it's appropriate that I share a story or two to mark the occasion (read: to embarrass her). She gave me some starting fodder for my endeavor on Friday evening when she called and responded to my greeting with a singsong, "Hi-i-i-i-i!" in that tone that makes the mother in me demand, "What did you do?"

"Um. I cheated!" She informed me, though obviously delighted with herself.

"What do y- . . . Wait a minute! You opened it!" I accused. On Wednesday I sent her a package for her birthday with the words "Do not open until 2/12/06" emblazoned on the front. Then, I called her to give the same directive orally, in the off-chance that a crazed postal worker might have defaced my instructions.

"Yes! And I lo-o-o-o-o-ove it! It's going to snow this weekend, and I am going sit in bed and drink tea and watch it!" The gift, by the way, was Alias Season Four, the choice of which was determined, appropriately enough, after a covert call to her s.o. "Hello, [s.o.]? It's [sopheathene], [scount finch]'s cousin. Is she in the room right now? Cough once for yes, twice for no." (The real names have been changed to protect identities. And yes, I soooo wish I were a black-ops CIA agent. Or the slayer.)

I couldn't be mad at her. We've ever only had one fight that I can remember, and that one was fueled by the stress and fatigue of a 24-hour drive straight from Raleigh to Houston with only a few hours of sleep between us. Even in high school, when she told her mom that I was drunk at the Senior Girls' formal, I didn't feel angry so much as guilty for ruining her first high school dance by scaring her and annoyed at myself for being unable to handle my liquor. (Besides, I may have been grounded and had my driving privileges revoked for most of my junior year as a result, but the alcohol had given me the courage to tell pantodapos for the first time that I "loved" him, and I'd say that turned out pretty well!)

We're cousins, but our moms are best friends, so she and my brother and I grew up within a mile of each other in Houston and all went to the same high school, and she and I look enough alike to be twins (except of course, in the grand little sister tradition, she is thinner than I am, and with bigger boobs). In fact, when she would visit me at Saint Mary's, the girls in the dorm would come into my apartment and start talking to her for several seconds before realizing she wasn't me. We even have many of the same things to wear, a fact which used to drive absenceofwill crazy: when I would return from a visit, he would sigh, "What new item of clothing does [scout finch] have that you now own?" We're the Third Generation Grannies, our moms' being the Second and our 87-year-old grandmother and her identical twin's being the Original. Our dream is someday to be the Chaos (SJS-ers, you get the reference)!

I can call her at any hour of the day or night, and she's the only person with whom I don't feel silly doing the over-analyzation of the minutia of a conversation I had with some inscrutable boy. She's more like my mom than I am, but for me that means I get all the support and kindness of the sweetest woman in the world but in someone my own age. It also means I can be as goofy as I wish around her, and confess secret thoughts that I would never tell anyone else. Since all of our other cousins (and siblings) have settled down, we've made a promise not to leave each other behind in the cutthroat, get-married-or-spend-the-rest-of-your-adult-life-sleeping-in-the-kids'-
bunkroom-at-reunions mentality of our family, which pact results in the occasional hilarious exchange: "I'm super happy for you that your relationship is getting serious, but please tell me you're not getting engaged anytime soon!"

I could tell many more stories about the wonderful uniqueness that is scout finch, but I will end with one that we still allude to in restaurants, and I encourage you to do so too, because it is really fun. One summer afternoon five or ten years ago, we were sitting at my grandparents' golf club, perusing the lunch menu, when scout finch asks, "Have I had the 'garden fresh vegetables sauteed together in white wine, garlic, herbs and fresh tomatoes, tossed over linguini' before?" Not, "Have I had the 'pasta primavera' before?" Needless to say, no one could answer her question, since we all dissolved into loud laughter not appropriate for the stuffy club dining room. Try it--you won't be disappointed.

