Imagine owning just 75 things?

Every winter or summer break since beginning college I have set out to clean my room, organize my life, throw out/donate/sell the hell out of everything. This endeavor generally lasts one or two days and afterward I commence watching whole seasons of TV shows in single sittings. It's a trifle upsetting. The last time I made any headway I managed to put my books in boxes. 

I just want to really accomplish something this time. Already I am trying to be quite merciless with my wardrobe, but the longer I keep at it the less resolve I can hold onto. Mostly I struggle not from my own sentimentality but of the sentimentality I should probably(?) have. Take for instance the collection of t-shirts accumulated from school events from middle school to the present day. There are too many of them and most are hideous. I haven't the least desire to put on a t-shirt to remind myself of that time I was in the musical production Cinderella in 6th grade, but if I throw the shirt out my mom will certainly yell at me. Of course, I can just throw out all the shirts secretly, can't I? Ah, but then I'll have to feel guilty. And what about the "I <3 Douglass" shirt I was given on move-in day freshman year? etc.

Other items I'm on the fence about: mix tapes from former friends (nothing like finding thoughtful things from people who are no longer in your life to make you feel a little bit awful) and birthday cards (just feels so wrong to throw them out)

It does not help that my family holds onto everything.
My dad's job as a collector/seller of stuff means he's a hoarder by trade.
I have never seen my mother get rid of a single article of clothing or pair of shoes, but she is perpetually coming into new clothes and shoes.
To quote myself from this morning, "JR does not throw anything out whatsoever ... except his report cards. OHH SNAP" (it's true) (like, he refuses to even throw out the damn packaging to anything he buys. What the hell is he doing with the empty boxes and plastic?)
**The only exception to this family of hoarders is my grandmother. When she lived with us about ten years ago the house was all the better for it. That lady threw out everything. This includes my grandfather's dentures, on accident, but such is a small price to pay for an organized and clean home.

I have been working to simplify my life as much as possible for some time now. I like it. It's like a game. Do you know how enthusiastically I lived out of a suitcase for three months this summer? I should clarify--one slim suitcase small enough that it qualifies as a carry-on (sans any expandability), a crossbody purse, and a longchamp tote bag. To carry everything (clothes, shoes, my laptop, my camera...) for three months. I went over there with all of two pairs of shoes--white sandals and a pair of converse. I just crossed my fingers that I could get away with sandals at operas and plays.
When traveling I hate having too much. I would much rather find under prepared than over prepared. Even so I might have taken it too far this summer, but I felt crazy, adventurous and admirable all at once. I was constantly wearing the same outfits and had to find inventive ways to "mix it up" which involved scarves primarily. Scarf around neck! Scarf as headband! Scarf as head wrap (esp. in mosques in Turkey, obvs.)!

(Given the choice of characteristics that somewhat betray my gender I would still choose the two I already possess: I pack really lightly for a girl. And I drink a lot of beer for a girl. If you wish to flatter me, just comment upon either of those things.)

Years and years ago I read the book The Gospel According to Larry, about this quirky, yoga-practicing, Walden-reading wizkid who starts a website to preach little sermons against consumerism. He also keeps all of his possessions numbered and refuses to let the total count exceed 75. How great is that? I wanted to be that kid. I still want to be that kid, in terms of having a startlingly small amount of possessions, but I can't get on board with his stance against brand names. I'm still a sucker for that nonsense. Like Kate Spade bags, I go nuts for 'em. Anyway, just now I did a quick search for that book (so feel like rereading it) but came up empty, so I'll have to look more thoroughly tomorrow. Did find Walden though.

Happy Shannakuh, A Gift Buying Guide

This shirt is probably the most accurate shirt-form representation of who I am as a person. Except not really, because a couple weeks back I ordered a Ron Swanson "pyramid of greatness" t-shirt off the NBC website. I've got that waiting for me at home and I am stoked for it. So that might be the most accurate representation... well, eh, another codicil: If I were a shirt, I would probably just be any shirt that is a button-down or a plaid shirt (I just counted 10 such shirts hanging in my closet, meaning my button-downs outnumber my "going out" dresses by a slight margin of 10:0)... anyway, this shirt is obnoxious and I am in complete agreement with it. All I want is everything that I want, is that so much to ask for in life?

That said, here is a list of stuff I would buy and/or would love to be gifted to me.

1. Frye Harlow Strap boots, $360, frye.com

Pffft, I totally do not have 360 bucks to blow on boots. Yes, I have two "jobs" but that money goes towards fat sandwiches (the last one I bought was the "fat drunk" from Gio's: cheese steak, mozzarella sticks, chicken fingers, fries, honey mustard, BBQ sauce) and $5 happy hour cocktails at Clydz. So about once a week I go online and look at these boots and just imagine a montage of the next ten years of my life, me wearing these boots and clubbing in every metropolitan city of the world. I don't even wear heels ever, but these call to me in my sleep and waking hours and semi-waking, hours telling me "Shan, how hawt would you been in these boots? (*my inner voice has never actually been known to say "Shan, you look hawt") And how tall slightly closer to average-height would you be? And how worth it would the pain be?" I have basically never seen more perfect boots in my life and that said, I should probably just shut up and start saving money in a piggy bank. 

2. "An Illustrated Guide to Cocktails", shwaaat!, $16 + shipping, anthropologie.com

Actually I super need this book, I should probably just order it right now. It combines some of my favorite things, i.e. illustration (hence my not-creepy collection of children's books), historical information that's actually interesting, and drankz. Home-run hit right here.

 3. 'A Softer World' Magnet Set, $16 + shipping, topatoco.com

First off, if you don't read A Softer World, then you should probably correct that situation, and then you'll also know why this magnet set is ingenius. Do you know how much fun I would have putting my own pictures in the frame and constructing weird sentences (that will no-doubt include "zombie"...I somewhat famously go apeshit for zombies)? Here is the product description, which I strongly approve of: Put your own photos in, carefully select the words to accompany them. Ruin your relationships or make people unexpectedly fall in love with you! Heck, use pictures of Doctor Who, or Joseph Dreamboat-Levitt. What do we care? We're not the boss of you. Express yourself, there's not much time left! 

4. Posters, $-however much they cost I'm not looking this up, interwebzsomewhere (amazon?)

I have wanted a Little Miss Sunshine poster for about two years now. The pop of yellow would look great on my walls, I love the movie, and just look how fun of a poster it is? The running to get in the van? Come on. 

