Video of the Day

More apt than I can say right now.

In The Age

Sometimes I wish I had been born in the age of the great artists and poets. It seems that there was a time when creativity flowed much more freely than it does now. Men sculpted and painted, wrote sonnets and built cathedrals.  In many ways, the amount of beauty in men's creations seems diminished. Things have been reduced to various layers of binary code and javascript.  My mother told me the other day that they've stopped teaching cursive writing in schools. Another thing of beauty discarded. We're slowly losing the art in things.

I went to the Smithsonian's West Gallery yesterday, hiding where the sculptures are because the tourists tend to shy away from them. Everyone wants to see pretty acrylics spread across canvas, but figures in bronze and marble they can usually do without. I like them though. They're silently beautiful, and in the quiet of the galleries, they play their own kind of music. I saw a piece by Auguste Rodin called "Evil Spirits:" a white marble statue of a seated woman, bent over with her elbows on her knees. Two human-like figures clung to either side of her. None of them showed their faces, but one had the woman's hair wrapped around its head in a shackle made of tresses. It hit a bit close to home. In the age of great artists and poets, they were able to mold predicaments of the soul into shapes of marble and onto stretches of linen. If only we still did.

What the heck am I doing here?

I have come to Sidamo, my favorite coffee house on the Hill; usually an oasis of calm at which I can tend to be fairly productive. Yet I walk in on this rather ordinary Monday, and it is packed with people. There are four new mothers surrounding the coffee roaster lovingly rubbing their infants' backs like beatific madonnas. Every now and then, one of them emits a grating scream. One of the infants, not one of the mothers. There are people standing around waiting on their lunch orders, and for a minute, one girl's purse is practically in what I'm guessing is my iced vanilla latte. I ordered my usual iced vanilla coffee but was given this already milky, slightly bubbly concoction, that, although delicious, isn't quite what I had in mind. I have yet to dive in to my white paper bag for my croissant (I ordered it for here), and I'm really hoping it has the bacon and cheese that I requested.

After lucking out yesterday, catching every yellow light between Lincoln Park and Union Station and snagging a pretty sweet parking spot just down on 2nd Street, jumping the metro train 2.5 seconds before it closed its doors, making it to Chinatown with T minus 20 minutes before show time to jump across the street to California Tortilla, grab a burrito, make it back across to the theatre to buy my ticket, pick out seats, run back and stand in the concession line to pick up my free small Cherry Coke, and STILL make it back in time for the previews, today has been a bit disappointing already. And it's barely past noon. I woke up in a funk, which is never good, because there isn't much other place for the day to go. As opposed to making me hopeful for the future, watching Eat Pray Love last night left me with a decidedly unsettled feeling in my stomach. Afterwards, my two friends happily reminisced about all of their travels and suggested possibly renting a group villa in Italy, etc. etc. I remained silent. I felt a panic that has carried over into this new day, and I fear I'm about to start once again making decisions out of desperation. I'm going to cheat on DC again and soon. I can feel it.

Velvet Nights

My now good friend, JJ Lefors (sunshine in human form), and I took a stroll last night to the Washington Monument. We parked her little on-loan blue Yaris on Madison or Jefferson or Abraham or some other presidentially named street running the length of the Mall. We had pulled up with the radio blaring and startled an old Indian man and his wife sitting on a park bench; who, rather than making out, which would have been somewhat gross but would also have had a cuteness factor, were instead sitting facing two different directions, not even touching, which couldn't have been good for their relationship. Immediately upon disembarkation, we heard the lilting old timey strains of "It Had to Be You" drifting out from the loud speakers at the American History museum. I stopped dead still in the middle of the street. The doors had long since been locked, and the inside swam in darkness, but outside, over concrete still very warm from the day's intense rays and humidity, played this classic forties' tune that immediately had me wishing for a USO ball and sleek hair rolls. I had no other choice but to slip off my flip flops and dance. No one was around, and I don't think I would have cared much if they were. The Indian man was still draped over the back of the bench, looking in our direction and must have thought it strange that I was jumping up on the border walls, step-touching the length of them in time to the music.

