I am not Trayvon Martin

I've been pretty befuddled by the outcome of the Zimmerman trial. I'm trying not to loose perspective. I get that some people are annoyed with the media saturation the case and the aftermath have both received, but for the people who this verdict concerns directly (and by people I mean people of color) his murder and the upholding of the Stand Your Ground law are matters of personal safety and survival.

I won't insult your intelligence by explaining that further, because you know what your personal survival means to you.
It's a true story to say that I know a lot of white people. Many of them are not as well off as they would like to be. This affords them certain illusions about race and class. You see, lots of white folks in my hometown survive on seasonal work and unemployment. These kinds of white people can be tricked into believing that the fact that they are poor(er), and the fact that their lives are hard, means that they've never been handed anything. You'll hear them say that a lot--I've never been handed anything!  Except the aforementioned unemployment they're ashamed to talk about and the white skin that don't wash off.
You can't blame people for rejecting this reality outright.
White privilege is a blind spot.
99 percent of the time, you can't possibly know you're benefiting from it because skin privilege is invisible. Cops not stopping your car, you not getting carded, not being frisked, people not thinking you're stealing a bike, not getting followed in a store, not getting talked down to when you try to buy things, not getting stared at, not feeling like you wish there was another white person in the room, not feeling like you have to speak for all white people, never getting told you're so articulate like that should be surprising or something, people never touching your hair as though you're their pet because it's so different--all that shit is the water around you that you've always been swimming in. You can't see it. It's normal.  It's the luck that you've made on your own, with no god damn help from nobody.
Here in Mordor, one doesn't simply see the forest for the trees.
So I understand the knee-jerk reaction any person who considers themselves a decent human being would have: You didn't cause this, it shouldn't effect you.
But please look again.

Trayvon was stopped for looking suspicious by a man who was told by the authorities not to pursue him. If somebody came up to me in an unmarked car and started asking me questions, I wouldn't show them the deference I show a cop. LOL, Try that on me sometime if you really want to see  what entitlement looks like. But before you do, ask yourself, why instigate the fight and then escalate it to the point where you believed taking a life was your only choice?

Jurors say that beyond a reasonable doubt Zimmerman feared for his life. His brother says he'll stay afraid for the rest of it. Well you know what, it doesn't make me feel better knowing that he'll always be looking over his shoulder.  It makes me feel sick. It proves to me that guns are too easy to obtain and too final in their judgement. And it teaches us that this law is too ambiguous and needs a slap in the face.

I am not Trayvon Martin but my younger brothers could be mistaken for him. Having a black step father has allowed me to peek through windows of oppression, stepping away unscathed and still white. Being pulled over and frisked. The shame in a grown man's eyes. The fear it puts in me when I look at my younger brothers and in at a world I'll never know the codes for or be able to protect them in. No, I am not Trayvon Martin, but he could have been my brother. And it shouldn't have to be that personal if we really are the decent human beings we thought ourselves to be a few paragraphs ago.

I know not all my readers are white and I know not all my readers need white privilege explained to them. It was not my intention to alienate or exclude anyone with this post. It just made me feel sick inside to go on telling you about my life like I'm Doug Fucking Funny instead of acknowledging that in a country that can make me feel so proud with its cultural diversity and differences--and can feel so idyllic from afar--is still recovering from Slavery.
We are that ugly legacy, America. But we should be so much more.
Swim towards the sunshine, it's time to come up for air.

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A paradigm arrest

I'd like to use my second bowl of Captain Crunch this mojo as a time marker for exactly when I realized I must be kind of hard to take seriously.  The crunch "berries" were not yet soggy and as paused two breaths to give my cramping jaw a rest, I began to empathize with just how exhausting  it must be to know me personally. I guess Mr. Folds was right--the whizman never fits us like the whizkid did. 
At least I don't have a juice mustache anymore.

mais, allo quoi

I've been my own beast of burden out here under this Ohio sized sun. It's been almost grueling -but I have been cutting myself a lot of slack because there have been about a million new beers to try. I wish knowing junk about beer flavors was considered important or sophisticated. Oui, parce que je suis très cultivé, moi. Je connais Jacques Brel et Nique Ta Mère...
Plus I can taste the difference between hops and malts.
Sebastien's parents went to Saint Louis to visit his grandparents and we were effectively living alone for the first time in two years. It was pretty awesome playing house again. We split our time between stowing our saveables in the basement, doing copious amounts of yard work, grilling like villains and sampling the aforementioned beers.
I've really stepped up my grilled game too.

