you need to come here. learn some kreyol before you come because it will open the country up...but even if you don't--you still need to come here.
Stepping off the plane, just a little under 2 hours from Miami lies a hidden gem. While most travel sites tell you to avoid Haiti like the plague I think it's because they want it all to themselves. It's loud, dusty when you get outside of most towns, smelly and chaotic. Being in the extreme minority (i.e. all white people work with NGO's) is a refreshing change and the culture is open and expressive, almost to a fault.
The landscape here is breathtaking. Haiti has some of the most beautiful mountains I've ever seen (second only to CO)...
basically...you need to get here.
I'm leaving tomorrow and am really sad...
Sunday, March 15, 2009
Thursday, July 17, 2008
A traveling Matt report
Howdy All...
Considering the last post on this guy was awhile ago, I'm not sure who still checks this but I figured an update was in order.
I moved.
As with most major decisions that impact my life in a significant way, this one was made and acted upon in 4 days. I sent out several letters to various relief organizations and 'Hands On' was the one that responded. So I packed it all up and am in Iowa, living in a church doing relief work until Oct, 25....but wait, this time I'm getting paid to do it. WOO-HOO. Granted it's only $800 a month, but it's better then nothing.
So yeah, I'm helping to run the deployment here with two other people so if you have some time between now and Oct, 25 I would love to see any/all of you out here for however long you wanted to be here.
There's a lot more to tell but I'm so freaking exhuasted...you should check out www.hodr.org to get the details so you can all come down here for a bit.
hope everyone is doing well.
Tuesday, April 1, 2008
Weakends
No one's written anything in about a week, and I'm wondering what you're all doing with yourselves. How were your weekends?
I spent mine in central New York with my dad's parents. After a four hour car ride with my folks, complete with a sciatica flare-up, I watched as my dad and his dad rigged and installed a new sump pump (Google it) in the basement. My grandparents, like many old people, spend the winter months in a Naples condominium with the heat turned up to a temperature equal to that of the weather outside. Upon their return to New York, they discovered that part of their basement had been flooded, due to a broken pump. I watched as my grandfather, a former mechanical engineer (if your silverware says Oneida on it, thank him), opened up parts boxes of PVC pipes and metal clamps with a boyish grin. Much to my grandfather's surprise, sump pumps have had design changes since the 1950s, a fact that left him both intrigued and frustrated. He examined the back of a PVC parts box, looking for a manufacturing location, hoping he would gain insight into how the part fit into the whole. "Ah!" he exclaimed, and we looked at him with anticipation. "Crafty people, those Tai-Wah-Neese." My grandfather is intensely pro-American, when it comes to goods and services, and a part of me admires him deeply for that. When I bought my Subaru several years ago, he asked what kind of car it was. "A Subaru," I said. "Subaru?" he replied. "That doesn't sound American." After about four hours of tinkering, the new sump pump was installed and, judging by the stream of green water spewing from the plastic pipe in his backyard, it was working properly. He's an interesting man, my grandfather. An insight into what goes on in his mind: As my grandmother was showering Sunday morning, my grandfather told me he had done some calculations in his head. He figured that his 50,000 BTU hot water heater, plugged into an outlet of a specific voltage, would take approximately twelve minutes to refill and re-heat after a ten minute shower. These are the things he thinks about, and I am left to wonder, what happened to me that I can barely understand basic math?
My sister, her husband, and their daughter also made it out for the afternoon on Saturday. My niece is into ordering people around, and had us stand in various line formations throughout the house. Later, she made us roll her up like a little burrito inside a quilt my mom made for her. She also sings incessantly into her "High School Musical" microphone, a horrid little invention that encourages kids to sing along to the popular songs from the movie while at the same time amplifying their voices as if through a bullhorn. My grandparents' hearing has faded slightly over the years, the proof of which was noticeable when neither of them winced even once in the three hours my niece sang her little heart out.