And with that, Happy Birthday, scout finch!

pour me a beeah

As I grew up, I knew that as a building Fenway Park was on the level of Mount Olympus, the Pyramid at Giza, the nation's capitol, the czar's Winter Palace, and the Louvre--except, of course, that it is better than all those inconsequential places.
--Baseball Commissioner Bart Giamatti

I am now in possession of tickets to the Red Sox-Yankees game on Saturday, August 19, 2006. That's right, I am going to Fenway! I think I will make the trip an early birthday present to myself, since I turn another year older one week later. I'm also pretty sure that this excursion will require new paraphernalia from Sully's Tees.

On Wednesday, I got the email from resdox.com congratulating me for winning "the opportunity to purchase" up to four tickets for one Red Sox-Yankees home game. So today at noon EST, I logged onto the website, got stuck in a virtual waiting room for 30 minutes, and then was able score for the above date four seats of indeterminate location! (The tickets say "First Base Pavilion (SRP1B)" and "General Admission--NO SEAT," but there are also seat numbers, so I really don't know what to make of it. Here's the seating chart--can anybody fare any better than I did?) I also know that I don't care where I am in the park, and I will sit, stand, or hop on one foot the entire time if I have to!

This will be my first visit to Fenway, and I am so happy that my initiation into that magical ballpark will be during such an exciting game. I had tickets to a Red Sox-Orioles game in Boston over Labor Day last year, but I had to cancel my trip due to unforeseen circumstances (stolen car, no job, no money, etc.). So meggiefreshh and mrsjackbristow went and admired Tek's buttocks without me. Well, not this year!

Bahston, here I come!

how do you like them apples?

You've read recently that Apple has sold 42 million iPods in less than four and a half years. Thanks to the iPod, Apple just reported its most profitable quarter ever. But you wonder how many of those 42 million units have gone to people who feel, as you do, that you've just been taken to the cleaners by Apple? You also wonder why do iPods seem to break so frequently? And why is Apple so willing to tick off people who spend thousands of dollars on Apple products by refusing to deal with broken iPods? Or at least that's what I wondered as I went through the five stages of iPod Grief.
--Joe Nocera, The New York Times

Ding dong, my iPod is dead. A few weeks ago I got the folder warning icon when I turned it on.

I restored it, according to Apple's support website, and laboriously filled it up with music again. Then on Monday after work, I got the sad iPod icon when I turned it on.

The fixes on the website this time, however, were of no help, and it directed me to my nearest Apple retail store.

I arrived at the Clarendon location yesterday afternoon to find--ten minutes and three computers later--that all of the appointments for the "Genius Bar" (later it will become apparent why I place quotation marks around this term), Apple's support desk, were filled for the day. Annoyed right off the bat, I sat down in the waiting area to avail myself at least of the store wi-fi for a little while. A man behind the "Genius Bar" saw me sit down. "Are you here for technical support?" he asked. I shot him a withering look. "I was," I replied. "But there's nothing available." He looked around at all the empty seats. "Well, the schedule may be full, but no one's here. How about right now?" I bounded up to the "Genius Bar." "It's my iPod," I said. "I was sad Mac-ed (tm Carrie Bradshaw)." "What?" "Nothing. I got the sad iPod icon." I handed him the little machine, my fingers grazing the engraving on the back I had so lovingly requested just a short while ago.


He laughed. "Well, this won't take very long," he said, barely glancing at the device. "It has to be replaced." "What do you mean?" I protested. "I just bought it. Fourteen months ago. For Hannukah last year." "Well, it has a huge dent in it. And the sad iPod is usually the death knoll. It has to be replaced," he concluded. "Is that code for 'Apple has to sell me another at a huge discount since I just bought this one'?" I inquired hopefully. More laughter. "We'll give you 10% with the trade-in. And all the new iPods have color screens, and they play videos, too!"

What? No, that's not strong enough. WHAT THE FUCK?!?!?! There are sooooo many things wrong with this whole scenario. First of all, I don't need my iPod to be in color, or play videos. I. Just. Want. It. To. Play. Music. And apparently, it can't even do that well. Secondly, I did not spend $300 with the expectation that my purchase would last a little over a year. And I don't know anyone who does. Next, I challenge any of you to locate the allegedly "huge dent" on my little iPod. You can't. The Diarist, his wife, and jabooshee--even with the knowledge that there was a dent--all were unable to find it after several minutes of close inspection. And finally, damn the Apple website for suggesting that I visit a store and thereby giving me hope that a repair might be possible. If the product has an expected lifespan of just a year or two--which Apple seems to think is the understanding that its customers have--then, to pull a Ross, "THEY SHOULD PUT THAT ON THE BOX!"

