You are currently browsing the category archive for the 'PEOPLE' category.
My home break, Kalama’s, can sometimes get moderately big waves, and these past few weeks it’s been getting exactly that. My days are punctuated by spontaneous runs down to the beach, usually at some bizarre time like 5:30 am or 11:50 pm. The waves are soft and hard at the same time, and I throw my body into them like one throws themselves off a building. The impact is strong, but satisfying.
With the summer months being hot and sticky, the distance to the beach has gotten shorter. Most times it feels like the only logical place to go as I walk around the house or the city sponged in sweat. Sometimes I bring my boogie board, but usually I just run down in my swim suit and nothing else. Sometimes, even less than a swimsuit. The impulse to cartwheel into the water is at times too strong, so I just swim fully clothed.
Once when I was 10 my uncle took me to a place called Pyramid Rock to surf. The beach was off the Kaneohe Marine Core Base; we drove through guards and past boxy grey barracks. Pyramid Rock was a beach for short boarders and what my uncle liked to call, “spongers,” which meant boogie boarders. The waves were large and the current was strong. The water was deep blue, an indication of the depth. All along the beach people’s bags, fins and boards lined the sand–no one was tanning.
I put my fins on that I’d purchased at Goodwill. They were practically new; they was a high quality brand and fit perfectly. Boogie boards in hand we walked together and swam out through the shore break. As he caught the large waves, about 6-7 foot faces, I floated over them as best I could. But then there was this wave. It didn’t look as big as the others, and no one else seemed to want to catch it. I kicked my fins and pushed the nose down hard and wiggled myself onto the wave.
The boogie board slipped down the slope with such speed and mobility that I temporarily lost my head. I couldn’t think about anything else. The acceleration from my kicking to the speed of a six foot wave behind me. Needless to say, I kept moving forward instead of turning with the wave and I crashed into the white water. I felt like I was going to drown, the wave was pulling me down so hard. I panicked, lost my air, and gasped like a fish with snot running down my face when I surfaced. Immediately, another wave came and my head dunked down again. When I surfaced the second time, I vaguely heard my uncle yelling something to me.
“Stand up!” he was screaming.
I stood up, and to my surprise the water barely came up to my hip bones. I walked calmly to shore with my board in tow and collapsed onto the sand, panting.
He’d had one job, in high school, though if he were honest he’d admit that it was his dream. He was an ice cream man. He never really understood how he got the job, but he scooped and drove and rang the bell like no other. On the job, he proudly wore a vintage suit he’d found at Goodwill for five dollars. He felt as though this is a how an ice cream man should be—well dressed, kind, benevolent, and jolly. The kids used to come running down the block to line up for him and he’d play games with them in the baking summer months as the melted cream ran down their sticky faces. He remembered all their birthdays.
Once, he had come down his usual corner and no kids were running toward him.
“Stevie! John! Xander!” he had yelled his favorite’s names and rung his bell.
Xander and Stevie walked out from behind one of the houses and invited him back. It turned out that Stevie’s family from China–her entire family–were visiting and there was a huge party in their backyard.
He’d gone back, eaten way too many crab legs, and just listened to the fast paced Chinese being spoken around him. Of course he couldn’t understand a word, but somehow the jokes were still funny and the stories still sad, and he’d sat there just absorbing the energy and the sounds.
Then he started getting too popular, and kids from the surrounding neighborhoods would come to his route. They told him stories of the other ice cream men, who were cruel and sharp tongued and had once, Billy told him with real tears in his eyes, ran over his cat and laughed. He didn’t believe this, because he believed in ice cream man honor, and he knew that young children sometimes made up stories and forgot that they weren’t real.
However, his views on his fellow ice cream men began changing one morning when he came to the ice cream truck warehouse to unplug his car and get started. Someone had unplugged his electric cord, the one that kept the ice cream cold and hard.
“What the fuck!” he’d yelled.
“Hah, looks like da guys are playing tricks on ya. Did y’do anything to piss ‘em off?” the manager inquired.