Sunday afternoon, the three of us drove to Syracuse so my parents could see the addition my sister had put on her home. It's nice, but several of the windows weren't insulated and are prone to drafts. They also bought a cantaloupe-sized Shih-Tzu for Kayla, which she named "Onie". It's very puntable, but still too young for such activities.
Currently, I'm waiting to hear from the Plattsburgh School District about substitute teaching. I called them early last week, inquiring about my fingerprinting and application, and was informed that my background check had not yet cleared. Normally a four-week process, it's been about eight weeks since I sent out my fingerprints (taken by a police officer who told me he was upset with me because I wasn't a female between the ages of 21 and 27), and that they have yet to clear is making me a little nervous. Other than that, I've been volunteering at Planned Parentood here in Plattsburgh, where my girlfriend now works full-time, telling young girls over the phone that they cannot become pregnant by giving boys a handjob and getting jiz on their hand. Yes, sexual education has come a long way in our schools. It seems Bush's abstinence education program is really working, as children are no longer being taught anything about sex, and are instead being taught that sex makes you an evildoer and will contribute to the moral decay of America. On Good Friday, I stood out front of the PP building with a reproductive rights sign, waving it in the faces of the 100+ Catholic protesters who amassed on the sidewalk. In their eyes, I'm a "babykiller" in front of a "slaughterhouse." In my eyes, they're fucking loonies. So it goes.
I hope this day finds you all well. Write soon!
I spent mine in central New York with my dad's parents. After a four hour car ride with my folks, complete with a sciatica flare-up, I watched as my dad and his dad rigged and installed a new sump pump (Google it) in the basement. My grandparents, like many old people, spend the winter months in a Naples condominium with the heat turned up to a temperature equal to that of the weather outside. Upon their return to New York, they discovered that part of their basement had been flooded, due to a broken pump. I watched as my grandfather, a former mechanical engineer (if your silverware says Oneida on it, thank him), opened up parts boxes of PVC pipes and metal clamps with a boyish grin. Much to my grandfather's surprise, sump pumps have had design changes since the 1950s, a fact that left him both intrigued and frustrated. He examined the back of a PVC parts box, looking for a manufacturing location, hoping he would gain insight into how the part fit into the whole. "Ah!" he exclaimed, and we looked at him with anticipation. "Crafty people, those Tai-Wah-Neese." My grandfather is intensely pro-American, when it comes to goods and services, and a part of me admires him deeply for that. When I bought my Subaru several years ago, he asked what kind of car it was. "A Subaru," I said. "Subaru?" he replied. "That doesn't sound American." After about four hours of tinkering, the new sump pump was installed and, judging by the stream of green water spewing from the plastic pipe in his backyard, it was working properly. He's an interesting man, my grandfather. An insight into what goes on in his mind: As my grandmother was showering Sunday morning, my grandfather told me he had done some calculations in his head. He figured that his 50,000 BTU hot water heater, plugged into an outlet of a specific voltage, would take approximately twelve minutes to refill and re-heat after a ten minute shower. These are the things he thinks about, and I am left to wonder, what happened to me that I can barely understand basic math?
My sister, her husband, and their daughter also made it out for the afternoon on Saturday. My niece is into ordering people around, and had us stand in various line formations throughout the house. Later, she made us roll her up like a little burrito inside a quilt my mom made for her. She also sings incessantly into her "High School Musical" microphone, a horrid little invention that encourages kids to sing along to the popular songs from the movie while at the same time amplifying their voices as if through a bullhorn. My grandparents' hearing has faded slightly over the years, the proof of which was noticeable when neither of them winced even once in the three hours my niece sang her little heart out.
Sunday afternoon, the three of us drove to Syracuse so my parents could see the addition my sister had put on her home. It's nice, but several of the windows weren't insulated and are prone to drafts. They also bought a cantaloupe-sized Shih-Tzu for Kayla, which she named "Onie". It's very puntable, but still too young for such activities.