I am not pleased with Apple right now. But I used to admire Steve Jobs's tenacity in valuing form over function. Plus, I grew up with Macs, and I have spent the better part of the last five years looking down my nose at PC owners, and telling any of them who would listen why Apple's products are far superior. So mostly, I feel betrayed.

And yet, I will probably end up buying an iPod nano within the next month--but I will buy the cheapest one there is, since I know it will break come May 2007, and you can bet I'll be investing in the two year "Apple Care" warranty--because I just can't help it: I love walking to work to a soundtrack.

Nocera's excellent article puts the controversy in a larger business context. (Unfortunately it is %#$@*Times Select, but a rant about that will have to wait for another day--I'm just glad I have a reporter family with access to LexisNexis.)

i'm it

scout finch has tagged me to give answers in the following categories: (Sidebar: I don't feel that these highlight the most interesting things about me. In fact, when my life is encapsulated this way, it's rather depressing. Or maybe it's just my mood--after all, February is the cruelest month.)

Four Jobs I've Had in My Life:
1. Latin teacher at Saint Mary's School
2. digital image archivist for UT's Classics Department
3. The Container Store salesperson
4. clerical assistant in UT's lovely Architecture and Planning Library

Four Movies I Could Watch Over and Over Again:
1. Out of Africa
2. Annie Hall
3. Sliding Doors
4. An Affair to Remember

Four Places I Have Lived:
1. Austin, Texas
2. Monteverde, Costa Rica
3. Princeton, New Jersey
4. Raleigh, North Carolina

TV Shows I Love to Watch:
1. Buffy

Four Places I've Been on Vacation:
1. Lake Nicaragua (when I lived in Costa Rica)
2. Breckenridge, Colorado (every summer with all of my family)
3. Boston, Massachusetts
4. lots of places in Vermont

Four Websites I Visit Weekly:
1. Houston Chronicle's wedding announcements (I blame scout finch for this one!)
2. The Weather Channel
3. Orbitz
4. The New York Times

Four of My Favorite Foods:
1. avocado
2. creme brulée
3. salmon
4. beer

Four Bands/Singers I Can't Live Without:
1. Coldplay
2. Sinatra
3. Paul Simon/Simon and Garfunkel
4. Indigo Girls

Four Places I'd Rather Be:
1. in bed, napping
2. at Granny's house in Austin
3. at a baseball game
4. abroad

Four Bloggers I'm Tagging:
1. Do I know any other bloggers that well? I think I am a bit of an island in this online world. So readers, feel free to post your own answers in the comments!

heel yeah, baby!

The basketball rivalry between Duke and North Carolina is the fiercest blood feud in college athletics. To legions of otherwise reasonable adults, it is a conflict that surpasses sports; it is locals against outsiders, elitists against populists, even good against evil. It is thousands of grown men and women with jobs and families screaming themselves hoarse at 18-year-old basketball geniuses, trading conspiracy theories in online chat rooms, and weeping like babies when their teams--when they--lose.
--Will Blythe

Yesterday morning, in completing the Washington Post's crossword puzzle, I answered clue 20 across first: "North Carolina." The answer? "Tar Heel State." It seemed meant to be.

Okay, so Carolina didn't win last night, falling to Duke 87-84. But they made a showing. And damn fine one, if I do say so my damn self. The stats on this game give some indication of how exciting it was: there were at least four lead changes and seven ties. UNC pulled down 21 offensive boards to Duke's 4, and 42 rebounds to the Blue Devils' 21. Duke led by as many as 17 points during the second half, and with 1:20 left they still clung to a 7-point lead, but with 33 seconds remaining, Carolina had pulled within one. As Coach K said, "We play five more minutes, they may beat us--or two minutes. That's the kind of game it was."

