Photojournalism!

Challange Day 1:





Oh yes

(Photo Credit: Hank Knaack)

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I actually reused this costume (the kitty one) for a Halloween party this weekend. Only the ears still fit tho.

ps. I'll be in Tucson for the All Sould Procession this coming weekend. (Read: Tucson friends buy me drinks)

Nothing has ever made me happier

Grad School

Grad School Coursework First Month Summary:

Advanced Film Theory, Corey Creekmore, The Voice in Cinema:

Currently writing a paper on Star Trek, specifically the Borg.
Notes read as follows:
Data - "Are you the leader?"
Borg Queen - "I bring order to chaos."
Tone sexual, viceral[sic]. Borg Queen is the only sexual Borg. (Very poor drawing of Borg Cube)

Colloquium, Ariana Hamidi, Text in Film:

Recut a Richard Scary alphabet film to spell out the phonetic alphabet. Found another alphabet film where the host tells a fry guy-esque creature that Kiwis taste like strawberries and bananas.
Note the customer comments





Sound Design, Leighton Pierce:

Used ProTools (love) to turn Chris into a purring cat and added him to a soundscape with Maricio (older Italian exchange student) sewing during a rain storm.

Proseminar, Louie Schartz, Microcinema:

Watched Prince Albert Hurts, a short film about a botched piercing job (edited by Nicole Koschamnn).

Photo Journalism: Iowa State Fair

Egg on a Stick


Butter Cow


Competition


Narcissism


I Think It Lights Up


Coordinate


Pork Producers


Fruits of Labor


Graffiti


Pets or Meat


Diversity


Now Serving #439


Rogue Pork


Meet Me Out Back, Bring the Car


Selfish


Untitled


Spectacle


Love


Chicken Nugget


Jazzercize


Horrifying Ferris Wheel


Comfort Food


Stormy


Ring of Fire


Sad Clown


The Sultan of Iowa

There is a strange lesson happening across from me at the coffee house.

My quiet space has been encroached upon by a 40 something computer nerd’s condescending lesson to his 70+ impatient student. “It’s called wireless. Do you know what that means? Radio waves. You are getting internet through radio.” He overpowers the smooth jazz, offsetting its effect.

Iowa City life has been unsettled lately. It’s almost August which means the end of the academic lease. Piles of cheap Target desks and bent floor lamps mark the lawns of student housing, along with old couches that no longer stand to be passed off anymore. In the daytime dumpsters overflow with opportunistic bums and dumpster-diving Ebay abusers, while at night they are set on fire by drunks and assholes.

Meanwhile, I am still in stubborn denial of my own recent residential shift and spent the last week feeding my summertime jet-setter fantasy in Hilton Head, South Carolina. It is an island for the stereotypical, southern privileged who divide their time between afternoon beachfront dining and late night beachfront drinking. Naturally, my Fairfax County roots fit right in. Mostly, and most surprisingly, I was looking forward to a family reunion of sorts. The first night I had dinner with members of my father’s small town relatives who travel in clumps and all carry the same ambiguous title “cousin” (hold my uncle who subsequently beat feet within hours of my plane landing). The cousins were soon to follow after snubbing an invite for after dinner drinks in my parents’ swank marina-front timeshare. So much for my northern-centric hopes for a week of ethnographic observation. I dressed up in designer jeans and heels for our first and, as it would turn out, last casual crab-house dinner, proving I can be an alienating force when I put my mind to it.

Back in Iowa I am also trying to expand my world understanding. I finally left Vegan Hell and somehow managed to completely miss a total you-can’t-quit-you’re-fired! moment. After a week in Hilton Head I walk reluctantly back wearing my little green bandana, expecting to finish out my last week. “You don’t work here anymore. Remember, our last conversation ended: ‘Whatever, don’t come back at all, it probably won’t even be busy that week!’” So I give her back the bandana.