Not trying to brag, but I'm kind of awesome with it.
I saw the Great Gatsby last night. It turns out that even though I've never been in-step with the fashion  currents  of Paris, it's still way too easy for me to over-dress for a movie in Columbus. As for the film, it's hard for me to summarize my feelings about it...
If you haven't read the book recently and don't remember the first film, we've definitely had two different experiences with this amalgamation.  I can't decide how I feel about race relations as they were portrayed. Perhaps it's better for the generations whose first look at the era will come through this window to believe blacks and whites mixed as freely then as they do today. This would serve to give situations in their lives the gifts of normalcy and sideline-acceptance that they deserve.
However, one of the major themes in the book is the concept of old money verse new money, a dichotomy never more obvious than in the descriptions of East and West Egg, Long-island and the drive through the city of ashes where the working class poor labor to make the city great and their decadence possible.  

But just as important was this idea that richness is a retreat from the aspects of life we're not ready to face--that's why the valley of the ashes can exist on the other side of our window screen or how come Billie Holiday can perform here, but she can't eat with the band--strange fruit were  swinging in the breeze--and part of me feels like this movie don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.

I was a bit annoyed by how much the film kept returning to the Eyes of God motif when it is mentioned in the book at least four times fewer than it was in the film or came up in my high school English class. And the framing story? Wow. Derivative at best. I'd say that DiCaprio does an amazing Robert Redford impression, but I'll be very surprised if he get's the Oscar he's long deserved for this reprisal.
Verdict: Pas Terrible, old sport.
Two winners from the soundtrack: 100$ Bill – Jay Z and A Little Party Never Killed Nobody (All We Got) You can really smell the hedonistic sweat and close air of the club if you listen to that second track with decent speakers.

Tomorrow, Seb and I be heading out on a road trip to West Virginia to pick up his sister from her post in at The Mountain Institute.

I'm pretty excited not only because she's hilarious and I love her but also because although I've gone many places by car, I've never once shared the driving on a road trip. West Virginia is some beautiful country besides, and we may even get to do a little spelunking before the return voyage to Ohio!
In terms of progress and goals, we finally got our full medical clearance from the Peace Corps on Tuesday. Now it's back to waiting to see where in the US they'll send us for our rendezvous/staging point with our colleagues that we also be serving in China. Should be getting an email or a plane ticket in the mail any day now. You can Youtube some Rebecca Black if you wanna know how I really feel about it.

Later, gators.

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Where are the hardships?

There are good ships and there are wood ships and there are ships that sail the sea, but the best ships are friendships and may they ever be.
Best toast ever. Toast is great but don't let it get too hard. Now hardships, those are something else.I am rereading the PDFs the Peace Corps sent me because I have to check a box that says I did that.

There are a lot of half-contemptible things in these documents. Apparently, for example--I may not drive in my host country, or while traveling to any other country where the peace corps currently has volunteers. I may ride a bike, but I may be discharged from my service if I operate one without a helmet.A lot of the documents want to prepare us for disappointment and loneliness and existential questions about not being able to communicate. It's going to be interesting experiencing those tribulations for a second time.

When we moved to France, Sebastien did not have the same linguistic handicaps that I did. He had been visiting France since his early childhood and his greatest problem with speaking is that he's too creative with words. So I'm going to do my best to be compassionate towards him and that newness even as I struggle myself. In some ways, being in a couple for Peace Corps service makes us lucky--we will have each others hard won companionship  after all. In other ways it will be more difficult, as it has been in France, as it could only be in a country with which neither party has any cultural ties.
But we will have dim sum, that's something.
I wanted to share with you a few quotes from the manual that I found particularly amusing.

