Splish Splash

My white Macbook has been looking awfully dingy for quite a while now. Despite my attempts to dust it and gently clean the keys and case, it seems my efforts are mostly a lost cause. This was no good reason for me to dump a glass of water on it, however, but on Saturday evening that's precisely what I did.

Some of you may know the story of my last laptop, the one I bought this one to replace. I won't go into details, but suffice to say that spilling a glass of water on a laptop is infinitely better than backing over one with a Montero. I'm improving.

I had a headache and, thinking it had something to do with dehydration, had set a full pint glass of water on my desk. I was listening to NPR and tidying up my room, when I squatted next to the bed to stuff my unneeded feather duvet underneath. I heard the "tink" of a glass tipping over and hastily stood up to see only about an inch of water left in the glass and the rest of it pooling up on my keyboard and underneath my computer. Blast. I quickly unplugged it and tipped it to drain the water out, being sure to adjust it so that the hard drive was pointing toward the ceiling, away from where the water would drain. Then I hopped on my BlackBerry to find out what else I should do.

I quickly found a website that told me to take out the battery, shut it off, and take it apart. Then I found a video showing me how to do just that. I replaced my RAM cards a month ago and had purchased a set of small screwdrivers for the job, so I set to work and had the computer completely disassembled in about ten minutes. I dabbed off whatever droplets were inside - not many - and thanked my lucky stars I had not been drinking orange juice or soda. Then I laid everything out on my desk overnight to let it dry completely.

The next morning I put it back together (ending up with three extra screws, somehow...), crossed my fingers, and turned it on. It took a while to start up, probably because I'd taken out the hard drive and it was trying to figure out what was going on, but start up it did. I backed up the few files I didn't already have copies of, and am now typing away on a still functional, much cleaner Macbook. Lessons learned:

-If you must drink near you computer, drink water.
-Smartphones are awesome.
-The inside of my computer is very dusty.
-Back up your files frequently.
-Previously purchased protection plans that cover any kind of damage are excellent for preventing total panic.

Alexander McQueen at the Met

Last Thursday I went to a members-only event at the Metropolitan Museum of Art to see clothes designed by the late Alexander McQueen. When Ed invited me to go, I'd never heard of McQueen. For those of you who haven't, he was a very avant gard Scottish fashion designer. He committed suicide a few months ago, so the exhibit was a tribute to him.

The white one is made of seashells.

 Most of the exhibit was beautifully designed, although at one point I commented to Ed that I felt like I was in a haunted house. A placard announced that the background music was a track called "Bloodbath" and the lighting was low, with dramatic spotlights pointing at the clothes, shoes, and jewelry. Also, each room had at least one screen showing footage from fashion shows he'd done in the past. In many of them, his models were wearing bizarre make-up and walking or dancing in a jerky manner that put one in mind of an epileptic fit. I read that one of his shows featured models in the foreground and caged wolves in the background.

Nearly every dress was accompanied by a quotation of his; he was unusually articulate about his work, apparently. He said wanted to empower women with his designs, and he felt that women should always be a bit threatening in addition to being beautiful.

 

As far as the clothes themselves... Well, I'm not devastated that I'll never be able to afford any of the ones I saw in the show. While looking for images to accompany this post, I found the website where his designs can be purchased, and many of the ones available for retail are actually quite beautiful. But his real statement pieces were a bit much for my taste. He created dresses from dramatic feathers, huge pieces of pony hide, seashells (I'm talking about a floor-length skirt composed entirely of seashells), and locusts - really. One of his collections was supposed to showcase something about modern versus traditional culture, and there was a short dress accessorized with football pads and a football helmet made of embroidered kimono material. We saw a metal ribcage with a stinger that was meant to be worn over a dress. I was able to spot only one dress I'd actually have wanted to wear. His shows were often quite theatrical in nature, apparently. This seemed a bit odd to me, and Ed and I talked quite a bit about different media used for making statements. To me, clothes seem to be a strange way to make a stand when they cross the line from practicality to totally bizarre - I can see doing this with a painting or a sculpture, but something that is supposed to be worn? - but I guess that's one of the many reasons I never got into fashion. 