I also very much need an Arcade Fire poster, and I am particularly fond of the Neon Bible design. If my soul could produce music--I am talking about music to capture the very essence of my being--it would sound something like Arcade Fire. I am not a crazy person, but I have always been convinced that now and again in your life you hear music that sounds precisely like what you'd want your music to sound like if you were only talented and blessed enough in life to be able to make your own music. The last band I felt this about was the Japanese band Asian Kung-Fu Generation, and that was in 2008 maybe, I'm not sure. Oh, and if you are one of those people who actually has the ability to create the music of your soul, I have to kindly ask you to go screw yourself, because that's just not fair. Unless you are Arcade Fire, in which case my soul thanks you for the good work that you do.

5. Espresso Machine!!, $ depends on level of fanciness, but methinks the cheapest is $150, nespresso.com

I. Love. Espresso. I love it because, like me!!, cups of espresso are tiny and adorable but strong and get the job done :P. I'm sorry, that was uncalled for, I hate myself a little bit for having said that. Anyway, America does not love espresso. You understand now, why I can't stay here. (To be fair, Germany is equally bad as the US in their love for filter coffee. Disgusting.)

All I want is an automatic espresso machine that uses convenient capsules (like the Keurig coffee machine at home) so that I can have a wonderful cup of espresso erryday. But if I order this thing I'd have to get the capsules delivered, since stores don't generally carry them :( and I'm not really into that idea. But if I wanted an espresso machine it would have to be this capsule-using kind, because look, I like espresso, but I don't have the patience or desire to figure out how to manually brew my own. I once looked into what kind of beans and what sort of machine I'd have to get, and it just seemed like a hassle. In short, I'm a little conflicted but I still really want a nespresso machine.

This concludes the 10 minutes of selfish thought I allow myself every once in a blue moon  day half hour or so.

from the "Shan, don't kill yourself' paper writing playlist

(OK, all of the Torches album goes on this list)





Basically the common denominator here is energetic music that I won't get sick of after playing 2934834 times.

Here's to Papa Meisner

Currently my father is in Dublin. He left Tuesday and he'll be back on the 20th (still sooner than I'll be finished with final papers and my one exam). Last night at Queen's (free wing night; cold wings but I still ate six of 'em. Free wings, okay! Wings have been a pervading theme in my life this semester, God only knows why) I had a pint of Guinness hoping that at the same time my dad might be in a pub, just a little too buzzed from one too many pints of Guinness much tastier than mine, talking freely and too loudly with locals, as he is so inclined to do. It makes me incredibly happy that he's in Dublin right now, and I so hope he'll be able to make that side trip to London, where he's never been (in terms of Europe, he's only been to Germany, twice, and that was before I was born, and of course my family's trip to Dublin this past spring). My dad so adored Dublin, and he needs to see London. Everyone needs to see London.

Dad's friend has a home in Dublin, and he's been invited there repeatedly over the years but never took up the offer to go, until now. Somewhat filled with pride, I consider the fact that my influence is probably the reason he's gone this time. Well, who was to blame for pushing my family to travel abroad this year? Yours truly, of course. If there's one way I influence my family, or if there's any one way I'd like to influence them, it's to travel more. Why should I be the only spoiled one, after all? I tell them "Screw home improvements--yeah, our porch needs new stairs and we need a new stove and all that, but you're not going to be healthy enough to travel forever. You need to see the world." My mom's dying to see London and Paris and Venice, and my dad would be delighted to see all of Italy, especially Tuscany, and Greece. I want it so badly for them, too. Oh, my dream is that someday, someday sooner rather than later, I'd have a good job abroad somewhere and I could afford to send my parents to trips all over the world and trips to visit me. Oh please let me make bank someday.

So, I hope my father is living it up right now, getting into some mischief or at any rate enjoying not having to worry 'bout the missus, or his bratty kids. He fits in too perfectly in Ireland--he's a little guy (and they're generally small over there! As someone permanently child-height I appreciate that in a country [see: Portugal]), he knows the Irish folk songs, and he's far more inclined to sit in a pub talking history or griping over politics than perhaps any other activity in the world. In this regard I am so my father's daughter.

Update: supposedly my father called my mom asking for the recipe to make some Filipino dishes for a party over there. My dad so rarely cooks, and when he does it is certainly not Filipino food, so this is really quite astonishing and laughable (and, I can only assume, a testament to how pleasant a time he must be having, that this idea should strike him). I wonder now, a) if he went through with it, b) how terribad or surprisingly great did it turn out?

Head Games

What gets me through this semester of stress, of having neither enough time on my hands nor enough desire, is fantasy, sure. Sometimes I fantasize about getting new stuff (..the week I fixated on buying an e-reader or tablet). That sounds bad. But I imagine other things, like being in Tuscany, with the faintest tan (and I generally even disapprove of tans), nursing a glass of wine. Or, simply, being back in Berlin. I watch Anthony Bourdain: No Reservations and in a way it satiates that burning desire to be out there in "the world" (as though right now I'm not in it, but elsewhere), I become content, and yet sorrowful that the best I can do right now is watch that show. By the way, on separate occasions both Agata and Jackie watched a bit of Anthony Bourdain on TV, and just sort of confusedly remarked "he seems like such an asshole." I personally think he's hilarious and lovable, but what does that say about me, really?

The other thing I visualize, I long for, is being at home and having breakfast dates with my parents. I have the urge to speak to them as though I'm not just their daughter but a confidante. I want to talk to my dad about his estranged brother and how weird it was when we were invited to his cookout this summer. What did they talk about, anyway, when all the guests were gone and the food put away, sitting enshrouded in late summer nightfall, quietly, to themselves. Not like strangers, not like acquaintances and perhaps not like brothers--but I guess precisely like brothers. I want mom to lay out all her stresses and worries and speak in the voice, if only fleetingly, not of a mother, specifically my mother, but of an individual.

I want to have a lunch date with my brother because I worry about him and I love him and I see him enough, perhaps, but we don't speak enough. He's nineteen and I know he has some beautiful, maybe even tragic, wise thoughts in him. I suspect he secretly has the potential to be a poet. I admire the poetry about him, his firm stance against cursing (I think, further evidence of his poetic nature--why sully the world with foul language that voice foul thoughts?), the way he sometimes talks like an old man about "the good old days" and his childhood. I just wish that boy wasn't so damn selfish, though. For my parents sake I wish that.Then I have to wonder, am I any better? I'm equally selfish but I'm less of a source of stress just because they don't have to worry that I'm getting bad grades or won't graduate... I'm just a source of another kind of stress altogether, of course, traveling and all, being a girl in a dangerous world...