"Your host families have probably even been warned that you’ll be unintentionally boorish now and then and that they shouldn’t take it personally."

So that's cool. Anytime I fly off the handle, throw the baby out with the bathwater or cry over spilt milk I can just look at my host family levelly and remind them in English, they had been warned.
Better still, there is an entire section of one manual titled: Where is the hardship?
That had these two gems:

"Doing without is part of the image and mythology of the Peace Corps, and some Volunteers associate it with success. In truth, there is no such equivalency. Even if you do have hot running water, you can still cover yourself in glory just as easily as a Volunteer who sleeps under a date palm and takes sponge baths."

TIL that some people in the Peace Corps get to sleep under date palms, and this fact apparently renders me jealous. But it's an interesting point to make. Just look at all the stuff I won't be taking into industrialized China:

Lol, just kidding. Of course I'll bring duct-tape. 

And I admit that I do find myself a bit wrapped up in the mystique of hardship (and camping.) Nobody's culture should be treated as an opportunity to camp, I actually know this but there is something excited in me that just loves to pack and be prepared and takes great pride in having expected outcomes and then encountering them. I actually prefer those things to pitching my tent in the rain or playing with magnesium and steal, trying to get a fire lit.
...but if I'm being completely honest, playing with magnesium is actually kind of worth it.
Even still, I know that China is going to be a changing experience. It would be limiting to imagine just how. But I might actually feel guilty -guilty, I say!- for not suffering enough. Graciously, the manual urges me to rest assured that I will suffer. Existentially. Possibly to the point of depression induced sickness.

"So in the meantime, don’t worry: It’s still noble work even if the shop on the corner does carry M&Ms. They’re probably stale anyway."

Talk about injustice!
I take it back, please don't.

I've been walking around realizing that I actually enjoy Spring. And it turns out I'm also really going to miss Paris.
 I feel kinda silly for saying that. But there are a million things to celebrate right on my block. How many times  in my life will I ever live near a coffee roaster again? The lady behind the counter knows how I like my beans ground. moulee pour un cafetier italien. Pas de sac. Comme d'habitude. She always says warmly before she wishes us a good sunday.

One time, I was in the mood for a burger but didn't have the dinero for Chez Jeanette so I walked into a bucher shop about two doors down  and asked them if they had any ground beef left. The butcher furrowed his brow  at me and picked up what I considered to be a good cut of meat. Feeling certain that I had mispronounced steak hachee, I tried again, very polity to say it more slowly. He just rolled his eyes and dropped the meat in the grinder.
Just like that.

There is a Pankistani man who sells ripped DVDs from on top of a box every night, right across from where all the free degustations are hosted. He's always so cordial when we talk that I actually look forward to our small intereactions.
I hope he never gets caught.

Feth, I love it here! No decent brunch places but hella good, Indian food four businesses at a time.  I can't even bring down the trash without smelling fresh mint or apples from the fruit stand below our flat. Not to mention the roasted chickens and pigs each time I step on to the balcony, in winter. A short stroll on Saturday gets you to la fontaine Saint Michel where you can manage to find kebab for 50 centimes cheeper than on my street. Or closer even, les forum des Halles if you want to spend an afternoon in the FNAC pretending you can afford a two euro pocket edition.
I have so many good memories of the canal Saint Martin. Drinking cheep german beer along the quai with Clement while he plays his guitar. By bike past the banlieue Saint Denis onward and further till the sidewalks end and the fields begin.

The Fete de la Musique. June 21st, you'll always be there. That was my main reason for coming to France that first summer in 2009--even if I was still in Madrid at the time.
I'll miss you, Summers nights taken by storm and by foot. Hearing accordion players playing non ironically from my bed.
Amazing falafel in the Marais. The best kurdish food I've ever had. A hotdog stand that juices fruits and sells bagles. Ti-punch. Seeing whole skinned rabbits along side the chickens in shop windows.
Coming back from class by velib.
And walking back to my flat with a hot baguette against my side on a crisp Autumn's eve. It's memories like these that keep me so addicted to adventuring.