He’d brushed it off as a one-time episode but that entire day he couldn’t help noticing the vicious glares from the other ice cream men as they passed each other on the intersections. Images of Billy’s dead cat flashed in his mind.
The next morning as he was pulling out of the warehouse he felt a firm tug on his truck. Upon inspection, he’d found that the electric chord was tied around his tailgate.
“That coulda killed ya!” the manager had exclaimed from the dark shadows. “If that snapped you woulda been fried! The entire trucks metal. Death trap.”
He’d lived his life upon the virtue of ice cream man honor. He’d had faith in the ice cream man honor. But an ice cream man had nearly killed him.
He was almost murdered by an ice cream man.
So he left and never came back.
The voices in the street were loud, as if the dark houses and smooth pavement served as some sort of echo chamber. Laughter. It was brief but jarring as a car door slammed and they walked down to the beach access. There were other noises, whispered voices and forgetting-to-whisper voices…nothing clear or with any kind of message. I closed my eyes and pressed my head against the pillow.
One in the morning, I lay in bed after hearing a car park in front of my house. I heard the laughter and the voices and the slam and the footsteps. Then darkness collapsed on itself once again and streetlights lit up swaying palm trees for no one. It was silent.
I recognized the voices easily. Not that I knew the specific owners of the voices, but it was more that I knew the answers to the questions that the voices posed.
I knew because there have been moments when my voice was released and the sound waves bounced and danced against still houses. The car doors had slammed and we walked down the empty street laughing at nothing. The wind blew softly and I remember noticing the plumeria tree was filled with more flowers than usual. The sky was clear.
It’s a heady feeling knowing the rest of the world is asleep. On the way to my apartment, we used to stroll through the intersection to watch the light turn red, green, yellow, then red again. Once the hush fell and the monkeys in the zoo sent their last cries throughout the park, the ocean was loud enough to hear.
And then there’s the final stumble and giggle when the final destination is reached. Home, with sandy feet or smoke and sweat drenched body, I used to listen to the memory-dense space in the whisper hours, limbs spread out on a sheet-covered air mattress.
The distorted street voices I understand clearly. Each outburst of night laughter I know the source. Those people, the only ones awake in the entire world, I recognize. I can pretend to be asleep and not make a noise or turn a light on, if only they promise to do the same for me.
1.
The number four bus, the bus I take, smells like the armpit of a seventy year old fry cook. It’s by far the sketchiest bus that I’ve ever taken, filled with twitching people, homeless people, old people, costumed people, and me. Sometimes I wonder where I fall into place in the great universal measure of sketch.
2.
“Hate is a lack of imagination.” –Graham Greene
On the bus I once sat next to a mentally disabled boy. Throughout the ride, he would alternate between relaxing his entire body on me and leaning his head on my shoulder. I felt a bit violated. Anger and resentment filled my stomach hot as I subtly tried to nudge him away.
I don’t like being touched on the bus by strangers even more than I don’t like being talked to on the bus by strangers. So, sitting there on my two by two foot brown square seat, I hunched and fumed.
“Hey, hey. No snuggling with strangers,” his mom chided. The mentally disabled boy shifted his weight for a second and then dropped back down.
But this time it was different. His mom’s word choice—“snuggling”—pricked my imagination. I noticed his bare, gangly arms huddled against my shoulder and I imaged how cold he must be on the air-conditioned bus. I imagined his day and what he ate for breakfast (a banana and raisin bran).
When his mom pulled the “stop requested” cord, he lifted his head from my left shoulder and took her hand. They weaved through the standing crowd. I watched them until the bus turned the corner and they were out of sight.
3.
I scribbled: “Deep down I want to be persuaded just so the actions can be explained, and I can sit here nodding before walking away. Not so deep down, I’m scared of my unanswered questions.”
It’s funny how this poem is a lie, I thought to myself as I looked out the greasy bus window, how it’s easier to regurgitate generic sentiments than tell unflinching factual truth. The dawn was breaking, and the doors slammed loud as the bus stopped and accelerated.