Fantasy, fantasy. Daydreams, made-up futures, re-played memories. The key to my escape is in my head, but the things that eat at me (everything: memories, the scary, stressful present, and projections of the future) are all in my head too. It's all in there, all of it, all the time. The answers are the problems, the problems are the answers.

technology be crazy

No, I did not go out black Friday shopping. My parents, brother, aunt and uncle went out to Best Buy even at 1:30 in the morning or something like that, which was wildly disorienting. My family's just been going nuts buying technological doohickeys recently, and I have been judging them for it while simultaneously reaping some benefits. For instance, I'm on board about this new TV. It's bigger, and the bigger the better is my policy about televisions because they're more like the experience of going out to the movies (which, though recently neglected is a pleasure I adamantly enjoy). But this is also a TV with 3D capabilities, and that just feels grossly excessive.

But I will not lie to you, watching Cloudy with a Chance of Meatballs in 3D last night in the convenience and comfort of my own domicile wasn't too bad of a deal. It's already a great movie (I love Bill Hader. LOVE HIM.) but the 3D effects are just cool. (Another sidenote: whenever I watch SNL I have a little "would I marry Bill Hader or Seth Myers?" debate in my head.) Not that giant foodstuffs popping out at me was what impressed me, but I was really drawn in by, say, seeing a building with glass windows and the inside of the buildings looking so stunningly realistic, like I could really just pop in and walk around, and yet so whimsically cartoonish at the same time. I can't explain it. You just have to see it.

I am placing the 3D TV, because it feels so excessive and indulgent, on the list of things you yourself do not need to own but you want your friends to have (see previous discussion on boats and swimming pools). Now that I think of it, fancy massage chairs that you see at Brookstone go on this list. Because they too are ridiculously indulgent, but also expensive. (But, please, if anyone is interested in buying me one, what are you waiting for?) So perhaps with this new television my family now owns the type of thing that causes one to suddenly have a lot more friends.

Meanwhile I am still confused about what blueray actually is, and all the remotes in my own home confuse me. My parents don't know what they're doing, either.

Basically I blame this all on my brother's influence. That guy. He also has an android phone, which I still maintain is superfluous. And yet I kind of want one, obviously. And yet I really don't... I mean, ultimately if I wanted a smart phone, I could get one. I'd say "mother, I want a smart phone" and she'd say "okey dokey." But I've decided against it. For starters, they're bulky and generally have lame battery life. I dislike both having to charge things all the time and not being able to fit a phone in my pocket (Even the current phone I have is too big and I swear it was the smallest one around--bigger is better does not apply to portable technology! People should know this). And then I'd have to pay to use the interwebz on it, but I'd also need insurance on it because I have such crap luck with technology, and all that money would add up. I'm not trying to drive my family into debt with stuff I don't need. I'm already doing that with my Rutgers bills (buh-dum-dum). I make yoke.

Moreover, despite the manifold benefits of having the interwebz at my fingertipz at all timez, it's really most probably best I don't have it. That just leads to gross obsessive-compulsive behavior, whereas I sometimes like to maintain the air of someone who does not need to always feel "connected" via cellular or internet-connected device. I feel connected to mother earth and to the web we call humanity, you guys. (That's the sort of statement that I can deliver, completely deadpan, with ease--everyone hates me for it.) Example of cool disconnectedness: if it's winter or summer break and my phone dies I just let it lay there, dead, for days. People also hate me for that.

But the one way I have indulged technologically is that I bought that Nook Tablet that just came out. And I am a little obsessed with it. In a good way, I swear. So, because my Nook is kind of the great love of my life (I hold it close to me at night and refer to it as "my precious") I think I'll want to write all about it later in a separate post. Granted it may be one of those "yes, I will write about that later!" all talk, no delivery ordeals... If so, that's too bad. I have many things to say about my Nook.

Thanksgiving break for the broken

It will be nearly 3 am soon, I'm on the couch with a soft blanket and really shockingly comfortable foam(?)-based pillow, JR is perched on the floor playing a Spider-man video game in which Spidey is voiced by Neil Patrick Harris (well played, whoever came up with that), and mom's on the home computer, playing solitaire. 3 AM solitaire, mom, that just seems uncalled for. Are you secretly procrastinating on a 5-7 page paper on Hegelian dialectic?

I am listening to pandora, which is attuned to my hip, mellow mood--except just now it tried to pawn the song "Jerk it out" onto me for the zillionth time. Awful. Stop doing that, pandora. And I am sleepy as well as a little unnerved because this whole set-up makes me think I've time-travelled back to anywhere in the January-April time period of this year (that aw-esome/ful hiatus-type break of my life, which as a soon-to-be humanities graduate I ought to get used to anyway). It's bizarre! This laying around (and prolonged neglect of work) doesn't mesh with these past months; I've been so insanely, discontentedly busy this whole semester. I would venture to say depressed, yes.

There was a week in which my breakfast (11 AM, after several torturing hours of reading Mrs. Dalloway or depressing/frustratingly enigmatic Kafka parables for class) would consist solely of leftover spicy ethnic food from the night before (the "mixed platter" from Kati Roll & Platters, "Korean style tacos"... [so delicious, my friends]), a bottle of Leinenkugel honey weiss beer, and an ibuprofin. This was all, I justified, an improvement over my usual "breakfast" of a glass of water.

But I had further justifications. Of course I had to eat the leftovers; waste not, want not. And 11 AM is basically lunch time, so it's not weird to be eating spicy meat products. And there's just nothing else to drink in the apartment except for beer, basically. And I needed the ibuprofin for the crazy menstrual cramps...

Et cetera.

I would judge myself for these behaviors, if I had a spare moment. Which I really don't. That solves that. Except, alright, I have a spare moment now and, well, it's all very appalling. For instance, I woke up today with my whole body aching, wondering if there was something quite terrible about the mattress I slept on. Then I realized, ah, no, remember how you went for a 15-minute jog yesterday? A fifteen. Minute. Jog.

School is making me fat and unhappy. Just saying. I AM PLAYING THE BLAME GAME AND NO ONE CAN STOP ME.

An Education

I came home, 9:30 pm roughly, cracked open a Bud Lite lime and sat at the table, sipping away, staring out into oblivion, thinking of absolutely nothing, absolutely nothing--and it was beautiful. And I didn't have to contort my face in such a way that said "yes, I understand, yes I'm thinking about this text critically, yes, this matters to me. I live and breathe and eat and defecate Kafka/Nietzsche/Dostoevsky/Freud/Woolf," while jotting down notes vigilantly.

Just a beer, a chair, and eyes that can't keep focus. And with some effort I explained to Nicole and Jackie what I learned in class today, namely that everyone just wants to have sex with everybody, all the time, and we also want to punch each other in the face. But society doesn't let us do that, so we can never be happy--the best we can do is be less unhappy, by drinking, or drugs, or throwing ourselves into art or science. And shit, isn't reading Freud uplifting or what?

Days like this I'm certain I need to graduate and get the hell away from this place.

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....

The past four months: a recap

"So Shan, what's it been like having a semester off?" people ask me. And I say "Weird as SHIAT, dawg."