Currently, I'm waiting to hear from the Plattsburgh School District about substitute teaching. I called them early last week, inquiring about my fingerprinting and application, and was informed that my background check had not yet cleared. Normally a four-week process, it's been about eight weeks since I sent out my fingerprints (taken by a police officer who told me he was upset with me because I wasn't a female between the ages of 21 and 27), and that they have yet to clear is making me a little nervous. Other than that, I've been volunteering at Planned Parentood here in Plattsburgh, where my girlfriend now works full-time, telling young girls over the phone that they cannot become pregnant by giving boys a handjob and getting jiz on their hand. Yes, sexual education has come a long way in our schools. It seems Bush's abstinence education program is really working, as children are no longer being taught anything about sex, and are instead being taught that sex makes you an evildoer and will contribute to the moral decay of America. On Good Friday, I stood out front of the PP building with a reproductive rights sign, waving it in the faces of the 100+ Catholic protesters who amassed on the sidewalk. In their eyes, I'm a "babykiller" in front of a "slaughterhouse." In my eyes, they're fucking loonies. So it goes.
I hope this day finds you all well. Write soon!
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Not enough time to smell the flowers
A mid-day break
in the escalation
lost somewhere along the way
in our great nation:
The vacation station
swells with tourists.
“Take Route 2, it’s new,”
said the florist.
“To make the vibration
in your cranium drainium.”
As the man flowered,
Charlotte glowered.
I looked at her with mine eyes,
eyes that looked rather soured.
“He arranges flowers,
we’re short on hours,
so listen to what the man sayeth!
Let’s boogie nowers!”
My quick-thinking
hop-scotching
brain
bewildered
the women behind the glower.
“The man who arranges flowers
does not empower me
to devour your idea
so we are not going to do
1000 kilometers per hour
based on what some florist explains
is his extrapolating flower-power-hour.”
She looked at the clock on the church tower
to try to decipher
the time.
“Turn away!” I beckoned.
“You see,” I said,
“the time is all but mine.
All the Gods do is combine
the divine
with a little ground pine
a little jug wine
softly on the love line,
to create what we call Time.”
“McDavid , you’re overrated,”
Charlotte stated.
“Let me tell you about time,” she reinstated.
“Time is nothing but
a fated
yet jaded
slow roll
through a downgraded
un-persuaded
and unaided
cylinder of lost dimension, McFlavid.”
The florist put to suspension
his flowers and incited his insight:
“Don’t mention the time pension
with this ill-fated beautician.
Time is nothing but tension,
You blind gentian.
I hold you in contention.
Look’s like we’ll need to hold a clock convention.
Here’s the skinny, skinny:
Time is nothing but an invention
by you dim-witted beings—
is your brain doing it’s job in retention?
Your parents should have used better birth prevention.”
Char asked the florist politely
but forthrightly mockingly slightly:
“I’m sorry good sir, but can I PLEASE have the time?”
And he said back with a whine:
“You snotty little tourist,
Don’t try to spite me,
I’m a purist
and you’re the poorest
surest-loser looking tourist.
Now leave my store
and go back to the forest, Dolores.”
Charlotte and I looked at each other
bewildered and shocked,
this man who was once offering his hand
has made our brains all chicken-pocked.
How dare such a florist who holds life’s beauty in stock
Insult my fair lady like I do with my sweaty/smelly sock.
With the thought and smell fresh,
I did what I must,
I took my sweaty/smelly sock
and with it I locked
the sock in my fist
and unloaded on him a punch,
so ungraceful… I missed.
And I fell to the floor
and my eyes looked out the window of the store
and saw the tourists all watching.
I felt like a loser-galore.
But my beauty sweet Charlotte
was about to soar.
And settle the score.
After pausing to smile,
And file the insult in her brain book of bile
The sweet girl looked at the florist
and then yelled to the tourists:
“Architecturally beguiled,
it’s with perpendicular style
that this geographic little mile
is the perfect condition for growing flowers
suck as the ‘lily of the nile’!
