Exercise Regimen: Day Two

Yesterday I began a new exercise regimen (that sort of implies that there was an old exercise regimen, which is not at all true), in order to get my flabby Midwestern body in shape to exist in the presence of the gorgeous hip coasters down at SXSW in less than 2 months time. This is quite a bold enterprise, since it's taken me 25 years to get into this sorry state. But I will try. My grand plan is a rotation of yoga (no problem), resistance training (slight problem), and running (possibly a major big problem). I have never really been one to run. Even running to catch the train is a stretch. But it seems to be the quickest way to burn away the excess ugh-i-ness and make your ass look good, which is really what I'm going for at this point. Sunday was yoga, and that was nice. It's the only form of exercise I've ever sustained outside of a school mandate. Today was the resistence, which was not too bad at the time, but I can tell that tomorrow my biceps are going to fall off. Tomorrow: dear god, am I really going to try to run a whole mile? Hey, come on, it's a start. As long as it's not below freezing, I'm going to be out there, getting ready to be one of the beautiful people.

Literary Theory

I came across this article yesterday in what I now believe to be one of our nation's finest newspapers, the City Pages of Minneapolis/St. Paul. It got me thinking, this morning as I rode to work, about this void in contemporary literature. If all of the men have fallen from the rough-n-tough heights of Hemingway (as the icon of that sort of masculinity) and are trying, as we speak, to crawl their way back into the womb, then it's time for women to step up and be the honest voices of this generation. They're already trying. Failing, but trying. "Chicklit" (dear god I really just used that word, didn't I?), for all of its weaknesses, shares with Hemingway the subject matter of one sex's most sacred and secret rituals. For men: fishing, boxing, drinking, fucking, war. For women: shopping, flirting, drinking, fucking, and dieting, I suppose. They've got the right situations, the right setting, even the right characters: driven, flawed. The problem, of course, is that while Hemingway was a literary genius, I've never read any chicklit (not that I've read much of it) that was worth the price of admission. So here's the challenge. We certainly don't need to copy Hemingway's style. Anyone who uses another person's voice doesn't really mean what they say to begin with. But someone needs to write with insight and talent and ferocity about female lives. If men are becoming boys, then girls and chicks need to become women. Someone has to be the adult, to live in the real world. If there is already such a woman out there, let me know; I'd love to read her work. If there's not, someone needs to step up. I don't think it can be me; I'm too sentimental in general and certainly no major talent. But the women who can do this must be out there somewhere.

A Convergence?

This is what happens when my current occupation as a grade-school math textbook editor and my love of all things McSweeney's collide.

I'm More Angry, More Afraid, Every Day

This explains why quite nicely.

Defining Incongruous

I was just watching Access Hollywood (be quiet) and it featured Paris Hilton, at a Sundance party, dancing to... Ben Lee.

A Refreshing Lack of Drama

Had breakfast with my best friend, you know the kind, you've been friends for so long you can't really remember how you became friends in the first place, and you know all those awful things about each other, and still like each other anyway.

Anyway, Kat and I had breakfast this morning, and we haven't seen each other much lately due to insane work schedules (that is, entirely opposite work schedules, me 9 to 5, her every other hour of the day). And she was going on about all the scandals in her life, who she was fighting with, what crises had occurred, who broke up with who in her large circle of friends.

And I realized, as I was sharing my own, comparatively tame, stories with her, that my life is almost entirely drama-free these days. I've got a boy I'm on good terms with, a job I like well enough, good friends who don't go all bi-polar and call me crying or screaming every other day, a family I get along with. Nothing in my life causes pain, particularly. I'm just trying to say that I'm at a good place, and I'm starting to think that maybe this is what it is to be an adult. I'll be the first to admit that my life at present would not make a very good movie (well, maybe one of those indie movies where 20-somethings sit around and drink beer and talk about relationships), but it is really nice to live. I appreciate the adventures more now when they happen, and I enjoy not living in utter terror the rest of the time. No more worrying about where the rent is coming from. No more fear of dying alone and unloved. No more delusions about being a Great Artist, and no more subsequent depression upon creating only mediocre crap. I've become the sort of content person that my 15-year-old self would have hated, but as I get older, I'm realizing that my 15-year-old self was, well, an idiot. It's not so bad just being happy.

Important (and Expensive) Events

Got SXSW wristband, hotel, and flight. Now need to purchase hipster clothes so as not to be laughed out of Austin. Decided to go to Ireland in the spring. Obtained wireless Internet access. Thought again about quitting my job. Jude, if you're reading this, all of these reasons add up to why I haven't been in in a while.

The Berghoff

Today was the second attempt I've made to go to the Berghoff before it closes its doors for good. The first time, there were about 20 people in line, so we went elsewhere. This afternoon, when I walked past, the line snaked around the block. I know their spaetzle is good and all, and people want to drink the beer on liquor license #1, but c'mon: waiting hours for weinerschnitzel? I just couldn't do it. I may not get the chance again, but I just couldn't do it.