Our weekend was pretty full. 
On n'a pas fait que la fête, mais comme meme.
We went to my favorite bar, Le Mauri7, on Friday night. Sebastien and I kept it light. The rest of the gang got back around 6 AM. I had to teach Saturday morning and so I wasn't trying to over do it. I'm glad I didn't either, because Saturday was beautiful and Seb and I walked all around the 12th arrondissement along the Promenade Plantee. The city has converted an old raised train line into a garden. We did the whole length, back tracked and then walked home through Bastille  and in through the Marais and back along the Seine. 
Went to a great house party last night not far from here and really enjoyed ourselves. Today I have  to update the FTP server for my class but I plan to do that from bed. It's cloudy and I just want to read. I think I borrowed a book from someone last night called Charly 9. It smells like cigarettes and rhum so I don't want to touch it today. But last night I was very exicited to start reading it.
Makes me wonder what tomorrow will bring. Likely more hardship and peace corps paperwork. But I feel existentially prepared for such an onslaught. I will face it with his hand in mine and by the grit of my teeth. I will likely also have coffee. Ground. For an Italian coffee maker. No plastic bag. Like usual.
Bonne Dimanche.

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The color blue and red candies too.

<<Aujourd'hui, maman est morte.>> 
That's the first line from the Stranger, one of my favorite books on our high school's curriculum and the basis of everything I would learn about Existentialism. I'm reading it now, in French and even though I'm seeing a lot of the vocabulary for the first time, I heard it used frequently, last week.

Sebastien's grandmother passed away and his parents came from the US to attend the funeral.

I had only seen her once, prior to her death--Sebastien took  me to Strasbourg to meet his Uncle and cousins and during that visit I only heard her speak a single time which was prompted by Sebastien's Uncle telling her that Seb's father was on the phone. He asked if she would like to speak with him. 

<< Oh, yes ! >> she had replied warmly. That was in 2009.

Sebastien and his parents visited her in Alsace last summer. I stayed in Paris because the trip interfered with my work schedule. As a result last week was the first time I had seen most of Seb's family in 4 years. I was hesitant to go in some ways, as if doing so would make a promise I was scared to keep. And anyway, funerals are personal, family affairs-- Sebastien's own sister couldn't even make it, and as I am merely the wife of a grandson...I didn't want to intrude.

But reluctant as I was, I knew it was my duty to attend. Sebastien has held my hand through both my brother and my father's death, in effect making that same promise I was scared to make, twice.

Am I being clear enough, dear reader?

It means something to meet your lover's parents. It means something else to accompany them to a wedding where you might interact with their family in a time of joy...it means quite another thing to stand beside them during tragedy.

My French has improved greatly since my first vacation to France. I was a little disappointed that nobody mentioned that at first, or slowed down when they spoke, or even asked me where I was from, but acceptance is it's own kind of compliment.

Interestingly enough, the whole affair was a joyful event punctuated by deep feelings and tears. Moving as those moments were I found they were overshadowed by droll stories and beautiful pictures. People had amazing tales of his grandmother. My favorite involved his great-Aunt and how she met her husband.

Sebastien's Grandmother was quite an accomplished seamstress. I've seen pictures of the Batman costume she made him as a child. 

Apparently she had  fashioned a blue velvet dress with a white collar for her younger sister, Sebastien's great-Aunt.

She told her little sister to put it on to go out to lunch. Her sister complied but leaned out the window to see what the weather would be like. It was raining and she was not looking forward to getting the new garment wet. She looked good in blue--this was never  mentioned but even now, in her mid 80's blue is her color.

While she's thinking about the weather a young man leans out his own window, across the street.

<< It's raining. >> He remarked.

<< Yes, it is. >> She agrees. << It's too bad because I was just about to go to a restaurant. >> She told this story more than once and she paused every time right here to say that she was too poor to eat at a restaurant, she was going to a cafe to buy a sandwich, but she didn't want him to know that.