No, I don't say that. But you know what, it has been a weirdo mixed bag indeed, and given that I leave for BERLIN in a mere TWO WEEKS I feel I should verbosely explain it all. Well, all in all, I've coped fairly well. I don't remember what it's like to do work AT ALL, but that's just training for the real world anyway, right? Haaaaaaa. But really, I don't feel the least bit like a student, which is kind of odd, and  in various ways I miss it. |:

I missed a lot of dope funtimes with my friends, although visiting 'em was nice. I miss weird things like the feeling of taking notes in class with a blue pen on smooth lined paper. Aw man, everything Rutgers feels far-away like a dream. Going to "work" at the tutor center. Fighting the urge to sleep in the tutor center. Caffeine highs from choco-caramel frappe concoctions from Gerlanda's.

At home, with no papers and exams, there's no stress. But where's the sense of achievement?

And when I visit Rutgers it feels like I'm an outsider again. I feel sort of the way I did when I was a senior in high school scoping everything out for the first time.

I don't know if it bums me out per se... I will say that a week or two after it was decided I wouldn't go to Japan, I was in a pretty pitiful mental state. Of course, I still don't know if not going was the right decision. And I suppose I never will. I do think that the decision had/will continue to have a profound impact on my life and my future. I don't know if I'll continue to learn Japanese again... and honestly, I don't know if I want to.

Did I give up Japan because I was frightened of nuclear fallout and cancerous sushi, or because I was frightened of changing my life? I was taking the easy way out because frankly, I'd already lost a lot of motivation to keep learning the language. And, since it was already March, I'd simply forgotten a ton of Japanese.


I love Asian Studies, and I'm good at it. Chinese Cinema to Japanese Women Writers, Asian economy, history, philosophy, whatever. But I never felt any more than "better than the average student" at Japanese language. I got good grades but I didn't really feel like I was learning... Maybe all I needed was to just go there, go to Japan. Even though I was caring much less, and was perhaps discouraged with my progress ('cause it's just a disgustingly hard language. All the characters to memorize, and the homophones drove me crazy)--especially compared to German (which with I have a much longer history, and one of much success). Damn it, if I had gone, how in love with the Japanese language and people and atmosphere would I be right now?

But I didn't go. And God only knows if I chickened out or if I made a good, rational decision about my safety.

But life marches right along! And so far in 2011 I've experienced a really interesting array of things.

Like, in January I had my week long externship in the international students dept. at the community college. I learned that I would be totally awesome at a menial desk job, which is not really something to be proud of, but whatever. I make kickass flyers.

I learned that I am capable of sticking to a pescetarian diet for as long as 2-3 weeks, and that doing so will make me feel kind of self-righteous and healthier, but I won't lose any weight, and eventually I'll realize that I'm only doing it to prove that I can, and because I'm friggin bored, on account of not having any classes. **So yes, I did go back to eating meat, and especially after I realized I was going back to Germany, I accepted this as necessary and Only The Proper Thing To Do. But I gave pescetarianism an honest try and I get points for that!

I learned that I can navigate New York City after all and that gives me hope that someday I can be an awesome NYCity-slickin' laday.

I watched MAD AMOUNTS of The Big Bang Theory and Parks and Recreation and other shows. And tons of movies. Wait, should this be on the list of achievements?

I got to go to Los Angeles, North Carolina and, um, Ireland. So that's pretty cool.

I want to go to there (again)

Except, instead of wine (per the picture), I will have a mojito. And then I will have the very best nap of my life.

J.Crew catalogs are my porn

So--because I only think really deep thoughts--in writing my last post I realized that J.Crew catalogs are basically my porn. |: Whereas someone might ogle shirtless Abercrombie and Fitch models, I'd be the chick who wallpapers her wall with clippings of dudes fully clothed and wearing chinos. And like, I used to go totally ape shit over sweater vests. What am I, a gay man?

Many ladies have low expectations of the way their men dress. Straight dudes can't dress themselves, they say, just accept it. And to that I say no. Damn it, I refuse.

Basically the men in J.Crew catalogs are wearing such clothes that say "I am a capable grown-ass man with a job." That's what's up.

This is Robert Redford in Out of Africa. Look at him. Are those chinos? Men, you can look like Robert Redford RIGHT NOW, JUST GO TO J.CREW.

I'll break this down: you need to look like you are competent in the workplace OR, in the case of Redford here, like you are a *#$&ing pilot/explorer/badass.
Two acceptable looks, ok? Again:

PART TIME PROFESSOR OF ARCHEOLOGY, FULL TIME BADASS
as demonstrated by Harrison Ford

AFFABLE GEEK WITH DESK JOB BUT WHO IS NICE, RELIABLE AND NOT JACKASS

as demonstrated by Joseph Gordon-Levitt

As a final piece of advice I recommend plaid/checkered button-down shirts for any and all males.

When I get married someday and my friends throw me a bachelorette party I will be both pissed off and disappointed if they hire a stripper, and not some guy who will get paid to actually put on a plaid shirt slowly. For the duration of the night I will call him "Ben." And I will tuck one dollar bills into his breast pocket.

thursday lineup mancandy

So I've already established that television is basically my lifeblood. Whatever. I'm not sad. But tonight actually tired me out, watching Community, Big Bang Theory, 30 Rock, Parks and Recreation and The Office (haven't watched The Office in ages, but I had to watch the Michael Scott peacing out ep, right?). I wish I could just have a show I like on every night of the week, but noooo. **Though Wednesdays is Modern Family. And Tuesdays is Biggest Loser. Don't look at me like that, I said I'm not sad. And dudes, next week Tim Gunn gives the contestants makeovers. So dope.

Anyway I think there's something hormonally weird going on with me right now because I was diggin' on some fictional characters pretty hard. I'm going to talk about it because it's nearly 2AM and I'm feeling kind of punchy and whatever.

For starters, I was all about Sheldon Cooper tonight. He was just pure irresistible adorableness. I repeat, pure and adorable. When Sheldon isn't being a pompous ass he's just so effing sweet. And you know what, the character of Sheldon, this nerdy, romantically inexperienced guy, totes hearkens back to like, the bygone days of middle school crushes. And I like that. In other words I'm saying thanks, TBBT, for letting me revisit middle school without feeling like a creeper.

Oh, please note that while I say things like "adorable" and "sweet", make no mistake, I do mean that in a "if Sheldon Cooper was a real person, I'd tap that" way. Okay, "tap" in this instance meaning I'd steal a chaste kiss and then watch him stare at me quizzically. Bow chica bow wowww.

God, I love nerds. They are the best.

Neeeeext up, from my new favorite show, Parks and Rec, Ben Wyatt.

The storyline with him and Leslie is pretty cute so far. Nothing like some good will they or won't they they totally obviously will is that a real question? action.