On Poets

My 15-year-old self would have loved this article. Come to think of it, my 25-year-old self appreciates it, too.

Things I Heard Last Night in My Sleep

"I'd be lost without you."

Cutest Safety Hazard Ever

This morning, while I was getting my coffee at the deli downstairs, I noticed that the cashier lady had brought what I assume was her (quite adorable, big-brown-eyed) son in with her. He was maybe 2 years old (old enough to walk... is 2 old enough to walk?) and was playing behind the counter. With an empty plastic bag that he wore as a hat, and a sanitary glove that one of the cooks had blown up and tied off like a balloon. Thankfully, he wasn't old enough to reach the meat slicer.

My Life as a Sedaris Story

Sunday evening, I went up to my grandfather's house for a family dinner. My aunt, uncle, and 7-year-old cousin from upstate New York were there, as well as my grandfather, his wife, my other aunt, and my parents. There was plenty of the usual hostility and irritation, but most importantly, there was surreality.

After dinner, my grandfather demanded that we watching old Super-8 movies of the family from the 70s. As they would be featuring events before I existed, I agreed to stick around. We all piled into the basement and watched several reels featuring such exciting moments as a vacation in Wisconsin, a vacation in Georgia, my uncle's last day of elementary school, and another vacation in Wisconsin. Then my grampa puts in the last reel of the evening. "This was our family trip to Guadalupe," he announces.

What he didn't mention was that this was their family trip to A NUDE BEACH in Guadalupe. I don't know whether, in his old age, he'd forgotten that he'd taken lots of long, lingering shots of strange young women's tits and asses, or whether he's just such a hippy-ish sort of live-and-let-live type that he didn't think there was anything strange about showing this kind of movie to his granddaughters. Either way, I wasn't mature enough not to giggle, then laugh, and then nearly fall out of my folding chair at the final scene: my grampa, age 50ish, striding confidently out of the sea onto the beach, full front nude.

"Grampa!" my little cousin Lisa shrieked, running up and grabbing his knees. "You're naked! Why are you naked?"

He had no answer. The projector was turned off, and we hustled up the stairs and out the door with only the quickest goodbyes. No one knew what to say. I immediately told my sister that she missed a ground-breaking moment. This is a family oddity for the ages.

The New Year's Report

First, let it be said that I can never remember having a good new year. When I was young, I was always scared of the shouting and the poppers and the banging on pots. As a teenager, I just had a series of lame all-nighters at various house parties. Once I got to college and procured a fake ID, I began going to club parties, which were generally over-priced with bad booze and lots of people I didn't like doing things I didn't like. I tried staying home one year, but that made me feel even more pathetic than going out. So by now I really have no good expectations for this particular holiday.

That said, I really was looking forward to this New Year's. The plan was sound: start off the evening by cooking dinner with the boy, then head out to a low-key and normal-priced show with friends, to be followed by potential party-hopping as the spirit of the moment took us. And it started off well. Dinner (jambalaya) was excellent, cooked up while imbibing PBR and listening to a little Elvis Costello, eaten while planning a late-spring trip to Europe. Post-dinner was nice, a $3.50 bottle of champagne and the Faint, a little louder now to cover the fact that Todd was running around the house jumping on tables. Heading off to the show was ok, despite the fact that the boy had a can of beer in his suitjacket pocket.

Then we arrived at the show, and things seemed to go downhill pretty fast. I can't tell what precise combination of a crowd and alcohol is the troublemaker, but that combination existed at the Beat Kitchen last night. Canasta played, excellently. Apparently they've been getting a ton of good press lately, which they deserve. The next band was good, but not to my taste. Sorta bluesy southern-fried rock. Head of Femur took the stage. The countdown was counted down. People screamed. People kissed. Somewhere directly after this happened, I got entirely pissed off with the world in general and my boyfriend in particular, for acting (uncharacteristically, at this point in his life) like a drunken ass. Running into things. Threatening to start fights. Etc. This is where the standard New Year's Eve bad-time kicked in. The band finished their set, having played much worse than I remember them being. I wanted to get out of there directly. They came back for an encore. We stayed. They came back for a second encore. We stayed longer. It's probably for the best. By the time we got home, a little before 2am, I was too tired to yell and stomp as I'd wanted to two hours before. The night wound down in an entirely depressing fashion, tired and sad with the tail-end of a drunk and the tip of hangover starting.

In the morning, aside from one mild headache (mine) and one screeching headache (Todd's), all was well. We kissed and made up, as they say. Now that the moment was passed, it seemed ridiculous to be angry anymore. Todd boiled up some coffee and fried some beignets and all was forgiven. Talked about Amsterdam and Paris. Started the new year out properly, full of good food and in love and happy again.