My dear florist friend here
has asked for friends well-wishers and all
to help create soil
so he can continue to profit
and so his business doesn’t spoil.
So please assist me and my partner McDavid
to assist our dear florist with soil
and enter the store,
pull ye pants down
and drop a big shit coil
to help them man’s business broil!
An atomic pile of bile!
Yes that’s it,
on the counter
on the floor
on the man’s face
it’s a race!”
Char and I left and took slow Route 9
while the florist had lots of time
to think about time
as he cleaned up the brown slime
scattered through his store
and forever fresh on his mind.
in the escalation
lost somewhere along the way
in our great nation:
The vacation station
swells with tourists.
“Take Route 2, it’s new,”
said the florist.
“To make the vibration
in your cranium drainium.”
As the man flowered,
Charlotte glowered.
I looked at her with mine eyes,
eyes that looked rather soured.
“He arranges flowers,
we’re short on hours,
so listen to what the man sayeth!
Let’s boogie nowers!”
My quick-thinking
hop-scotching
brain
bewildered
the women behind the glower.
“The man who arranges flowers
does not empower me
to devour your idea
so we are not going to do
1000 kilometers per hour
based on what some florist explains
is his extrapolating flower-power-hour.”
She looked at the clock on the church tower
to try to decipher
the time.
“Turn away!” I beckoned.
“You see,” I said,
“the time is all but mine.
All the Gods do is combine
the divine
with a little ground pine
a little jug wine
softly on the love line,
to create what we call Time.”
“McDavid , you’re overrated,”
Charlotte stated.
“Let me tell you about time,” she reinstated.
“Time is nothing but
a fated
yet jaded
slow roll
through a downgraded
un-persuaded
and unaided
cylinder of lost dimension, McFlavid.”
The florist put to suspension
his flowers and incited his insight:
“Don’t mention the time pension
with this ill-fated beautician.
Time is nothing but tension,
You blind gentian.
I hold you in contention.
Look’s like we’ll need to hold a clock convention.
Here’s the skinny, skinny:
Time is nothing but an invention
by you dim-witted beings—
is your brain doing it’s job in retention?
Your parents should have used better birth prevention.”
Char asked the florist politely
but forthrightly mockingly slightly:
“I’m sorry good sir, but can I PLEASE have the time?”
And he said back with a whine:
“You snotty little tourist,
Don’t try to spite me,
I’m a purist
and you’re the poorest
surest-loser looking tourist.
Now leave my store
and go back to the forest, Dolores.”
Charlotte and I looked at each other
bewildered and shocked,
this man who was once offering his hand
has made our brains all chicken-pocked.
How dare such a florist who holds life’s beauty in stock
Insult my fair lady like I do with my sweaty/smelly sock.
With the thought and smell fresh,
I did what I must,
I took my sweaty/smelly sock
and with it I locked
the sock in my fist
and unloaded on him a punch,
so ungraceful… I missed.
And I fell to the floor
and my eyes looked out the window of the store
and saw the tourists all watching.
I felt like a loser-galore.
But my beauty sweet Charlotte
was about to soar.
And settle the score.
After pausing to smile,
And file the insult in her brain book of bile
The sweet girl looked at the florist
and then yelled to the tourists:
“Architecturally beguiled,
it’s with perpendicular style
that this geographic little mile
is the perfect condition for growing flowers
suck as the ‘lily of the nile’!
My dear florist friend here
has asked for friends well-wishers and all
to help create soil
so he can continue to profit
and so his business doesn’t spoil.
So please assist me and my partner McDavid
to assist our dear florist with soil
and enter the store,
pull ye pants down
and drop a big shit coil
to help them man’s business broil!
An atomic pile of bile!
Yes that’s it,
on the counter
on the floor
on the man’s face
it’s a race!”