<<You're going to eat some place? Well, I'm hungry too. Why don't we go together ? >> the young engineer leaning out his window proposed.

She agreed. Less than a year later, they were married. Fifty years ago now.

Any romantic anywhere would want to have a love story brought to you in part by the inconvenience of weather and a beautiful blue dress. C'est magique, ca !

I know Valentine's day is coming up and people are going to talk about what love is or isn't. How the holiday is manufactured and stupid and I get all of that, I really do.

But admit it--Valentines day was so awesome when we were in grade school. I don't know how they do things in France, but trading candy and paper puns was a textbook amazing afternoon for me. Red candies ranging from cherry to fire-flavored were front and center and somebody's mom inevitable brought in chocolate cupcakes. 

Pft, whatever. That holiday ruled.

This year Sebastien and I are dead broke. Both the trip to Rome and the visit to the US really put the breaks on our spending. 4 weeks of cumulative vacation does not come cheaply and the translation work he's had lately is enough to cover his half of the rent and little else. For my part, I was told I wouldn't be needed at the Local Bio until April and I had to take a day off from teaching for the funeral. So there won't be costly ingredients for our dinner nor the gifts I couldn't afford for him at Christmas. But there will be love, and I mean the blue dress kind.

Something he probably doesn't remember about when we got together, we had made it official on Valentine's day, yes. But two days later,  somebody's dad left three trays of cupcakes in my common room at college. I selected one with a plastic ring on the top and brought it over to Seb in his room, presenting it with a grin. I knew what I was doing, but I told myself I was only playing at promises and commitment. 

Later that night when the fire alarm got us out of our beds, I found him in the crowd and I handed him a Hershey's hug with the paper that said "I love you." I did so knowing that maybe it was too soon for such hints and insinuations. But why not romance someone if you have the chance? It's only candy and plastic promise rings anyway, right? 8 years later, I'm not sure if that's true. Why not ask us about it in 50 years.

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Temporary Everythings

Well, what do you think? It's was my first. I was 18 and I picked it off the wall of a tattoo parlor in Hampton Beach. It's two characters supposedly, life and be present....a Carpe diem a of sorts--I don't know, that's what the artist said, and that's what others have told me. I can't read Chinese. It might as well be Korean.
In my more radical days, when everyone had half their head shaved and we'd all walk around in shorts patched with dental floss,  I would tell anybody who asked that  it was Kanji for "cultural appropriation."  They would laugh indulgently at the imprudence of youth and go back to their kale and quinoa burritos. It seems to me now that our our towers were much more ivory than we imagined because regular people don't know what cultural appropriation is and Kanji isn't even a form of Chinese.
Flippancy  has long been my way of saying I don't walk to talk about it.And I don't either. I was so impetuous I nearly got the character for rain written on my body.

It's tribal, so whatever.

For awhile I  felt guilty because I wasted a great tattoo location for a language I don't speak from a culture with whom my familiarity extends only as far as the understanding that their New Year is different than my own.  And for a long time this was a sufficiently humorous punishment. But I'm too busy mispronouncing every French word I know to think too long on it, these days. 

Yet even here in France I've remained in pretty fair contact with the United States. Obama or one of his minions sent me an email ever three or four days up until his second inauguration. Apparently they need a lot of help or money, or maybe just something for the interns to do--so they send me emails. It isn't the life I would have chosen for them, but it's the cards they were dealt
I've been dealt a new hand myself- DHL delivered a package yesterday with a letter from Obama and he wanted to talk about Kennedy's legacy and commitment and, the Peace Corps. It was signed with the fattest permanent market possible or had been photocopied to the point where his signature no longer resembles the original. Very exciting stuff.
Yes, mis amigos, we've finally got our destination and it's finally time to tell you that we expect to be moving to China to teach English at a University. We'll not know where exactly or when exactly until they feel like telling us. We've got visas and vaccinations to attend to, miles to go before we sleep and a whole lot of promises to keep.  I think we could not have done better in terms of comfort and as some of you may recall I planned to live in China at some point in my life anyway. I'm excited for a fresh chance at adventure.  Best of all, we will be trained in Mandarin--so I may learn what my tattoo says after all.  