He is a no-brainer for me because Ben is the number one dude name I am into. Look, I don't know why. I just accept it. Although I think there was a musical did at the local theater, back in 3rd grade or some nonsense, and I had a demi-crush on some kid also in the musical, named Ben. I'm halfway sure about this. So there's a thought.

Moreover dude's got some luscious brunette hair, and they put him in skinny ties and a vast array of checkered shirts. Like he's in a friggin J.Crew catalog. That combination is something like stabbing my Achilles's heel with a shard of kryptonite.

I have saved the best for last.

Ron $#*&ing Swanson.

Soulful blue eyes. Power stache.

Hates enthusiasm and overachievers.

Loves steak.

Hopeless romantic.

Moonlights as sensual saxophonist "Duke Silver."



As I said, I'm pretty sure there's something wrong with me.

Ireland

If you were all like "Shan. Is Ireland as boss as I think it is?" I would be all "Duh. IRELAND is an acronym for "Incredibly Resplendent Elfin-Like Alcoholic Narnia Dream."

Details, per usual, will happen when I very well feel like it :D

Ciao-a-bunga, Ireland

6 AM flight out of Dublin. Means leaving for the airport disgustingly early. Uhhn. Tired... plus (how to put this delicately...) I am bleeding out of my vadge and therefore everything sucks MAJOR. BALLZ. (I don't believe in sugarcoating menstruation. I have this policy where everyone, OK, namely men, should have to feel as uncomfortable as I do, if only psychologically).

So, let me tell you, I am feeling especially smokin' hot in not-exactly-clean workout pants and this oversized Dublin hoodie. People of Dublin and Manchester airports, watch out. They only make this kind of hawtness in the States.

Last night I laid in the jacuzzi while listening to Adele's "Someone Like You" and drinking a Guinness. Sometimes I really am an expert on PMS catharsis.

Well Dublin, it's been fun! Love!

TWITTER NAOOOW

Made myself a twitter account today >:)
If I'm into it I will probably add a nifty twitter widget to this blog.

Oh God I just strung the words "nifty" "twitter" and "widget" together in a sentence punctuated with the word "blog." At what point should I be ashamed of myself?

indulgences

Aw man, I just found a relatively untouched box of assorted chocolates. I watched Chocolat last night, so my lust for the stuff is abnormally high.

And yes, pretty much all I do with my life is watch movies. And yell at my brother every Tuesday so he'll get off the tv and I can watch The Biggest Loser (latest: they brought the cast to New Zealand. New Zealand!). I've never followed the show before but I got into it this season, in a big way. HA. Possibly even the biggest way. BIGGEST WEIGH. TURBO PUN.

I wish my sense of humor was more subtle and sophisticated than that. Alas, I've been reading up on astrology a bit lately, and apparently Taureans do not have subtle sense of humor. Which explains why I find the topic of poop and pooping--even just the words themselves--like, really amusing. Embarrassingly so. In other words, I share a little something with Mozart. See wikipedia article "Mozart and scatology." Not only did Mozart loveh the pewp jokes, apparently "the folklorist and cultural anthropologist Alan Dundes suggested that interest in or tolerance for scatalogical matters is a specific trait of German national culture, one which is retained to this day." And that, my friends, is why I am partly German and why I am destined to my German Studies major. Not really. Possibly.

Do you think modern-day Germans are still all about poop jokes? Should I research that this summer? Should I write a thesis on this?

Today I started going through all my emails on my personal account. I haven't really deleted anything since 2008 and there are about 600 emails in the inbox and 600 more in the sent folder. Most entertaining to find was an email to my mother last summer, when I was back from Berlin from Vienna/Prague. Here's an excerpt!

"Anyway, when I bought my Prague souvenirs I was probably a little giddy from the beer, haha, and so I was very happily asking the cashier how to say things in Czech. "Oh I study German but I don't know any of the language here, how do I say 'hello'?" etc. The old fellow didn't seem that amused, but did tell me that hello is "ahoy"--which sounds like sailor speak, so I almost didn't believe him at first. Also chips ahoy. But ahoy also functions like 'aloha' in that it means goodbye as well. Anyway, I was surprised then when he sort of nonchalantly asked me if I'd like a discount. Presumably for being adorable. So of course I said yes and he subtracted the equivalent of five dollars, haha. I felt like little orphan Annie winning over Daddy Warbucks. So it pays to be nice, moral of the story! I then asked him another way to say 'goodbye' and it was very complicated sounding like fowiruapoijfoweiur, but I didn't care, I attempted to reply fowiruapoijfoweiur right back, haha. But yeah of course when you drink a little bit you want to talk to people more, and especially speak other languages. And  the people who coordinate this program know this because they always arrange for us to meet up and drink a bit and practice German. "

Honestly I'm still not buying the Czechs-say-"ahoy" thing. Anyway, the notable thing about that email is that after I sent it my mom really and truly FLIPPED HER SHIAT. The words "giddy" and "beer" convinced her I had turned to a life of drunken lasciviousness and she continued to send me emails that closed with things like "GOD sees everything you do" (not just God but GOD) and "Please do not do anything you will regret!" It was so unnerving--I was all 'what do you think I'm doing, mother?'--and I had a little breakdown about it.

My mom's a good Christian lady and normally very understanding but she just ...lost it... me being away for so long, I guess. I didn't really understand. When I'm at school I can go weeks without coming home, right? But something about being a sea away, so very far from her jurisdiction. And I don't know if it made her feel better or worse, but when I came back (apart from there being a big emotional fight--and I hate those, so they tend to happen very rarely) I put it this way: "The temptations in Europe and when I'm at school are the same. I don't need to go to Europe to be a drunken slut, if I wanted to. I could do that anytime. But I don't. So if you needn't worry about me at school, you needn't worry about me elsewhere."

Real smooth, Shan. "I can be a drunken slut anywhere!"
But yeah, I just hated how, even though I would very much call myself a good kid (a saint or nun-to-be? Absolutely not. But still overall pretty good)... if your parents aren't going to trust you anyway, if they're still going to be suspicious, well. Well it makes me respond in a lot of ways like, "they do not realize how good they have it, with me for a kid" or "I might as well be a hot mess then, if that's what they expect of me."

I just hope my mom can take a chill pill this time around, that's all. But I also need to find the courage inside myself to live by my own convictions, not my parents', not anyone else's. I think that's something I can always stand to work on more. Living life by my own terms. Bon Jovi knew what I was talkin' about. And you know what I'm talkin' about, about Bon Jovi knowing what I'm talkin' about. Yeahh you do.

I rant like a pro sometimes.

I want to go to there.

And I'll have oreos and milk and a good book.