Currently jobless, in a desperate effort to combat the horribly self-centered feeling I get from living the summer life of a college student (read: timing your own sleep schedule to coincide with the hours of your local bar), I have started volunteering. Working here, like any job where kids are involved (ahem, my preschool teaching days), is like sitting through an endless episode of Kids Say the Darndest Things. Only now much of it is in sign language. I am slowly learning to speak a few words and phrases, but am currently limited to only the most adorable conversations. I can now describe the trot gait as “silly”

or frantically beg for “more horse”

when the lesson ends. It’s endlessly inspiring and clamping kid butts to bouncy saddles is totally getting my arms back in shape.

So I guess the lesson is: Iowa City has a lot of couches for the taking. It’s a bitch to sort through 'em, but eventually I'm bound to find something.

Meanwhile, I’ve got an interview tomorrow for a secretarial position at the local substance abuse (rehab!) clinic.

Air framers around the world utlize high-strength, corrosion resistant aluminum sheet and plate made in the Quad Cities.

So, rather than spending the night in my parents luxurious Hilton Head timeshare with two bedrooms, a full kitchen, and HD TV in every room, I'm sitting all by myself in an aviation themed restaurant at the Moline Airport. My noon flight this morning gave way to mechanical problems, severe delays, and finally a meal and hotel voucher at the neighboring Holiday Inn Express. I will spend the next 24 hours here in lovely Moline doing...


On the silver lining side of life I have never had a better tasting Sam Adams.


EDIT: The second Sam Adams is the most delicious ever.

On an unrelated note, I think there is a bunny living somewhere in my apartment.

I only have one memory of a tornado in my past. I’m not even sure if it’s real or just a dream/film I saw once because so many of the details are vague. I’m young, probably seven, and we are visiting family friends. All the parents are out for the evening and we kids are home with a sitter, but holed up in the basement because there is a tornado somewhere out there. The thing I remember clearly is standing at the sliding door window looking out at the unusually blackened sky. I know that I shouldn’t be, but mostly I am standing there really, really hoping that the tornado will come. I just want to see it.

I’m at the coffee shop today talking online with my sister and listening to music (completely engulfed in my own world) when I notice one of the other hopelessly boring people who spend all day at coffee shops with their computers become suddenly very agitated.

“Is that the tornado sound?” He’s looking out the unusually darkened window talking to nobody in particular.

Does a tornado have a sound? I take my headphones off. I guess it’s pretty rumbly out there.

Nobody around me seems too concerned so I sit tensely and quietly, while looking up local weather on the National Weather Service.

WTF Iowa City?

Finally one of the girls working comes around to each table, “The tornado is in [some part of town I can’t relate to my part of town] and will be here in ten to fifteen minutes.” Note the part where she tells us it will be here, not might or could or it’s a remote possibility. Naturally, I completely believe her.

So we all shuffle to the one nook of the store with no windows and cram ourselves into two couches and a handful of chairs. We spend the next forty-five minutes pretending we aren’t actually sitting that close (hold the guy who knows what tornados sound like who is telling natural disaster stories to God knows who) while the employees take turns checking out the doors in case we need to move even farther back into the windowless yoga studio next door.

Eventually the threat is lifted and, as if on cue, nearly every customer in the store gets up to leave. I do too, though admittedly, much more apprehensively than my colleagues and head for home.

I get home to find the parking lot partially flooded, river rapids, and my kitty sound asleep on the couch. The first thing I do is check the window locks, close the blinds, and scoot the couch just a little closer to the back wall.

40% of scientists believe God will answer their prayers. pg1

I am at work the other day (read: Vegan Hell) staring idly at a table of mothers and daughters dressed in long dresses with flowers and lace (the kind that calls for stockings). Anyway, they get up to leave and one of the women does a slight double-take at me. I smile as she walks over and asks, “Are you a big reader?”

And I say “Yes!” with an even bigger smile because I know I must be looking smart and studious that day.

“Are you in college?”

I am so in college! I did college and now I’m back for more, lady. “I am.”

I am getting strangely excited, because I have been feeling bad about myself working a low-paying, food service job while all my friends are in fabulous internships and begging career track jobs.

“Good.” She reaches into her very professional looking bag/purse, “In that case, I think you will really enjoy this.”

She hands me a magazine printed entirely on newsprint. It’s called “AWAKE!” and the front cover had a fish on it and is asking me “Is there a CREATOR?” It seems to be a Christian propaganda magazine geared towards children/young adults who are questioning, but not too intensely.

