a dude should know how to wield at least one power tool

Some thoughts I had just now about a completely silly crush I maintain (because it is amusing for both me and Jackie):

Well, he's not especially attractive or anything. He could also be gay. But then, why doesn't he dress better? I think he tries, somewhat, but he looks unstylishly geeky--there is such a thing as stylishly geeky; that's different. It is almost endearing, though, and that's awfully generous coming from someone who puts way too much stock in these things. He is a bit too sarcastic (if he should turn out to be gay I also add the word sassy here). And his skinniness has me worrying that he might be a vegetarian, of all things. Which is something I just cannot tolerate in men (I can just barely excuse it in women). So far the only exception I've made is Alec Baldwin. And really I'm not sure how I feel about Alec Baldwin, Person. I think I've allowed myself to be sucked in by the charm of Alec Baldwin portraying Jack Donaghey in 30 Rock and I can't make out the difference. So that exception doesn't even count.

My prejudice against dude vegetarians might quell from the beautiful spring called "No person should ever impede me from full enjoyment of wings and beer at bars." But also, it might have to do with wiring in my brain that associates masculinity with hunting, caveman-style. Something gets turned on its head when a dude announces he's essentially a gatherer, not a hunter. OK, that's nonsense reasoning... still there's something to be said about old school masculinity, like Hugh Jackman as Wolverine, or my go-to example Ron effing Swanson from Parks and Rec. Show me a guy who knows an almost suspicious amount of things about forest survival and the stars. That's attractive. I like the lanky, boyish goofballs--Do Not Get Me Wrong (John Krasinski, Conan...) but manliness vs. boyishness, gee that's an awfully hard choice. I shant attempt it.

Anyway, what was my point before? Oh, vegetarianism. Well, it's like this. If he's gay, I can work with that. If he's a vegetarian, game over.

Gejetlagged

Früh am Morgen. Vielleicht 5 Uhr. Wir setzen uns außer der Club (heißt Eletric Swing Club. Der DJ hatte etwas wie ein „Hit the Road Jack“-electric Remix gespielt. Mein Fruend lachelt „Amerikaner hören diese Musik jeden Tag, nicht wahr?“). Feuchtheiß in dieser Club ist eine total Untertreibung; ich fuhle mich Schweiß auf meiner Haut, den nicht mein eigenen Schweiß ist. Deshalb draussen, draussen ist besser, aber in der Sonne ist alles viel zu kristallklar für mich. Und ich denke, nur hier in Berlin bin ich nicht die Person die immer sagt „Jungs, es ist noch früh! Bleiben wir! Biiiiitte.“ Das ist meine Rolle in New Brunswick, New Jersey, eine ganz andere Welt worin 2 am Morgen heißt normalerweise schluss mit lustig, lass uns nach Hause gehen. Hier in Berlin erst eine Stunde vor, ja 4 Uhr, sah ich noch eine große Masse, die 10 Euro bezahlt, um diese Club einzutreten. Amis, ihr weißt nichts über feiern.

Hady (Aussprache fast ununterscheidbar von dem Wort „hottie“), oder LieblingsHady, wie ich ihn nenne, braucht eine Zigarette. Aber er will nicht jemanden fragen, will nicht that guy zu sein (wie sagt man eigentlich das auf Deutsch?). Ich necke ihn mit meinem Lolli, gebe vor, ihn zu rauchen, bis er abtritt. Jemand gibt ihm eine ganze Hand voll von Tabak, ein anderen gibt ihn Zigarettenpapier, und nach einer Pause wissen wir plötzlich genau wie müde wir sind. Hady hat noch Jetlag, denn er war erst gestern in LA, und ich... ich bin leider keiner Partylöwe für Berlin Verhältnisse. Also, jetzt eine schwierige Wahl. Weiter hinein gehen oder aufhören? Ich atme aus. „Unserer Fehler ist, wir hatten uns hingesetzt.“

Wir laufen langsam Kottbusser Tor vorbei, in die Richtung Prinzenstraße, und so ruhig ist es, ich bin unsicher, ob wir wirklich in Kreuzberg sind. „Prinzenstraße…“ sagt Hady, „kennst du den Froschkönig? Du kannst ihn in dieser Bahnhof finden. Wirklich. Drinnen gibt es eine Figur.“

„Wie süß“ antworte ich, und ich stelle vor, Hady als mein gejetlagged Prinz. Ich finde das irgendwie ganz amüsant.

Er: „Rauchen wir auf dem Balkon, denke ich. Dann Schlaf.“

Und ich: „Klingt gut.“

            In Berlin was ist eigentlich der Unterschied zwischen Guten Morgen und Guten Nacht?

Our heroine finds herself alone, eats sammich

I've settled it--this is my spot. It is just a blip of a walk, a microsecond away from my apartment, but its nearness has not tricked me into thinking a better spot could be found elsewhere. I sit on this bench, Italian sub half consumed, relishing the Keanu Reeves flair of my solitary, introspective meal.