But, for fun, other life updates

I have been listening to a Shameful Nostalgia Mix that includes Haddoway's - What is Love", Enrique Iglesias - "Escape", and Semisonic -"Closing Time." JUDGE NOT LEST YE BE JUDGED.

I need to leave my house. The last time I left was today, but it was only a trip to CVS. Before that, a couple days ago, I went with my dad to meet a friend of his for breakfast at a diner. Before that --?? Seriously, I think it's making me ill, being all cooped up like this.

Incidentally I have been going to diners a lot recently. I go out to eat with my parents all the time because I have nothing else to do with my life. I used to never care about diners, which I think betrays my purely Jersey upbringing, but now all I want to do is eat my eggs over easy with some home fries and endless cups of coffee.

Diners are sweet gathering places, where people shoot the shit and eat unhealthy things. In that way, they're just like pubs. And I friggin love pubs. Do you see how much I love them, that I bolded, italicized and underlined that?

America doesn't believe in pubs. I find that unfortunate and wrong. But we do have "taverns"--that's similar, right? Homey atmosphere "where everybody knows your name" blah blah. Here in Hamilton there's Bill's Olde Tavern, which I feel is iconic but I've never been inside, and like, Jojo's, which has pretty good food if memory serves me. And I'm sure other places. But, effing AMERICA, I'm not 21 yet, so a big old MEH to that. (I turn 21 in 24 days but I withhold the right to express bitterness).

My family is all, what do you want to do for your birthday? That's a toughie. I do like eating at new places. I think last year I forced us to eat at an Italian place we'd never been to--it ended up alright, but not spectacular. This time I'm thinking, if we're not all Ireland-ed out from the week before, we could try Killarney's Publick House. Or, hey, Bill's Olde Tavern.

Oh but if I do Mexican food I can order myself a margarita of some kind. Ohhh margaritas. Oh Tequila. Tequila, why are you so good to me?

---Way before I had posted about my plan to no longer drink alcohol that isn't beer? Okay. Well. That didn't happen. Moving on.

Like, look at this picture. These are blood orange margaritas. They are pure and total deliciousness. Pair this with an endless bowl of nachos (endless everything, I say!!! ENDLESS) and zesty fish tacos and I will enter the uncontrollable weeping level of happiness. Like, the same level that is usually known to really emotional brides who are weeping through their wedding vows, they're so happy.

:) So I think I'll go to sleep now, haha.

So much. Is happening.

Aaaah, muchachos y muchachas, I am so negligent. And that last random Josh Groban post was randomly random. I like that in the midst of all the life-altering events lately, that's how I chose to express myself.

Oh, gee, to get things up to speed. Obviously I'm not in Japan right now. So there's that.

-In order to graduate on time I'm dropping the East Asian Studies major |: and switching to an Asian Studies minor. That means I don't need to take Japanese anymore, and I only need one more class, which I'll take in the spring.

-I am doing the Summer in Berlin program again (that begins May 20) to earn some more German Studies major credits.

-I bought my flight to and from Deutschland today. I am going to be in Europe nearly 3 months because I'm flying out August 15. After my program is done (July 2) I'm going to do other traveling, possibly, and then visit Agata while she wraps up her program in Paris. And then we're going to stay in hostels and be awesome in other regions of France/Spain/Portugal. I have an internet friend in Portugal (cause I'm a total sad creep who sometimes makes internet friends) who I've actually been talking to for over a year, and he'll show us around Porto.

-Because of the huge void in my heart after canceling my semester in Japan, I became obsessed with making my family travel somewhere cool for the week of my brother's spring break. Which is why in two weeks we're going to Dublin(!!!).

-I keep avoiding the issue of working on an honors thesis.

-I am seriously thinking of taking up a new language this fall.

Well. Now that that's all said, I feel better. Oh blog, I'm sorry I abandoned you. The thought of my abandonment has in fact been making me ill.

MOAR UPDATES to happen soon, I promise.

my hypothetical celebrity marriage

If genies were real and one popped out of like, a bottle of Snapple I was drinking (I figured the Snapple makes this more realistic somehow) I would immediately be so overwhelmed by the possibilities, the fear of making a terrible wish, and the potential bite-you-in-the-ass "careful what you wish for" repercussions. I would just have a nervous breakdown from all the pressure and stress, go nutso like Ophelia and kill myself. Just thinking about impossible hypothetical scenarios stresses me out, even though it's supposed to be telling, harmless fun.

The one, THE ONE exception to this, is if you ask me something like "Shan, if you could marry any person in the whole wide world, who would it be?" And to that, my friends, I answer: Joshua Groban.

There is nothing douchebaggy or offensive about Josh Groban. If I were reading The Chronicles of Narnia right now I'd be picturing J.Grobes as Mr. Tumnus. Also, a bunny could probably beat up Josh Groban.

But you know what? He is so not badass that he is actually badass. He is almost impossibly cheesy, inspirational, and geeky, but he's so tongue-in-cheek about it that the end result is someone just so... affable, unpretentious, and surprisingly hilarious. Like Tina Fey, he's a poster child for wholesomeness, and maybe that's my favorite kind of person--because, conversely, I'm kind of an asshole.

J.G.'s twitter account, which is a giant procrastination device for me, has basically convinced Jackie and me that if we actually knew the guy we would pretty much be the best of friends (he would also fit nicely into our fold of Mason Gross friends). His tweets please me and I strongly identify with them.
Like, "Today is one of those 'I really should get back to learning the bagpipe' kind of days." or 
"Gyro from a corner street vendor- 4$. The warmth of a chorus of grease covered angels singing "nom nom nom!" down my esophagus- priceless."


The best aspect of this hypothetical marriage is that he would sing at the wedding. I challenge you to top that. He would look at me with those honest, clear eyes and sing "When You Say You Love Me" at our SUPER BADASS WEDDING (which would have only the awesomest of celebrities like Ellen Degeneres and Michael Buble). And, oh God, sweet Jesus, I'd make sure he gets his bro ANDREA BOCELLI to sing as well, and that would be perfection.


Final point:

the best laid plans of mice and shans

I'm too drained by all the goings-on to be articulate. Man, that word never made any sense. Goings-on. Passers-by.

The details will come later, but, to skip ahead to the end of the book, the odds of me going to Japan at this point are very very slim.

Spoiler alert: as a consolation prize, I'm trying to see if I can do the Rutgers Summer in Berlin program again.

I shot an email to the acting undergrad director of the Germ dept. (at least I think he is... why does everyone important in the department end up peacing out for sabbatical, anyway?), who forwarded it to this year's program director. But he thinks they're still taking applications, and didn't tell me that I couldn't do the program again. What he said was it's "going to be a little different, in some interesting ways (including a possible excursion to Instanbul), so I don't think you'd be bored." Woah woah woah Istanbul--do my eyes deceive me because that is so dope. And sick. And whaaat.