After we'd walked through the whole exhibit, we headed to a different wing of the Met for a reception in a gorgeous room filled with marble statues and natural evening light filtering down through the skylights. We took advantage of the complimentary wine and listened to two curators talk about the exhibit, which wasn't terribly enlightening. The best part was getting a chance to check out the fellow attendees. The event was for members under 39, but most of the crowd seemed to be many years from reaching that benchmark. Over half of them were impeccably dressed, befitting a fashion event. (I had come straight from work and felt a bit frumpy, but Ed was dapper in a gray three-piece suit.) I got the feeling that after the show, everyone else was headed to a posh party in a loft somewhere to which I had not been invited. That kind of crowd isn't really my cup of tea, anyway. But it certainly was fascinating to watch them in their natural habitat.

Graffitti for the Greater Good

Those of you who know me well know that I'm a tad touchy about correctness when it comes to written mechanics. (You also know that I make sweeping understatements.) There is a new movie out called Bridesmaids and the posters on the subway that advertise it have me nearly spitting with indignation. Here's the problem: although technically the word "bridesmaids" should be possessive, as the maids belong, in a sense, to the bride, it is generally written as one word. Ok. My issue is that on the poster the word is split into two so that it reads "Brides Maids." To be correct, the designers of the poster should have a) included a hyphen to indicate that the word is, in fact, two words and therefore gotten around the possession issue, or, b) made the word "bride" possessive and eliminated the hyphen. One or the other would have done it, but neither is not acceptable.

When my friends declined to join my crusade - and were shockingly calm about the situation in general - I decided to take matters into my own hands. On my key chain, I always carry a small Sharpie. In a selfless act to improve of the minds of New Yorkers everywhere, I have been correcting these posters by adding the missing apostrophe (although, it must be admitted, only when there is a lot of platform between me and other waiting passengers). I wouldn't say I'm a hero. But you can.

Hmmm. Orange may not be the best color choice. Red would probably be more visible, and it would match my rage.

Green Porno – Reader Discretion Advised

 On Monday, Charles invited me to a film event hosted by the Gold Coast Film Arts Organization (or something). "Gold Coast" made me think of Australia or Africa, but it turns out there is a part of Long Island called the Gold Coast, which contains wealthy towns like Great Neck and West and East Egg. Of course I'd heard of West Egg from The Great Gatsby; it's where Nick, Daisy, and Gatsby all live in the book. The woman who gave the introduction, who was prosperous-looking and served as the president of the film organization, pointed out that the beautiful Gold Coast is what inspired F. Scott Fitzgerald to write his timeless novel. I wanted to raise my hand to tell her that it was the greed and elitism rampant in the people of the Gold Coast that inspired him, but I decided against it. My fellow movie-goers looked like the types for whom this sort of comment might strike too close to home.

 The films were very short and were all written, directed by, and starring Isabella Rosellini. She gave some very brief introductory statements before things kicked off in a charming Italian accent. I'd never heard of her, nor did she look familiar, but I discovered that I knew of her family: Her mother was Ingrid Bergmann, and her father was a renowned Italian movie director. This explained where she got the money to make her films, which certainly didn't seem to have a lot of value, commercially speaking. The first was dedicated to her father. It was very wispy and surreal. He had conversations with people like Alfred Hitchcock and several other prominent film icons, all played by Rosellini herself. I don't remember much of it, because I was asleep within five minutes. After an undetermined period of time, I was awaked by applause.

Next were two films from her Green Porno series. Charles asked me if I'd seen any of them and told me that they were both funny and ridiculous and that she'd made at least 30. The first one was about deer and the second was about anchovies. They were each no more than 3 minutes long, and in each Rosellini dressed in elaborate, cartoonish animal costumes and explained how animals mated while acting out the process. They were actually pretty amusing and mildly informative. View the one on bees here.