Anything could still go wrong and knock us out of the running--it's been quite a process. But that's life for you. Carpe Diem, indeed.

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This is a bunch of stuff

So I was walking through the Place de la Republic the other night realizing that the perfect time to be out and about in Paris is that sweet spot  between 21h and 23:30 on a quite soggy night because  the sidewalks aren't smoky and over crowded and the drunks aren't yet too curious. 

Naturally, I was singing. I have discovered a lot of great bands over the last year and even though my breaths support isn't what it once was, I still like to belt me out a good tune. All this would be fine if I hadn't been listening to debate highlights songified--the whole time wondering how freakish and patriotic I must look to anyone in earshot and bilingue.

As you may know, we've been in a holding pattern here in Paris for quite some time. It's been my plan since before high school to do the Peace Corps and maybe I meant to do it sooner but it really seems like it's going to happen now. Can't say for sure when, as yet, but before the end of this year I expect to be in another country. 

In a letter we received last night from our recruiter, I was assured there are no posts open in French-speaking countries. Which is a bummer because they currently have open programs in Senegal, Guinea, Burkina Faso, Togo, Benin and Cameroon. They also have feet on the ground in Morocco and Madagascar, but their flash map says they don't train their volunteers in French in these countries. 

Check it out for yourself, it's a pretty solid history of where the Peace Corps has been in the world.

I'll be the first to admit that my thirst for adventure was what interested Erin the child in the Corps but Erin the taller really does like to help people. I say this to explain that my concept--or if I'm being honest--fantasy of how service in the Peace Corps would go has evolved just as I have... 

If this is you:

We should be friends. 

/digression

I've kind of always had my heart set on Africa. The best short fiction in the New Yorker always came out of Africa, said Erin the Child. People are starving in Africa, said Erin's mom, Eat your dinner. Let's deny them access to contraception and education, said the Bush administration. I take a shower after having sex with someone I suspect of having HIV,  remarked the current President of South Africa.   Erin the taller said, I can teach and now I know a nominal amount of French, let me serve. But the letter said we are being considered for all the open programs in the world. So we could be in Columbia or Turkmenistan, as it suits them.
As much as I'm quietly worried about the atrophying of my French, I'm also feeling liberated from my expectations. I can learn almost any language they need me to in two years time. I've proved that to myself here. Moreover, I'm traveling with a rational, map and money-savvy man who will stick by my side and help me sail to our next port. Most of all, I shouldn't worry too much about a future I can't predict or change--I know these things, but I  don't live this truth. 

It snowed last weekend; almost all day, on Sunday. What a wonderful gift to the children of Paris, on an afternoon like Sunday. No school. More than half the shops in town closed your parents have to spend time with you. Many of the streets closed to cars, couldn't have hoped for a better excuse to make wintertime memories.  You should have seen them in Le Parc des Buttes Chaumont.

We slid on our heels a while others used cardboard, truckless skateboards, or sleds, or skis. We walked all the way home and had hot chocolate en route. Had an even better cup of it last night, as a matter of fact. You could say that things have been pretty cozy, lately. We've been reusing tea bags and burning candles. Sweaters, slippers and wool socks whenever we're up. Lots of reading in bed. I love it. There is even a machine raclette sitting on our kitchen table. We'll see what comes of it.
My only sure thing is Sunday's March for Equality. That's right, I'm determined not to be too hungover to stand up for my French LGBT brothers and sisters and their right as tax paying citizens to marry and raise children legally. There was a protest against it two weeks ago but as Biden would say, "Their ideas are old, and their ideas are bad." And I would quote him, because debates are better as musicals.
See you on the other-side of eventually. 

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The Body

Upon my insistence, Sebastien saw Stand By Me for the first time, last week. Have you seen it? I think one of the older kids taped it off TV because when I was about 8 years old, my little brother and I would watch it all the time.