But I'm trying to not get ahead of myself here. Until further news arrives I'm trying to avoid thoughts like: oh my God they have to let me go to Berlin again or else what am I going to do with myself? WHAT AM I GOING TO DO WITH MYSELF?
As well as thoughts like: I am going to go back to Europe and see so many of the places I have yet to visit!!! SWEET JESUS. I CAN VISIT AGATA WHILE SHE'S IN PARIS. Maybe I can go to AMSTERDAM OR DUBLIN OR EVERYWHERE.

But right now, in this moment, the words "I will go to..." only belong next to the word "sleep."

Oh God, Japan

Everything going on over there is heartbreaking and increasingly terrifying, and meanwhile, I face an unknown future. This is not at all how I anticipated my (possible) pre-departure to go. I'm supposed to leave in 9 days but... who knows.

If I don't go, this messes up my whole collegiate future, not to mention puts my family out of a lot of money. It means I won't get to go to Japan at all as a Rutgers student, and I don't think I'd be able to get my East Asian Studies major either. Because I didn't take any classes this spring I'll be behind a semester. That extra semester will cost me, since I rely on scholarships to pay all of my tuition, scholarships which no longer apply after spring 2012. As of right now if I cancel everything we also lose money on the flights (only flights to Tokyo are eligible for refund or rescheduling). Without this trip, without this stone in place, everything falls apart.

Ritsumeikan University is still operating normally.
Flights are still going into Kansai.
Tokyo is a panic-stricken mess but to my knowledge, Kyoto remains calm and functioning, but also will undergo strain as people from up north travel to the south en masse.

So right now, I don't know, we just wait and watch.

Obviously my safety, my own life, is a higher priority than losing money and having to make East Asian Studies a minor instead of a major, and not graduating on time but... the way things are right now, What I Should Do is not as clear-cut as I'd like it to be. I don't know how seriously I should be frightened to go to Kyoto, I don't know exactly how dangerous it is...

And I just have to laugh ruefully at the fact that, ok, mother nature hit Japan with that earthquake, and her waters swallowed up thousands of lives as though they were nothing--that's tragic. But this nuclear meltdown stuff is all on us; that's our human invention. And it's sickening. Especially that this should happen to, of all places, the nation that was hit twice by nuclear weapons not too long ago.

And I don't know what else to say. I started packing last night but I don't know if I can go back to the task right now.

New York, let's be friends!

Updating on here has been horrendous lately because I am like, the laziest little dreg (yes, dreg, singular. I'm not sure if you can do that) of the earth right now. If there's any doubt in your mind, you just need to ask me "Shan, what kind of pants are you wearing?" and you'll find a clear answer. Yesterday I spent the whole day wearing gray Old Navy loungepants that go back to gym class '07. Those were the pants I slept in the previous night. And then today I spent the majority of my day in the baggy holes-at-the-knees "boyfriend" jeans I've been known to pair with a tie-dye shirt because it makes me look like a stoner, and I kind of love that.

I can't find the motivation to do anything. Anything productive, I mean. Frivolity, as usual, I can handle. Naturally my mom has been scolding me about all the frivolity, because its her job. Pretty much ever since I found some sort of a social life in high school I've been hearing the admonition "you've been doing too much laquacha" nonstop. The best definition of laquacha that I've found in the internet is simply "gallivanting and shenanigans." God, laquacha-ing is like my all-time favorite past-time.

 honestly no idea what this quote means

Friday I needed to go to the Japanese Consulate to pick up my visa (oh, Japan, that's a topic I definitely need to get to... [frown]) but I also laquacha'd my way to The Museum of Modern Art with Jackie, which was fabulous--maybe even fantabulous, depending on how much gay fairy dust you sprinkled into your coffee this morning. The weather came out surprisingly good and not rainy. And Jackie was impressed to the point of incredulity that I, Shan who possesses a fundamental inability to plan anything + an appalling sense of direction, actually took the lead on this one and successfully brought us to where we needed to be. Using the subway and everything. I was also crazy-impressed with myself.

The key to my metro mastery, I realized, actually came in the form of the douchey/beloved line of notebooks known as Moleskine. Mmhmm. The Moleskine city notebooks, you guys. I am obsessed with them. **can someone buy me all of them??

Ordinarily I do not like Moleskines. Like a lot of people, I become too intimidated by really cool, pricey notebooks of quality, and end up never writing or drawing in them. You think "Oh God, this thing is meant to be treasured forever, I better put some really mind-blowing thoughts in here." Just thinking about it gives me the willies. That's why I have my greatest success in creative and emotional expression when writing in a notebook that costs $1 and is falling apart (if the lameness of that sentence offends you, I'm sorry). Point is, I understand your fancy notebook hesitancy.

But these cities journals are totally bangin' and the best investment ever if you are traveling to a major city. I'm talkin' Barcelona, Dublin, Copenhagen, Beijing! etc. etc. They've got public transportation maps that fold out and full maps of the city, marked with the important landmarks. And then blank pages which you are supposed to fill up with all the important/cool things you discover/visit/experience in that city. I wrote the addresses of awesome restaurants, names of delicious beers so I wouldn't forget them, and jotted down notes in museums. "The first guide you write yourself", man. Also, that it's "dedicated to the city and to urban life, to travelers and residents, to independent and free-thinking people." !!! Moleskines are douchey and pretentious, as is the latter part of the previous sentence, but these are so practical! And they're conveniently small. And if you're lost you can discreetly find your way without looking like one of those goshdarn tourists just begging to get mugged, what with a big 'ol map held out in front of you.

It was Jackie who got me started on this. She bought me the one for Berlin as part of my birthday present, and it may have been the most useful/awesome gift in the history of gifts I've received. And I've gotten a silver bedazzled fortune cookie that opens up and and the fortune inside it has the engraved message "Fuck it, you got this!" (thanks, Cassie!) so you know I'm not messing around. Dudes, if someone you know is about to embark on a trip, this is a no-brainer.

Right, so I bought the NYC one because I happened to see it on supersale for $4, and you know I bought the Kyoto one. And really, I should get the Tokyo one too, now that I think of it...

So, some pictures of both times that I went to NYC this month:

was sort of praying that Tina Fey or Alec Baldwin would pop out of there

Rockefeller plizazza

St. Patrick's

Loved this view from inside MoMa

 
I can't imagine going to a modern art museum without a friend, because you need someone who will laugh at all the ridiculous crap with you, and agree with you when you see something that's actually awesome. This is a problem sort of unique to modern art because at regular museums you don't have to question whether the stuff is even art, because you're staring at, like, Boticellis. And also it might be nice to go by yourself and be absorbed in your own thoughts/inspired, maybe holding a Moleskine, ha ha.