I first have to wag my finger--Colbert style--at Sports Illustrated for not picking the game in its "Week Ahead" feature. Instead, SI readers were enjoined to watch the FBR open, UFC 57, arena football, an NHL game involving a team from Dallas, No. 22 Indiana at unranked Wisconsin (sorry, scout finch!), and the Knicks at the Nets. Huh? I know Duke is No. 2 and Carolina is No. 23, but this game is always fun to watch, if for no other reason than to see Coach K's eyebrows try to jump off his forehead.

I became a Tar Heel fan by deliberate choice when I moved to Raleigh, North Carolina, three and half years ago. Officially, I knew I was moving to ACC country, to one of the most fanatical college basketball regions in that conference, and wanting to adopt a surrogate team, I picked UNC because of its similarity to my own alma mater (big state school with a reputation for academic and athletic excellence). And if asked, that is my story. Unofficially though, I had a hopeless, messy crush on a boy who went there. (Surprisingly enough, my new-found fanship did not cause him to fall madly in love with me. I'm not sure how on earth my plan backfired, but it was quite the train wreck--many of you were there, and you know!)

For whatever reason (and it was the triumph of populism and democracy over elitism and oligarchy), I became a Carolina Girl and enjoyed many years of watching games with the most passionate, dramatic, and tearful sports fans on the planet: 14-year-old girls. In the freshman dorm, I had to show the match-ups on two different televisions on two different floors--Carolina fans on the second and Duke fans on the third--to ensure that the building would still be standing in the morning. It was a time full of quasi-close encounters with greatness: after each game, I could count on finding a certain Durham girl on the phone at 3:00 am flirting with Chris Duhon, and I once met J.J. Redick's hairdresser at a bar. But I did attend UNC's rout of Florida State on March 3, 2005 at the Dean Dome, with which win the Tar Heels clinched the ACC title. And I celebrated on Franklin Street a few weeks later when they vanquished Illinois for the 2005 NCAA Championship.

Of course, when Texas plays Carolina (as they did in football on September 16, 2002 in Chapel Hill, and as they did in basketball on March 20, 2004 at the NCAA Tournament in Denver--both Texas wins), I bleed orange. But it doesn't happen too often, so I can justify supporting both schools, much in the same way I can be both an Astros and a Red Sox fan. llschoolj tried to call me on this so-called conflict of interest by pointing out that he has seen the Astros lose to the Red Sox at Fenway (on June 13, 2003), but since he also recently confessed to me a childhood penchant for Duke (and this not even the most serious of his sports transgressions!), we'll just discount his opinion.

Only 34 days until the opening round of the 2006 NCAA tournament, and shortly after it concludes, the opening of the 2006 baseball season! I love for this!

language litmus test

The difference between the right word and the almost right word is the difference between lightning and the lightening bug.
--Mark Twain

My favorite website, Merriam-Webster Online (because I am a big ol' dork), recently posted its top words of 2005, based on online lookups, "the ten words that have most consistently piqued your curiosity this past year." They are as follows:
1. integrity
2. refugee
3. contempt
4. filibuster
5. insipid
6. tsunami
7. pandemic
8. conclave
9. levee
10. inept

Now, I use m-w.com to confirm nuances of meaning, to check presumed etymology, and to double-check my notoriously terrible spelling, and I can only hope that others do the same, because I would venture to say that these words are not that unusual. On the other hand, this list probably pretty accurately encapsulates the last year, with numbers 2, 4, 6, 7, 8, and 9 of course dealing with significant events of 2005, and numbers 1, 3, 5, and 10, I can only assume, referring to the President (number 1 being the lack thereof). What? This theory seems perfectly sound to me. Let's investigate, shall we?

The top words of 2004 were as follows:
1. blog
2. incumbent
3. electoral
4. insurgent
5. hurricane
6. cicada
7. peloton
8. partisan
9. sovereignty
10. defenestration
Clearly, the same conclusions can be drawn again. Numbers 1 through 9 allude to the notable occurrences of of 2004, while 10 was obviously the proper punishment for red-staters in December of that year. Q.E.D.