“Thanks, I’ll look at it.” I say with every intention until I noticed the September 2006 stamped in the upper corner. Suddenly I am less enthused.

A little while later I was telling the story to a regular. She thought it was pretty funny and really wanted met to “enjoy that.”

I said, “I will, when I read it using my college degree.”

(and I would have if my boss hadn't kept throwing it out, even after I kept fishing it out of the garbage. She's so closed minded)

The proper accessories can draw attention away from your problem area midsection.

There are a few things I really like about this pattern:



Firstly, Post Cereal sponsorship.
Second, the foregrounded woman's Michael Jackson-esque glove style.
And finally, the woman in the background's Elton John inspired glasses.


I need to learn how to sew.

Save me

The best part about that last post is the fact that I'm actually sitting in another coffee shop while writing it.

I can only think of about three people who will find this interesting

I just started working at a vegan restaurant masquerading as a coffee shop (meaning I was profoundly misled when applying). The woman who owns it watched closely as I made one of maybe two actual coffee drinks ordered the whole day. This is how it goes:

Pulling the shot

(I hate using barista terminology btw, but it adds to the story)

I fill the portafilter with fresh espresso grounds and tamp it down.

“Was that 30 lbs of pressure?” She is hovering.

I’m thinking What the hell? “I don’t know. Did it look like 30 lbs?”

“We have a scale for you to practice on over here.” And they actually do.

I stick it in the machine with the unverified tamping pressure, but the soy pitcher is filled with breve so I have to wash it. I leave the shot unpulled. Nobody wants an old, bitter soy latte.

“You can’t leave it like that or the espresso is going to loosen and the shot will be AWEFUL.” I look at the very still-looking machine and she goes ahead and PULLS MY SHOT.

Only half goes into the cup because, well, the cup and I weren’t ready for the shot yet.

“You need to put the cup all the way under or you lose some espresso.” No shit.

“Oh! This is DISGUSTING!” She is smelling the cup and gagging. After she pours the whole thing out and GETS AN ENTIRELY NEW CUP, she decides it would be best just to do it herself. She does and I steam the soy while thinking mean things about her and her stupid green bandanna (of which I have one too).

After, she smells her own shot and tells me how much better it is.

Steaming the milk

I pour my perfectly steamed soy and she marvels at the foam. Damn right.

ANYWAY, the point of this story includes these later comments during a conversation with a customer:

Comments

She refuses to order a coffee without sampling it first.

She will not drink any coffee from a pot.

She once GAGGED when trying coffee from a pot and couldn’t believe the customer behind her still ordered.

She has a friend who considers himself a ‘coffee-coinsure,’ yet still drinks coffee from gas stations!

She thinks iced coffee is gross.

Concluding

Dear Canyon,

I miss you and all of your unpretentiousness.

Dear Iowa City,

This

is unnecessary.

Sometimes I like this place

I just saw a HOUSE propped up on giant wheels and PARKED ON THE SIDE OF THE ROAD next to ANOTHER house on wheels.

Both had 'for sale' signs in the windows.

Old Navy makes a killing in Iowa City

Back when Amy and I were too young to celebrate our independence in Washington DC my mother used to drive us to her dad’s house in Warsaw, New York.

Warsaw in all her glory:


Warsaw would host an annual Fourth of July parade and carnival. The carnival (as I remember it) consisted entirely of mud and cotton candy. And a pony ride. And I loved it.

This was the first Fourth since the Warsaw days that I haven’t celebrated at home in Virginia or sitting across the river from the National Mall. Instead I took my visiting mom and dad across the Iowa River to Coralville, the closest thing to Iowa City with a mall and home to the Coralville Fourth of July Fair and Fireworks display.

At the fairgrounds Miss Iowa was sitting at a little wooded table at the end of a line of about thirty little girls twirling batons and clamoring for autographs. Some of them matched in black and white leotards, there was one Pocahontas, countless cowgirls, and just enough red white and blue fringe to keep the whole place celebrating. Beyond that there were only about ten food vendors and as many b-list carnival rides (read: no farris wheel OR carousel). The only truly inspiring ride was a kiddy coaster titled Desert Storm. I got to watch a tiny little girl ride around in a bumpy circle, a gun in each hand and a tank underneath her, squealing between her redwhiteandblue streamered pigtails.