Char and I left and took slow Route 9
while the florist had lots of time
to think about time
as he cleaned up the brown slime
scattered through his store
and forever fresh on his mind.
Tuesday, March 18, 2008
Many Thanks
Thanks, Jo, for running through the names with me. I had a feeling "Mommy Toots" was Erin, as I have smelled her wrath firsthand on several occasions, most notably a room clearer during a beerpong game in Woodstock. (Hi Erin! Love you! And your bum!) Erin will be pleased to know that I have been extra gaseous as of late, as I have once again placed myself on a strict fiber/acidophilus regimen. Sarah informed this morning that I was farting all night while under the heavy spell of Benadryl (I'm really allergic to her cats, all fucking three of them). Also, I'm pooping quite regularly. Liz, take note.
Since everyone else has cool names, I renamed myself. It's not sexual like Dave's, because I think Dave should have sexual dibs on screen names. Why? Because he was first, and his voice makes me think of velvet. I hope you picked Clemson, Dave. More importantly, I hope you have Georgia versus Coppin State in the final.
Since everyone else has cool names, I renamed myself. It's not sexual like Dave's, because I think Dave should have sexual dibs on screen names. Why? Because he was first, and his voice makes me think of velvet. I hope you picked Clemson, Dave. More importantly, I hope you have Georgia versus Coppin State in the final.
Dudes
Hello all,
Semen, I am disappointed you are not up on your "mommy/daddy" aliases. A quick review for your reference:
Mommy Splinter - Charlotte, the protector of the mommies. We are her turtles.
Mommy Bandit - Liz, the thief of the mommies. Like a bandit in the night, she steals kisses from unsuspecting men and runs away without a trace.
Mommy Alota - Johanna, the sexual deviant of the mommies. She has gotten her fair share of ass over the years.
Mommy Toots - Erin, smelliest of the mommies. With a single squeeze, she could annihilate any who come to attack.
Mommy Q - Shiloh, the queen of the mommies. When not ruling, you can find her queefing.
Daddy Fused - Michael, the undecided of the daddies. To be or not to be, that is the never ending question.
Daddy Deeper - Dave, the sexual slave of the daddies. Lover of Splinter, he obeys her every wish.
Too graphic? We are the only ones who can see this right?
Semen, I am disappointed you are not up on your "mommy/daddy" aliases. A quick review for your reference:
Mommy Splinter - Charlotte, the protector of the mommies. We are her turtles.
Mommy Bandit - Liz, the thief of the mommies. Like a bandit in the night, she steals kisses from unsuspecting men and runs away without a trace.
Mommy Alota - Johanna, the sexual deviant of the mommies. She has gotten her fair share of ass over the years.
Mommy Toots - Erin, smelliest of the mommies. With a single squeeze, she could annihilate any who come to attack.
Mommy Q - Shiloh, the queen of the mommies. When not ruling, you can find her queefing.
Daddy Fused - Michael, the undecided of the daddies. To be or not to be, that is the never ending question.
Daddy Deeper - Dave, the sexual slave of the daddies. Lover of Splinter, he obeys her every wish.
Too graphic? We are the only ones who can see this right?
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Throw a mommy a bone
okokokok so....I have to say this is quite an interesting idea. I have always wished that I could have a place to keep track of all the moments with ya'll that I can't remember- basically 75% of the past 8 years! Hopefully we will have this forever and we can always look back fondly on the memories of our younger days when everything was so carefree and uncomplicated. YEAH RIGHT. At least we will be able to show our kids kids how proud of us they should be for our accomplishments.