Rutgers is a sometimes an unappealing mishmash of architecture, the most unfortunate buildings, I think, from the sixties (Loree and Hickman Hall on Douglass being the most offensive to look at or be in). But the oldest buildings, clustered behind me, which hold the offices of the university's most important people and who knows what else (Van Nest? Winants? What is in there?), are undoubtedly the most beautiful, though not related to the average Rutgers student's experience in the least. Indoctrination to the Rutgers classroom experience is more like having a class in the freezing basement of one of the river dorms--I had roughly a billion of those. The very fact that these old beautiful buildings of Rutgers' past have nothing to do with us meager students may be part of the reason this lovely grassy area nearby goes ignored and all these benches lining the path remain empty.

Across the path I can watch that huge building next to my apartment being constructed (that stupid effing building--I look out the bedroom window and see nothing but its parking deck head-on), the church undergoing some construction, and the platform of the train station. I feel like 500 Days of Summer's Tom sitting on his bench at Angel's Knoll, thinking this is my little under-appreciated piece of the city.

I look over at the trains and think how easy it would be to get on and be home in twenty minutes, or get on and be in New York in an hour. How simple, accessible. I could even hop on and find myself at the Newark airport, and I could fly to Berlin, or anywhere else I wanted to. Who says it's so hard to pack your bags and leave home for other corners of the globe? The way out is right there... I'm not trapped... but for now, I'm still trapped.

An old woman jogs across the street, a city bus screeches annoyingly until it halts at the train station stop, a tall, slender man in a brown corduroy blazer and exaggerated clothes hanger shoulders moseys along the bench lined path with his briefcase. The sun is setting, it's cold, everything is a 5:30 pm blue.

I'm not sure why I came here to begin with, but now I guess it's time to go home.

thoughts on the train, sunday 1:37 pm

There is something beautiful about this day, this moment teetering between noon and afternoon, between a laugh and a cry, between the cold rush of air on my cheeks, in my hair, and sleepy sun warming up my back and legs as I stand waiting on the train platform.

The train comes and I board it. I think about how I don't want it to get dark so soon, but even in a half hour's time the mood will have changed, time will have passed, and I won't be the same either. The lighting and the shadows cast from the trees and edifices that pass me by as I ride, backwards, to New Brunswick, won't look the same, nor will the lights and shadows of the objects in my autumn-edition heart.

Whether I should or shouldn't, whether reciprocated or not, I miss him. In this moment I miss him. I want to pull him into this world of mine, this world of diners and abandoned shopping plazas and reflective walks through the cemetery, and see how he'd fit in that space. There, that right there is my high school, this is the way I walked home for four years, even more uncertain of myself back then as I am now--if you can imagine that--my world then still so small and unaware of things an ocean away.

And here's my mother, one of the sweetest women on the planet, spoiling, self-sacrificing like your own mother. But mine wears too much jewelry, which sometimes makes me wince, though that's just a minor quibble about the woman who supports me in all that I do, even in pining for someone an ocean away, whether she should or shouldn't. My mother will ask you impertinent questions, and you'll like that. The funny thing about her is, she'll ask all these questions about people to make out their character, but already she quietly approves; if a person has already somehow earned my approval, that is enough.

But I think the mood has changed, the light has changed, and I shouldn't play with these thoughts anymore. I will save them for another flickering moment of passing light, of possibilities and impossibilities. I will try to leave the idea of you on the platform of the train, as much as I'd rather you sit here by my side, and soon enough it will be dark out, anyway.

brb.....k im back

So that idea about blogging as I traveled all over Europe totally did not pan out, as it turns out. I'm not cut out for travel writing, at least not during the traveling itself. I get too distracted to write a thing down. But let's be serious, I was off watching flamenco in Spain and drinking port wine in Portugal, and hating everybody in Paris, so can you blame me? Well, you can, and I would, but pish posh... at least one thing I have proved is that I am exceedingly good at blogging when I'm stuck in New Jersey.

And, well, that's where I'm at in life at this particular, and perhaps unfortunate moment (I say unfortunate but that's more to do with the stresses of school, both the current and future plans thereof, than the simple fact that I'm physically in New Jersey). So, it's about time I got back to writing, no? Right back into it, I say! (also: that's what she said).

Quick update then, as I slowly but surely fall asleep. I have a new laptop (not... by choice) so I've been killing the past several hours not by reading House of Mirth or Frankenstein for my classes, but by going over what music I actually listen to on my iPod. That's always the most tedious task in the universe, but it's also rewarding, like cleaning out the fridge (similar also in that both potentially yield horrifying results). Determining where your musical taste is at any given time is something like reassessing who you are and where you are in life (douchey thing you should not say on a first date #348277). Don't you think?

Right now much of what I'm listening to are bands in the vein of Bloc Party, Arcade Fire, and Radiohead (gratuitous amounts of Radiohead)... tempered with female singer-songwriters like Adele, Sara Bareilles and Ingrid Michaelson. The bands I'm diggin, primarily British and captivating but kind of depressing, to me also have "Berlin" written all over them. -Is it too literal to listen to the song Kreuzberg in Kreuzberg?- So I have to keep ladies like Sara B. in there otherwise Jackie will shoot herself in temple when I put on my iTunes.

At any rate, I have never claimed to have good taste in music. Mostly because I don't have good taste in music. But damn it if this isn't one of the best songs in the universe. I could be wrong about this... and yet if this song does nothing for you I will conclude you're just not a real person with a human heart or real feelings.



Good night my sweet New Jersey and all the rest of the earth, universe, everything, between the click of the light and the start of the dream....