It's moments like these when I fall in love with this city again. DC and I are very tenuous lovers. I get dissatisfied and am frequently unfaithful, flitting off to try out other places, sights and sounds, but in return, DC retorts that it never made me any promises. Eventually, it comes around and woos me again, making me want to stay just a little bit longer. I can't make a commitment, but it's fun for now, and as long as it keeps up the surprises and spontaneity, I think I can linger and see if we can't work out our issues. Don't worry baby, I say. I'll still get dressed up for you, kick off my heels and walk barefoot on your streets. I may leave again soon, but you're still the one I come back to for now. That will have to be enough. Just don't forget to keep bringing me flowers and evenings of velvet. 

Hurrah! Beginnings (v.g.)

Have just finished reading Bridget Jones's Diary and am resolved to write post in similar fashion.

 ? lbs (way too long since weighed self), ? calories (also unknown as never count them), 0 cigarettes (gross), number of times checked phone for missed calls 3 (v.g.)

Have made mistake of telling numerous friends of ambition to be writer. Now, whenever encountered by said friends am asked how writing is progressing to which am forced to respond, "Is not" thereby leading to half hour of ensuing guilt. Am officially self manufactured mess of epic proportions. Need to learn, for first time in life, how to make goals/plan and follow such. Regretting absence of plan-making course in university as would have been v. helpful. However, did graduate with honors and high marks for all the good it's doing now. Am resolved, nevertheless, to begin construction on aforementioned plan today, proposed length of which is four months. Realize is not very long term, but must start somewhere and Rome was not built in day. Have high hopes for endeavor and will start as soon as finished consuming Everything bagel and traversing internet.

Right. Won't be long now.

Felt shrub chickens appropriate

The Cereal Bowl

I ventured out to Cleveland Park yesterday to my favorite movie theater, The Uptown, and was shocked to discover the Starbucks that had once been two doors down was no longer in residence. Gasp and horror! That is how I had proposed to pass my pre-movie hour! I am not a big Starbucks fan. I find their coffee mediocre at best and am only occasionally impressed with the atmosphere; however, when I am expecting them to be there and a weird, alienish establishment called The Cereal Bowl appears to have abducted them and invaded the space, I cannot hide my disappointment. This new entity is nothing short of bizarre, and their business premise is centered around, you guessed it, selling bowls of cereal. I have to give them props for originality, but I'm pretty sure there is a reason this hasn't been done before. We're talking about stuff that costs $3 a box and is usually the "I don't have time to fix anything else or even toast a bagel so I guess I'm having cereal" home breakfast option. Crappy American chain hotels give it away in multi-colored abundance to guests during a ridiculously tiny window of time in the mornings so they can claim continental breakfast status. Europe called. They said, rather snootily, the reason it is called 'continental' is because it is breakfast served on The Continent (as in not North America) with lovely Brie, fresh meats and breads, incredible just-processed-from-the-cow yogurt, coffee like rich, smooth velvet on your tongue, and fruit grown off the tree out back. Cereal isn't continental breakfast, it's a lazy way to shovel calories in one's mouth in order to start the day.

The Cereal Bowl offers several variations on the cereal suicide with options like Fruity Pebbles®, Lucky Charms®, Grape Nuts®, Cinnamon Toast Crunch®, and the ever notorious Cookie Crisp®. All the favorites, but for $3.75 a bowl, I'll skip down to the grocery store and buy my own box, thanks. There are also optional ice cream sundae type toppings, but that still doesn't justify the extra dollar dollar bills yo for the experience. I don't need to meet my friends over a bowl of cereal. If I did, I'd have a slumber party. It is good to know, however, that if I'm disappointed by the previous choices, I can opt to spend too much money on Quaker® oatmeal or a peanut butter and jelly sandwich. Really? Three cheers for capitalism and burgeoning enterprise, but this is one idea that maybe should have been killed on the drawing board. Next thing you know, there will be a Spaghetti From a Box next door and a Soup Out of the Can down the street. Some things are just better left as items on a pantry shelf.