I don't know if I am the only mommy who works in a prison where they block everything that resembles fun, but it may prove slightly problematic for me to be as frequent a blogger as I would like to be. At least there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I like semen (that shit is hilarious) will both be unemployed and living with our parents. For some reason this makes me want to break out into Adam Sandler's rendition of Madonna's "Holiday". I think you all know what I'm talking about. At least the fat guy at table 10 does. So somebody go ahead and cut the cake before I he has a heart attack and let's all talk about how much love stinks. No, really it does. But that is another blog for another day. For now, let's see what to say...what to say. For all you local mommies and daddies, not much is new. We still can't remember what we did last time we saw each other. Oh, and whoever keeps making the comments of my incessant farting (ah-michael-em) have you forgotten about all the other just as wonderful and just as character defining traits of my uniquely beautiful personality? My wit, charm, and beauty perhaps? Not to mention my poops and burps? Just as long as you recognize....
Jeremy, I haven't talked to you in basically forever. How the hell are you? I keep thinking that you are taking the first step and reaching out to me via myspace comments. Alas, each time I am let down by some creepy message from you telling me that one of your friends thinks I'm hot. I think you all know what I'm talking about...some unfortunate chain mail that keeps spamming the inboxes of innocent myspacers nation wide. Anyway, it's really good to have this little tid bit of Jeremyism to hold onto. Oh, I forgot to mention you STILL send all of your emails to the wrong email address for me! We'll be sitting around and someone will say so did you get Jeremy's latest email or see his latest pictures, and I have no idea what they are talking about. Get it right bitch!
Semen, this mommy misses you. BAD. I am ashamed at my absence at the ugly sweater party, woodstock, and wherever else you turned up that I didn't even realize at the time. This is only slightly diminished by my miserable attempts to even inquire about what is happening in your life, let alone reach out and actually touch a daddy. Glad to get the update, and please accept this as a promise to do better in the future. When do you think your going to make it down again? Perhaps Char and Dave bon voyage shin dig? Ooh la la. You bring the B vitamins, I'll bring the booze.
I am ashamed I have to sign off because my 17 year old future husband is about to sing on American Idol. I promise to come back soon with something clever and thoughtful and better than my farts. Perhaps top ten mommy and daddy moments? Oh wait, never mind...I can't remember. Peace out.
I don't know if I am the only mommy who works in a prison where they block everything that resembles fun, but it may prove slightly problematic for me to be as frequent a blogger as I would like to be. At least there is a light at the end of the tunnel, and I like semen (that shit is hilarious) will both be unemployed and living with our parents. For some reason this makes me want to break out into Adam Sandler's rendition of Madonna's "Holiday". I think you all know what I'm talking about. At least the fat guy at table 10 does. So somebody go ahead and cut the cake before I he has a heart attack and let's all talk about how much love stinks. No, really it does. But that is another blog for another day. For now, let's see what to say...what to say. For all you local mommies and daddies, not much is new. We still can't remember what we did last time we saw each other. Oh, and whoever keeps making the comments of my incessant farting (ah-michael-em) have you forgotten about all the other just as wonderful and just as character defining traits of my uniquely beautiful personality? My wit, charm, and beauty perhaps? Not to mention my poops and burps? Just as long as you recognize....
Jeremy, I haven't talked to you in basically forever. How the hell are you? I keep thinking that you are taking the first step and reaching out to me via myspace comments. Alas, each time I am let down by some creepy message from you telling me that one of your friends thinks I'm hot. I think you all know what I'm talking about...some unfortunate chain mail that keeps spamming the inboxes of innocent myspacers nation wide. Anyway, it's really good to have this little tid bit of Jeremyism to hold onto. Oh, I forgot to mention you STILL send all of your emails to the wrong email address for me! We'll be sitting around and someone will say so did you get Jeremy's latest email or see his latest pictures, and I have no idea what they are talking about. Get it right bitch!
Semen, this mommy misses you. BAD. I am ashamed at my absence at the ugly sweater party, woodstock, and wherever else you turned up that I didn't even realize at the time. This is only slightly diminished by my miserable attempts to even inquire about what is happening in your life, let alone reach out and actually touch a daddy. Glad to get the update, and please accept this as a promise to do better in the future. When do you think your going to make it down again? Perhaps Char and Dave bon voyage shin dig? Ooh la la. You bring the B vitamins, I'll bring the booze.