Finally there was a piece called "Animals Distract Me." It was an autobiographical piece about Rosellini's lifelong love for animals. She showed pictures and home movies of her childhood with her famous parents, which was interesting, and some of the scenes were shot in her studio in Manhattan and her home on Long Island, which were also interesting. She has about 7 dogs, some cats, and I'm not sure what all else, and she spoke about how her thoughts strayed to these animals throughout the course of her day, as well as to the animals she saw in the city, like horses, butterflies, pigeons, and rats. It was ok, but not fantastic, and as soon as it was over I was happy to go with Charles's suggestion that we skip the Q and A and reception and head out in search of dinner. I spent the rest of the evening mulling over how nice it would be to have enough money that you could spend buckets of it producing things no one really wanted just because it made you happy.

Subway Jinx

My subway jinx seems, knock on wood to have lifted, but Tuesday was a rough day.

Everything was going fine until I got to the 231st St. station in the Bronx. I'd just finished a tutoring appointment and was headed down to 86th to meet Ed for dinner. After waiting a few minutes, there was an announcement that there were signal problems at 42nd Street (Times Square) and, as a result, there would be no 1 trains between 96th and Chambers, which is basically all of Manhattan. Blast. I conferred with the woman in the ticket booth, and she said that things would probably be cleared up by the time I got to 96th, but that, to be safe, I should probably transfer to the A train at 168th. This was good advice, and it was my plan as I boarded the train.

In the north, the 1 train stays above ground for a few stops before going underground, where it remains for the length of Manhattan. It's a good thing I was above ground, because once I was seated, we just sat. The driver came onto the intercom to make his apologies, and we sat some more. The doors finally closed and we went slowly to the next station, where the doors opened and we sat again to the sound of further apologies from the driver. The third time this happened, I texted Ed and called the restaurant to move everything back 15 minutes. Then it happened a fourth time and then we were underground, which meant no more phone calls. At this point about 20 minutes had gone by and we were still in the Bronx. And then, to everyone's vast relief, the train started to move normally. Relieved, I settled in to read my book. 168th came and went, but I stayed on the 1 because things seemed to be going fine. This lasted about five more minutes. At 137th St., however, the train ground to a halt and the driver informed everyone that this was the last stop the train would be making. Period. We were rudely ejected and sent on our way. The signs that tell you want time the next train will arrive weren't working, and at this rate I figured it could be quite a while. I left the station and tried to flag a cab while I listened to local crackheads hurling inventive slurs at each other on a nearby street corner.

The cab got me to the restaurant just in the nick of time, so all was well. As I was regaling Ed with my story, he told me that he'd been a few minutes late because of train issues too. Apparently, at 59th St., the A train stopped and did not start again. Moments later, the conductor announced, "Ladies and gentlemen, we are being held at the station while two people in the back of the train fight." Moments, later, several policeman streaked by Ed's car, headed towards towards melee in the back. Ed said he didn't see anything interesting, however, and the train took off again a few minutes later.

After a huge dinner and half a bottle of wine, I was pretty sleepy and boarded the train looking forward to bed. Alas, no such luck. I have no idea what was going on (the conductors never tell you when it's something juicy), but what should have been a 15-minute ride home stretched into an hour. We stopped at every station. And were stuck at one station for about 20 minutes while policemen stalked up and down the cars. The train ended up resuming normal speed at last, but for some reason the conductor decided that it should run express and blew past my stop, ending up about ten blocks farther than I'd have liked. At that point, however, I would have walked to Brooklyn. I staggered to bed and slept like a rock. Public transportation is great except when it isn't.

Employed! My New Job

Unless I am mistaken, this is my 200th post. What a nice round number with which to announce that I have accepted a job as a learning specialist at a fantastic private learning center in Manhattan!