It was like this:
!!!!!

That night we decided to simply open the curtains and watch the Iowa City fireworks display at a sharp angle out my parents hotel window.

At the Virginia house

My parents have this cabinet where the plates and casserole dishes are kept. On the inside of one of the doors they tape all their important phone numbers: friends, family, doctors, the piano tuner that came once. There are also scraps of paper devoted to my sister’s and my boyfriends. Rather than getting new scraps as boyfriends expire, however, my mother simply crosses out the old name and number and squeezes the new into the leftover spaces. As a result the cabinet serves as a kind of quick reference history of our early love lives with each name getting progressively smaller and more cramped as the one before it is crossed out.

Not a single bum had asked me for change.

Iowa City makes me feel like a step back in time. On the dusk walk from my place to Kyle's I trailed behind a sixty-something couple taking a Sunday stroll, met two dogs, said hello to a handful of house painters, passed three brave little bunnies and saw a young-looking couple making out on a front porch in shorts and sneakers. I also passed a fire station with real firemen inside and two cars left idling with keys hanging from the ignition.

What is this place?

I feel like I need to start an overly innocent summer romance which ultimately ends in life-changing tragedy.





That and I should know way more embarrassing gossip about my neighbors.

Defined

I don’t know what it is about the Midwest, or maybe (possibly) it’s just Michigan, but I have heard more heartbreakingly tragic stories this week than I know even about my own hometown.

At the Michigan house

There is a fan in my room called the Kool Operator and a little green one named Windsor on the patio.

I never realized there was such an art to the clever naming of fans.

The Situation

I finally made it to Iowa and moved into my new home. One day later I discovered a huge construction effort in the hallways and a newly displaced roach infestation in the living room of my apartment. After assessing the situation I decided the best way to cope was just to run away. I put the kitty back in the car and we headed off to Michigan to mooch off Kyle’s family vacation, thus putting officially moving off for another whole week.

I feel homeless and irresponsible.

Rejected

I’ve been packing for two weeks. In two weeks of packing I need to be able to fit everything important and vital to my survival into my little blue car. This includes my cat and boyfriend. I am strapped for space.

It’s taken me two weeks because that is exactly how long it takes me to work up the courage to throw anything away. I am a consumer whore.

The first things to go are the stacks and stacks of peer-edited poems and stories from the various writing classes. Apparently I’m not revising. Next are the piles of Spanish rap CDs I started receiving to be played on my now-fallen-to-the-wayside television show. Most are unopened, yet saved and organized just in case the mood should ever hit. Behold the value of free.

Gradually it gets easier and I start to trash things I’ve actually paid for: old plates, clothes, and shoes. I make a Goodwill pile. Goodbye microwave.

It’s down to the wire, everything is packed hold about ten books and the kitty. These are the last of my books, rejected first by me, then by Bookmans. They are lying sideways on the built-in closet shelf being either uninteresting or uneducational. Mostly, however, they are taking up space.

After waiting until Kyle is out of the house, I scoop up the books. I stuff them far into the recycling bin behind the building and close the lid.

Halfway through the walk back I feel suddenly liberated. Books are paper and ink and not inherently valuable. They physically can be thrown away and I just did it. I brag about it at the bar that night.

I’m up at six the next morning making last minute preparations for the trip. This includes taking the last bag of garbage to the trash bin. There are bits of garbage scattered all around. The half empty bottles of vodka and rum are missing along with the unopened sleeve from a box of graham crackers. By the recycling, every last book has been pulled from the deep blue bin. Not taken, just extracted and strewn about in the dirt. I feel instant and overwhelming guilt. I want to dust off every one of those books, sign and date them, and cart them around with me to every last place I move. I stand there for a very long time.

Finally, I clean up the stray bits of garbage, toss my last bag in, and leave the books untouched, semi-circled around the rest of the recyclables and head off to Iowa.