I am ashamed I have to sign off because my 17 year old future husband is about to sing on American Idol. I promise to come back soon with something clever and thoughtful and better than my farts. Perhaps top ten mommy and daddy moments? Oh wait, never mind...I can't remember. Peace out.
I Am Intrigued...
...at the idea of Mommies and Daddies uniting in blogdom. I often wonder what's going on with all of you in the City, and yes, even with Jeremey in Colorado (although I see Jeremey more of the Uncle Traveling Matt from "Fraggle Rock" sort, someone whom I will hear from sporadically at best, but who will enamor me with stories of faraway lands, like Aspen and Buffalo. Thus, he is exonorated from my spite for never replying to my emails). To whom do I owe credit for this idea? Further, who is behind the screenames on here? Aside from Jeremey and Shiloh, I can't figure any out.
Despite not keeping in great touch with many of you, you are all missed intensely. Plattsburgh, despite what you may think, is not all that exciting. To give you an idea, I offer this: think of Burlington. Okay, do you have an image? Good. Now think of Burlington without culture and hippies, but with Nascar jackets and window decals, and lots of Budweiser. Having said that, you're all more than welcome to come and visit should my parents ever leave town for a weekend or longer. That stipulation is there because it has to be. I live at home.
If you've been curious, here's what's new:
-I dropped out of graduate school after one week of classes. The "pros" associated with this decision are as follows: I can once again retreat to the garage at night, sploof in hand, as supply allows (which it doesn't), I received a full refund of tuition and books, and I get to loaf around a while longer. The "cons" are: oodles of free time, no money, and no job (yet).
-I was in Ithaca two weekends ago for a Keller Williams show at the State Theater. Keller was fascinating, but his band was shit. Ithaca has become part of corporate America, although The Commons are still relatively untouched, save for a Subway and a Starbucks. 214 Coddington is still pink and brown, and perhaps inhabited by transients, raccoons, and the soft echoes of Ab Brown yelling, "How can you live like this?!" and the soft, angry swoosh of a wet-mop gliding over a marred tile floor.
-My niece no longer refers to me as "Semen" as she has gained the ability to pronounce her T's and V's. I am both thankful and saddened by her growing ability to speak like a normal human being.
Keep writing, because it's fun to hear about all your shenanigans and gin hangovers (who was that, anyway?). I haven't been drunk since New Years (I don't recall much of New Years, aside from being in New Hampshire, so there's a chance I wasn't really drunk that evening), so a trip to New York is in order. Travelocity is having fare sales from Burlington, and Char and Dave are leaving soon. Plus, I haven't seen Erin since she's been back from Southeast Asia, and that's sad. I saw Michael in Syracuse in January, but Michael in Syracuse isn't Michael in New York (he was tired, and his gaze was fixed on the television because he hadn't watched it in two weeks). Excuses to leave the Platt are arising, and I must soon abide.
Winter is almost over, thank Christ.
Despite not keeping in great touch with many of you, you are all missed intensely. Plattsburgh, despite what you may think, is not all that exciting. To give you an idea, I offer this: think of Burlington. Okay, do you have an image? Good. Now think of Burlington without culture and hippies, but with Nascar jackets and window decals, and lots of Budweiser. Having said that, you're all more than welcome to come and visit should my parents ever leave town for a weekend or longer. That stipulation is there because it has to be. I live at home.
If you've been curious, here's what's new:
-I dropped out of graduate school after one week of classes. The "pros" associated with this decision are as follows: I can once again retreat to the garage at night, sploof in hand, as supply allows (which it doesn't), I received a full refund of tuition and books, and I get to loaf around a while longer. The "cons" are: oodles of free time, no money, and no job (yet).