After months of rather discouraging job search results, I had three final interviews in one week! Two of them led to job offers, and after lots of reflection, I decided to turn down the offer from the Cooke Center, a private school for special education students, and accept the offer from the learning center.

A bit about the Center: Paul, its founder and owner, is a neo-natologist who specializes in education and neurology. He used to direct the clinical programs involved in an organization called All Kinds of Minds, which is a highly respected organization that studies learning. He broke away about four years ago to start his own learning center, and it's been quite successful and has a great reputation in the city. Each client is assessed thoroughly by both the learning specialist (me!), whose focus is more academic, and Paul, whose focus is more neurological. After a meeting, a thorough (and often very long) report is compiled for the family, in which the client's strengths and weaknesses and learning style are discussed. The report also includes suggestions for the family and for the classroom teacher. The goal is not to diagnose but to describe. Clients may be as young as three or four years old up through graduate school! The center's website and blog, which are both pretty interesting, are available here.

I loved the place from the moment I arrived for my first interview and am thrilled to have gotten an offer! The other employees all seem very happy and friendly, and I'm very excited to begin work there. I know I will enjoy it, that it will challenge me, and that I will learn a great deal from the research I'll have to do and from my conferences with my new colleagues. Plus I'll be earning a paycheck! I almost remember what that feels like. Hooray!

Same Flat, New Flair - Part 2

I've got lots of crafty projects underway to dress up the "new" place. So far I've completed only two - although I'm nearly finished with a few others - but I'm quite excited about how well they turned out!

Exhibit A: Crafty Coasters
I found this idea on a great craft blog I've been reading (access it here). I bought six plain 4x4 ceramic tiles at a hardware store and some felt and scrapbook paper at a craft store. Then it was just a matter of putting felt squares on the bottom of the tiles, cutting paper to fit the top, and sticking it on. I used a product called Modge Podge, also from the craft store, that acts as a glue and a varnish so they're water proof - a rather important feature in a coaster. I'm very pleased with the way they turned out!

Exhibit B: Leaf Sculpture
Found this idea on another craft blog I stumbled across and thought it was quite pretty. It's made from, believe it or not, toilet paper rolls! You just paint them, flatten them, cut them into pieces, and glue them together. While it's too small to solve the problem I'm having with blank walls in the living room, I think it's an awesome addition to my kitchen.

Stay tuned for updates on other projects I've got in the works to spruce up the joint on a budget!

Same Flat, New Flair - Part 1

Living room, seen from my bedroom

With Dave gone, and his futon, loveseat, and posters gone with him, I was left with a veritable tabula rasa of a living room. While there are still improvements to be made, some Craigslist dealings and trips to Ikea have finally resulted in a living room that feels, well, liveable. Here it is, piece by piece:




 







Table
I found this on Craigslist for $50. It has two leaves that fold down so that it requires as little as 13 horizontal inches, but it can open to seat six. In the picture, only one of the leaves is open. (Ha, I don't even have that many dishes...) Two of the legs are on wheels for easy moving.

Chairs
Found 4 of these folding wooden chairs (above) on Craigslist from the same guy who sold me the table (he also sold me the blue chair I'll describe later and a really cool mirror AND delivered it all for free. Seriously.) I think they were $30 or $40. The two I'm not using live in my closet. With Ikea chair pads, they're fairly comfortable.

Couch
My friend Cathy came with me on an Ikea trip and helped me pick this out. Ikea furniture comes in pieces for easy shipping, so you have to assemble it all yourself, which is actually kind of fun. It's fairly comfortable, but needs to be broken in a bit. The coffee table, really a chest for added storage space, came from Ikea as well.

Loaded down with loot from Ikea. My couch is actually in that large, flat box! I got it all delivered the next day for a flat rate of $89, which included transport up all four flights of stairs and into my apartment.