For those of you whom have not, Stand By Me is a Rob Reiner film based on the Stephen King novella, The Body. Will Wheaton of later internet fame stars as Gordie in his first lead role.
Gordie is an introspective preteen coming up in the slick hair sterility of the 50s and will grow up to write professionally.  The audience knows this because the framing story is of him as a man reflecting on a death he reads about in the paper.
When the main story is introduced, Gordie's family is still reeling from the recent death of his older brother Denny, played in flashbacks by a fresh faced John Cusack.

The plot itself is interesting but the story arch of a man reflecting on his coming of age is hardly a new concept. Even done well, scrambled eggs are still just, well, scrambled.
But there is a bit of a minigame--or substory, if you like featuring a character named Lard  Ass. My brother and I would say his name like it was a secret, laughing each time in high childish giggles while squinty eyed smiles passed between us.
We binged on this film. It babysat us. Even so, we had an argument over the language at the end. I believe the line is, "He died almost instantly." I contended that the character in question died almost at once, but my brother felt that the word almost indicated the character lived. As in, He almost died. It was frustrating, but he was smaller than me, so I let it go, figuring it was better he believed in happy endings. 

The thing that makes any movie interesting, ultimately, if we're honest, is seeing ourselves in the characters. And sure, I do love to write, but I think I related to River Phoenix's character, Chris Chambers, the most--even though Corey Feldman and the hot guy from Sliders were in the film as well.
Chambers was sort of the mother of the group and had a hard time stepping out of the shadow his family cast. He's introduced with, "He came from a bad family and everyone just knew he'd turn out bad. Including Chris." I'm not ashamed of my family or who we are, but like Chris, I expected this would be my lot and for my early years in education, it was. Things got better once I headed off to school in Vermont. 

After not having seen the film for at least 20 years, it was interesting to see so many of my favorite 50s songs played back to me. I kept wondering if I liked them because of the film or if they were just that good. I'll never know. Also, mailbox baseball, playing chicken and a complete and total barf-o-rama, this is where I learned about all three of these hallmarks of my youth.
Watching it again, I can honestly say that both the cinematography and setting were wasted on 8 year old Erin.

And I had forgotten completely about the body.
But a good story stays in the back of your head just like a good song. Speaking of which, check out the last mix I made for my little brother by clicking the image. It's free for download.

Genre: Little bit of hip hop and a whole lot of Rock and Roll

I listen to it all day on December 13 and June 2nd. But if one of the songs comes up any day in between, I hit the forward button and I don't look back because there really are no such thing as happy endings.
I'm not being sullen, you should accept this: your whole life is nothing but waves--the energy moves, but the water stays right where it is. You'll have high tides and rip tides, changes in currents and a hundred hard summers swimming with the sharks. But sometimes you'll squint in the glare and smile just to be there. Christ, I don't have to tell you what you already know. Surfs up,  Kundun.

Sebastien and I leave for the States in 4 days. I should start practicing my "No sir, I have nothing to declare" face. Admittedly, I'm not overly excited to sit in a plane for 10+ hours but I'll probably eat a whole jar of pickles as soon as I land...or nachos. Or Both. Does that make me weird?

On verra. 

You have read this article John Cusack / Never Saw the Northern Lights / Rob Reiner / Sliders / Stand by me / Stephen King / The Post Modern Talk-o / Will Wheaton with the title The Post Modern Talk-o. You can bookmark this page URL http://trendcelebrity2014.blogspot.com/2012/12/the-body.html. Thanks!

Kickstarter Video Blog

When Gameboy joined Captain N the Gamemater's team, even I couldn't ignore that I was probably just watching a 22 minute commercial. And yet... If you didn't watch Captain N, you really missed out. Sometimes they went all the way to Hyrule to thwart King Hippo and Mother Brain.
It's not too late to catch up on your childhood.
Email me for my pay pal info ;)

You have read this article Captain N / Gameboy Color / kickstarter / The Post Modern Talk-o / video blog with the title The Post Modern Talk-o. You can bookmark this page URL http://trendcelebrity2014.blogspot.com/2012/11/kickstarter-video-blog.html. Thanks!