-I was in Ithaca two weekends ago for a Keller Williams show at the State Theater. Keller was fascinating, but his band was shit. Ithaca has become part of corporate America, although The Commons are still relatively untouched, save for a Subway and a Starbucks. 214 Coddington is still pink and brown, and perhaps inhabited by transients, raccoons, and the soft echoes of Ab Brown yelling, "How can you live like this?!" and the soft, angry swoosh of a wet-mop gliding over a marred tile floor.
-My niece no longer refers to me as "Semen" as she has gained the ability to pronounce her T's and V's. I am both thankful and saddened by her growing ability to speak like a normal human being.
Keep writing, because it's fun to hear about all your shenanigans and gin hangovers (who was that, anyway?). I haven't been drunk since New Years (I don't recall much of New Years, aside from being in New Hampshire, so there's a chance I wasn't really drunk that evening), so a trip to New York is in order. Travelocity is having fare sales from Burlington, and Char and Dave are leaving soon. Plus, I haven't seen Erin since she's been back from Southeast Asia, and that's sad. I saw Michael in Syracuse in January, but Michael in Syracuse isn't Michael in New York (he was tired, and his gaze was fixed on the television because he hadn't watched it in two weeks). Excuses to leave the Platt are arising, and I must soon abide.
Winter is almost over, thank Christ.
Tuesday, March 11, 2008
I am going to Post, I promise....
This may be a good place for Dave and I to start writing and documenting out on the road journey. I will write more when I have a chance, or when something interesting enters my mind. I do love this idea though and love all of you!
doing the no pants dance...
has little to do with what's on my mind but it made me laugh...
anywho, the suns been shining, the snows been a-meltin' and I'm already faced with the end of my second season out here at fantasy camp. Some of you got a lil taste of what fantasy camp is all about and I'm happy you did because when I talk about trying to get out, you know what I'm up against.
There's a weird dichotomy that exists out here in that this place has so much and yet offers so little at the same time. Why people try to reap the seeds they've sown in a place like this is beyond me...while unfair to say--for me, it holds true. I see so many people stuck on a permanent 'hold,' those whose season of fun turned into a lifetime of "just one more winter..." And to be honest, it scares the hell out of me, because for as much as I want to say I'm not that person...after experiencing life out here, the sad truth is that I could be that person. But fear not, this is not my resignation to a life of perpetual superficiality, whereby I surrender my passion for more meaningful pursuits to the gods of cold and snow. Jeremey's moving on up...sorta, I'm planning to be out of Aspen by the beginning of June to a destination that will hopefully be dictated by a job of some kind...I am currently working on the details.
So there you go. an update of sorts...oh yeah, and with all that hoop-la about me gettin the F outta dodge...I've just started dating a lady who plans on being here throughout the summer...could my timing be better or what? Her name is Claire and she's pretty rad.
more to come...
anywho, the suns been shining, the snows been a-meltin' and I'm already faced with the end of my second season out here at fantasy camp. Some of you got a lil taste of what fantasy camp is all about and I'm happy you did because when I talk about trying to get out, you know what I'm up against.
There's a weird dichotomy that exists out here in that this place has so much and yet offers so little at the same time. Why people try to reap the seeds they've sown in a place like this is beyond me...while unfair to say--for me, it holds true. I see so many people stuck on a permanent 'hold,' those whose season of fun turned into a lifetime of "just one more winter..." And to be honest, it scares the hell out of me, because for as much as I want to say I'm not that person...after experiencing life out here, the sad truth is that I could be that person. But fear not, this is not my resignation to a life of perpetual superficiality, whereby I surrender my passion for more meaningful pursuits to the gods of cold and snow. Jeremey's moving on up...sorta, I'm planning to be out of Aspen by the beginning of June to a destination that will hopefully be dictated by a job of some kind...I am currently working on the details.
So there you go. an update of sorts...oh yeah, and with all that hoop-la about me gettin the F outta dodge...I've just started dating a lady who plans on being here throughout the summer...could my timing be better or what? Her name is Claire and she's pretty rad.
more to come...
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