Cathy gazes at the yet-to-be-assembled couch. It took us only about 15 minutes from start to finish!

Voila! The finished product, set off by throw pillows and my useful "coffee table."

 Comfy Chair
Again, Craigslist. Eventually there will be a side table next to this instead of the less charming folding stool.

In addition to art for the walls, I intend to pick up some picture frames for photos, hang a shelf and possibly a mirror, and get a large plant to go next to the TV, but I'm very pleased with the way it's all coming together! Stay tuned for further improvements.

The Moth, PEN, and Sir Salman Rushdie

I have been wanting to go to a Moth performance since I moved to New York. My parents turned me onto the Moth, an organization that hosts live storytelling sessions (stories are true and are told live, without notes), after hearing it on NPR. I download their free podcast, which I can't recommend highly enough, quite a bit, and it's fantastic. Some stories are funny, some are poignant, and none, so far, have disappointed. Anyone is allowed to participate in the story slams, each with a theme, and they pick winners from each one to take on other winners from other slams or other cities. It's awesome.

Alas, Moth performances tend to be on weeknights, when I have to tutor. While perusing the Moth schedule longingly one night, I just about fell out of my chair when I saw that Salman Rushdie would be hosting an upcoming Moth event. In conjunction with the annual PEN World Voices international literature festival, an event that celebrates and promotes freedom of literary expression around the globe, the Moth was going to do a performance hosted by PEN's former president, Sir Rushdie himself. Salman Rushdie has long been one of my absolute favorite authors. His books are incredibly demanding, but I am addicted to his wit, wordplay, allusions, outrageous plot lines, and sharp observations about culture and human nature. He is absolutely brilliant, and the chance to be in the same room with him was too good to miss. I bought two tickets immediately. 

Saturday night, I showed up excitedly with my friend Matt in tow. The place was absolutely packed and the show started a few minutes late. While we were waiting in our seats for people to settle down, Matt nudged me and pointed to the wall to the right of the stage. Salman Rushdie himself was standing by a pillar, waiting to take the stage. He's one of the few authors I recognize immediately, and it was completely surreal to stare at the man who thought up Haroun and the Sea of Stories, Shalimar the Clown, and The Satanic Verses, among many others.

The crowd went crazy when he took the stage, and in a smooth British accent he welcomed us, told a few jokes (one of which started with a comment about wigs made from human hair and ended with a speculation about Donald Trump's hair, which clearly was not American and therefore should not be allowed to run for president until its birth certificate had been examined), and encouraged us to be very concerned about the censorious Chinese government and the threat faced by Chinese authors, some of whom were arrested months ago and have yet to be seen or heard from. Then he introduced the first storyteller and returned to the stage between each performance to introduce the next one. 

The theme of the night was "What Went Wrong?" We listened to five stories, and the speakers included Jonathan Franzen (again) and an author named Warren Macdonald, an Australian who lost his legs in a climbing accident but still climbs with prosthetic legs. All of the stories were superb, as I've come to expect from the Moth. Macdonald's was the most gripping, Franzen's the most thought-provoking, and Edgar Oliver's the funniest. Oliver's story, told in his unmistakably and completely inimitably grand voice (here is a video clip of another story he told at another Moth event, because you really have to hear him - he's phenomenal, although this story isn't as funny as the one he told on Saturday), was about going to Morocco to look for Paul Bowles, author of The Sheltering Sky. I kept glancing at Rushdie throughout the performance, and he was roaring with laughter. After it was over, he took the stage again and told a hilarious anecdote about going to a screening of the movie version of the book after it had just been made and not being sure how to tell the director, who was a personal friend of his, that he thought it was terrible. 

The only author I saw signing books after the show was Franzen, and since I already had a signed copy of one of his novels - I love being able to type that - Matt and I headed out into a cool spring night where we wandered into a Nepalese restaurant and dissected the evening's events. All in all, thoroughly fantastic, and just another unneeded reminder of why I love this city.