I can only hope that the 2005 list, based on the above theory, will serve as a harbinger of the Dems' chances to pick up some seats in the House and the Senate in November. Perhaps the m-w.com top word list will be to congressional races what, until recently, the Redskins were to the Presidential race. The more negative the words, the greater the chance of a change in control of Congress. Here's hoping!

What is your favorite unconventional election predictor?

truthiness on television

Put some pants on, America. The Truth is knocking at the door.

After I spent a good part of my wonderful Friday with 6'1" a few weeks ago quoting it in between breakfast, trips to museums, lunch, a walking tour of Kalorama, and good beers, I realized that I am officially addicted to The Colbert Report. I blame dogooderlawyer, who would make me stop whatever I was doing (including sleeping) to watch The Daily Show at 11:00 pm. At first, it was simple inertia that caused us to watch this former Daily Show correspondent's parody of a personality-driven news program that follows Jon Stewart's more well-known parody of an evening newscast. But I have actually come to like the spinoff more than the original. I know, I know, The Daily Show is the must-watch among 18- to 35-year-old blue staters. But frankly, The Colbert Report is funnier. Period. End of story.

Well, not quite. Maybe it's because Colbert is humor more articulated. (Stewart often lets news clips speak for themselves and just adds a facial expression.) Anyway, here is my list wherefore j'adore Colbert. (I chose the number intentionally: ten is sooo tired, while "seven" has more alliterative value.)

Sopheathene's Seven Reasons to Love Stephen
7. Inverting the television host-guest relationship, Colbert has his visitors seated when he announces them, and they remain so afterwards while he runs out in front of the audience and basks in their applause. He's even been known to high five and/or shake hands with members of the audience before sitting down to conduct the interview.

6. Colbert puts people, places, institutions, etc. that he disapproves of "on notice." Formally, with a "notice board," and a finger wag. Anything on the notice board can come off the notice board by changing behavior or, as is more likely, by being replaced by something more offensive (the board has limited slots).

5. The "t" in "Colbert" is silent. So is the one in "Report."

4. During the few second promo that The Daily Show affords Colbert, the guy makes Jon Stewart laugh. And not just occasionally. Every. Single. Time. It's as if he just isn't quite sure what to make of Colbert.

3. The weekly segment "Better Know a District," in which Colbert reports on and interviews the House representative from a different congressional district, has been changed from a 435-part series to a 434-part series. Permanently. Why? After the Duke Cunningham scandal, Colbert declared California's 50th "dead to me." Also, (you can count this as reason 3a), in his interview with Major Owens, the African-American from New York's 11th in Brooklyn, Colbert somehow walked him into advocating a return to slavery. Brilliant.

2. The fragrance, "Stephen Colbert's Scorn," available in the "You're Off Notice" giftbasket.

1. "The WØrd." A five- to seven-minute long monologue in which Colbert expounds upon (and digresses from but manages to return to) a particular topic. In one show last month--in honor of the Miss America pageant--it was "double stick tape." He connected it to the current political situation and everything.

Watch The Colbert Report Monday through Thursday nights at 11:30 pm CST on Comedy Central!

vladimir ilyich ulyanov

All our lives we fought against exalting the individual, against the elevation of the single person, and long ago we were over and done with the business of a hero, and here it comes up again: the glorification of one personality. This is not good at all. I am just like everybody else.
--V.I. Lenin

Last Sunday I ran into an old friend of mine who also graduated from the University of Texas but whom I only knew from study abroad in Russia during the summer of 2002. Since I basically flew straight from St. Petersburg to Raleigh, North Carolina, after the program's end in order to begin my new job, I hadn't seen him since then, and it was odd to do so in the United States, let alone in a café in Washington, D.C. I'll call him ts for my own devilish reasons--only the other members of the troika know why--and it turns out my friend ts writes a blog on modern American art for the Smithsonian and is, for those of you who keep track of such things, the only blogger on the federal payroll (Federal Diarist, I'm looking at you). I am amused by his current occupation because while in Russia, ts and I went twenty rounds over the virtue of modern art (I myself subscribing to the camp that form, line, and composition are not just quaint traditions of the unimaginative artistic mind). But now they pay him for his opinions, and I find that I have grown: this summer I finally visited a part of the Met other than the ancient wing (on my previous three visits I haven't made it past the lamassu); I lectured dogooderlawyer on the importance of appreciating Pollock and Rothko; and a trip to the new MOMA only made me stronger.