Now that I'm not subway-challenged anymore I will definitely be looking for excuses to go to NYC all the time. There was so much we didn't have time to do on Friday! Like, I wanted to buy a cupcake at Magnolia Bakery! Mmmm. Aw yeaah.

I've been to NYC more times than I'd be able to count, and I'd even dabbled with the idea of being in debt the rest of my life and choosing NYU over Rutgers, but I feel like only now am I starting to understand why the place is so awesome (And maybe turning 21 and being able to bar hop in the citay will also help, whoknowswhoknows just a thought.) Here I am, so close to this hub of culture but I don't really take advantage of it as I should. And that just won't do. Sure I've seen The Daily Show and Important Things with Demetri Martin filmed live, but I could still be doing MOAR. So. New goal!

favorite quote #3

 

Andy Warhol, yooo. Bought this poster at MoMa today. I think the sentiment is just the superest.

And yes, it would look great in the apartment next year.

on being sick: hugs AND drugs, please

So about this cold. It's mostly gone by now, but yesterday I was in such misery. But then, I do not handle sickness well at all. Maybe there are those who pop some serious pills and just power through it, tough it out. I am part of a school of thought that instead milks it for every last drop, and if that means stealing everyone's blankets and laying in them comatose, followed by weeping, and then a slow sad hobble to get to the other side of the room SO BE IT. When I am sick, I want to be pitied and babied. Is that so wrong?

Funnily enough no one at home really babies me. In fact, once when I had the flu I was at the dinner table (not eating, of course) and my dad made some kind of a somehow unkind (HA confusing wordplay) comment, and I burst into sobs. I burst into sobs because every inch of my body was in complete pain and I no longer felt the will to live--I think that's what I said.

For this little cold I took 2 teaspoons of Robitussin every 4 hours as per in the instructions. Sh*t is not "non-drowsy", fyi. Or at least it isn't if you are 4'11'' and you take it; I don't know how this stuff works. Regardless an hour later I was both not sniffling and standing unsteadily on a kitchen table blasting Bon Jovi's "Livin' on a Prayer." Which is a great song (almost as catchy, to me, as my personal favorite "More Than a Feeling") and I'm glad that Robitussin reminded me of that fact. Oh, did you know that gettin' high off of Robitussin is called "robotripping"? Thanks, internet.

So I was gettin' real buzzed off the stuff (to a lesser degree than when I was on Mucinex last year, at least) and decided I needed to be a little responsible. So I checked the dosage on the container for how much a person  "under 12 years of age" should take. And it just said "do not take." |: I am probably the size of the average 12 year old, aren't I.
RHETORICAL QUESTION.

NYC adventures and London flashbacks

Darlings, I am beat. I don't even recall what I did with most of my day, but I am beat. Oh God. Realization that part of what I did was watch no less than three episodes of Glee that were on demand. Glee is just one of those things I've resigned to not like because it's kind of annoying and enjoys popularity. Much like the stance I took on myspace for years. Haters gonna hate, right? I don't know, I just like to put up a bit of a fight before digging into a giant slice of pop culture. The principle of the thing.

But mostly the show is just so far-fetched (I'm sorry, does the wheel chair kid always have to dance?) and I hate when it gets all cheesy after school special-y, with such themes as Be Yourself! and Bullying Isn't Cool, You Guys! And the romance triangles and quadrangles... whatever. The show does have good moments, and it is, unfortunately, kind of addicting. The fact of the matter was, I exhausted all of my other On Demand options (watched all of the episodes of Perfect Couples and I really am liking it, I have to say).

Anyway, that was my Gleetastic morning. I'm sick with a cold, by the way. It started on Friday... mum and I were actually in NYC that day, dropping stuff off at the Japanese embassy. We took the subway and didn't get lost or anything, ha-ha. We're both really bad at navigating New York. Werqing the U-Bahn in Berlin and Vienna? Piece of cake. So straightforward. But on my home turf, more or less, I am helpless. It's the turnstiles and junk (which I didn't see in Germany) that makes all the difference, I think. Plus Berlin and Vienna are Cities, but New York is a CITY. It's massive.

My super legit paperwork-visa-business will be available on Wednesday, so I'll have to head back there. I must take that opportunity to do Something Worthwhile, you know? MoMa is in the area and, I am ashamed to say this, I've never been. Actually, I'm not that ashamed. When I think modern art I think of total and utter bullshit. But hey, I got something out of the Tate Modern in London, didn't I? Although there was deffo some bullshit in there too.

Friday what we did after the Embassy was look around Saks Fifth Avenue. I've never been to any of those big 'ol department stores in NYC either (travesty!). I have only--quite tragically, really--seen them from the outside, when they're all closed, gazing at their stunning window displays at Christmastime. Usually while munching on some cashews purchased from a Nuts4Nuts vendor. So it was pretty neat to be inside one... it reminded me of Harrods, only nowhere near as cool. Harrods is just a totally boss place. If I lived in London... Oh Jesus. Seriously.

Because at Harrods it's not just clothes and shoes and Hermès scarves (by the way, as a scarves fiend it is a personal goal to get my hands on one of those damn hundreds-of-dollars silk scarves) but there are whole rooms, gorgeous rooms, devoted to Tea and Coffee or like, Sweets, and it's utterly delightful. I nearly died from the visual smorgasbord. So while I cannot and possibly may never be able to go to Harrods and just pick up a Herve Leger dress, I am able to window shop and treat myself to their crème brûlée, and that is what's most important. Little luxuries can be just as sweet as big luxuries, you know. That's why whenever I go to Wegmans (j'adore Wegmans) I am sure to buy a small round dessert with lots of berries on it. Mmm. Can someone take me to Wegmans tomorrow? And also TJMaxx or Marshall's, as I'm in a designer shoppin' mood and I don't wanna pay retail. (Digression: they had this adorbs red Kate Spade crossbody bag with a tassel at TJMaxx last time, I just had to buy it. It made me kind of deliriously happy).

Flashback time!

You just stare at that beautiful building and know it's a Shopping Establishment.

Uhhhhhh. Right, so Saks. Yeah, I felt kind of poor wandering around there. Not as poor as when I visited Rodeo Drive, but still pretty much poor. But really, who pays retail ever? Who does that? Today at the mall (yes, I accompanied my mother to the mall, even though I'm sick and miserable. But not as sick and miserable as I was yesterday) I managed to get a pair of gray skinny jeans from American Eagle for $13, which I'm counting as proof of how opposed I am to buying stuff that isn't on sale. 


This post is getting a bit lengthy so I think I'll continue it in another, sooner or later. Sooner preferably but it's nearly one ante meridian. I'm sleepy, ya know.