Most of all, seeing ts has made me reflect on my wonderful time in Moscow, so I thought I would share one of my favorite stories, about my visit to Lenin's mausoleum. (The "mausoleum," by the way, was named for its inventor, the fourth-century-BCE King Maussollos, who constructed the first huge, above-ground tomb for himself in Halicarnassus [modern Bodrum, Turkey], whence, incidentally, four centuries earlier Herodotus wrote his Histories. Whew, sorry. I have to fit in my classical education somewhere.) Lenin died on January 21, 1924, and within a week his body was lying in state in a wooden tomb by the Kremlin in Red Square. In October 1930, the current stone structure was completed, the decision to keep his body permanently on display having been made over his wife's express objections (Trotsky would later quip that "Lenin's body was being used against his spirit"). The man now receives visitors Tuesday through Thursday, from 10:00 am to 1:00 pm, during which time the huge expanse of Red Square is entirely closed off, save an entrance and exit to the tomb, on opposite sides of the plaza. So I dutifully skipped class one morning and joined the queue next to the State Historical Museum. After waiting about 20 minutes, I reached the soldier who was checking bags. He peered into mine and found my camera. "No, I am sorry. You cannot enter the tomb with that." Shocked (my professor, in the first of many mistakes that would later reveal him as a hopelessly inept chaperone, had assured everyone that there were no such carry-along restrictions), I began to argue. After a bit of back and forth, the armed guard motioned for me to follow him around the corner. He put his arm around my shoulder: "Devushka, I will let you in for ten American dollars." "Absolutely not," I replied immediately, and as I shrugged him off and walked away I thought, "It's my right as an honorary Russian to see Lenin for free, and by G-d I will!" (My friend arkady--the Baltimore Sun's bureau chief in Moscow--later disagreed and pointed out that bribing a soldier to get into an historical site would actually have been a quintessential Russian experience. Damn my knee-jerk righteous indignation!)

So I returned another week--this time sans camera--and passed the checkpoint easily. I was the first of what was meant to be just another group of a dozen visitors or so, the maximum allowed in the mausoleum at a time, but something caused a delay with the group behind me (maybe my professor told them, too, that they could bring their cameras). Whatever the reason, I suddenly found myself walking through Red Square all alone. By myself. The silence and space were overwhelming. A few amazed minutes of walking and looking all around me later, I was alone with the man. My eyes adjusted to the darkness. Huh. He was smaller than I had expected, and waxier, too. I moved up the stairs and leaned over slightly to get a closer look. "Devushka! Davai!" I looked up; one of the soldiers in full dress uniform jerked his head toward the exit. Lady! Get a move on! Apparently, the lack of visitors behind me mattered not; maybe he feared that a close inspection might reveal which parts of the Soviet leader are now just wax. So I reluctantly stepped outside the tomb to the space between it and the Kremlin wall, where many other Soviet celebrities are buried. I passed cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin, author Maxim Gorky, and American John Reed (whose book Ten Days That Shook the World inspired Warren Beatty's 1981 epic Reds), along with a mass grave of Bolsheviks killed in the 1917 revolution and Premiers Brezhnev and Gorbachev. (Khrushchev is elsewhere, but that story will have to wait for another time!) Finally, there is Stalin's grave, easily identifiable even for those who don't read Cyrillic by the heaps of flowers that crowd the headstone. It is an unfortunate fact of history that "Uncle Joe" is generally remembered with fondness by the people he oppressed.

I highly recommend the short volume Lenin's Embalmers for more information on the industry of keeping the man looking alive.