It’s true though, the part about lying. None of the passengers look any different from each other. There are Hawaiian shirts on the businessmen. There are averted eyes, hunched backs, pages turning, thumbs glancing off iPod spin wheels. Fat plastic watches on skinny prepubescent wrists.
It’s not that they wear the same exact clothes necessarily—there are no generic personalities—that would be ridiculous. But it’s the shifting eyes that give it away. The Roxy t-shirt girl checking out the Oneil shirt girl checking out some one else. There’s a sense of fear. I know because I’ve felt it. Everyone wants to fit in sometimes. We want to look the same, move the same, think the same. It’s so innate and strong that it’s downright primal. We are as birds flying in triangles, climbing onto buses and off buses and into the sky.
4.
My favorite part about going over the Pali every morning is that moment just before the tunnel. The bus moves with such momentum that I feel like I might hurtle off the cliff any second. I’ve thought about contingency plan after contingency plan, usually when it rains so hard all I can see is fuzzy grey rain-static. Would I want to be under the seat when it crashes? Or should I float to the ceiling with the fall? Do call my mom in the seconds before death?
5.
A fat girl was on the bus in front of me. She smelled like Longs perfume and her hair was thick, curly, and wet. It resembled a mass of black seaweed clinging to a boulder. Her body took up two seats, her thighs over flowing into the aisle. Two stops after I got on, she pulled the stop requested cord and got off. As the bus powered away in great lumbering turns, I saw her light a cigarette and lower her weight onto the bench.
6.
Crack head Santa sat behind me on the bus today. I was in the first row, window seat; he was second row aisle. With his brown tipped full beard poking through the hole between our seats, he leveled his head with mine and turned to look at me. His jacket, maybe six inches away from my nostrils, smelled like Santa had indulged in some ganja and had maybe spilled a forty on himself.
I wondered if there was a rehab center on the North Pole. I imagined their high squeaky voices saying, “Hello, Santa.” I bet he started drinking after Tim Allen played him in Chris Kringle. That was horrible. He’d probably get drunk every Christmas eve and then do some speed (just to be safe). But he really started hitting the hard stuff once Cinnamon the elf showed him how much cocaine looks like snow. A couple of lines of “snow” and he’d be merry for the rest of the night.
But that couldn’t continue for long. One day, as she was mending his best suit, Mrs. Claus found his stash sewed into the fluffy ball in his hat. She kicked him out that night. Every Christmas eve since she’s been putting on a fake beard and making the rounds.
Things weren’t so good for a homeless, drugged out Santa on the North Pole, so he moved south—to Hawaii. No one recognized his traditional outfit and it was warm, the most logical location on the globe. When Santa couldn’t afford his “snow”, and when crack prices got cheap, he got himself a real pipe and cut off his red velour pant legs. He’s made his home camping out on the stoop of “Paintballtopia” in Maikiki.
I pulled the stop requested cord and took one more look at jolly Santa: eyes rosy and cheeks shiny, he winked in my direction and promptly passed out against the window
A random joke that Kurt Vonnegut tells: There once was an old man who lived on the edge of the border between two countries. Everyday he would cross the border with his wheelbarrow filled with odds and ends, and everyday the guard KNEW that the old man was smuggling something, but could never find out what it was. On the guards last day on the job, he was having a drink with the old man, and he finally just asked, “What have you been smuggling all these years, friend?” And the old man finally replied,”WHEELBARROWS.”
This is the only joke I know in the complete and unabridged history of jokes.
And I half feel like there’s some huge wheelbarrow staring me in the face, and for some reason, I’m refusing to see it.
***
On Thursday I went to a place where they shove burnt dead people into canisters and store them in a wooden building. It’s Buddhist temple, too. There are gardens surrounding the area, with fragrant flowers and a stream with koi in it. The whole place reeks of incense.
On my way in, I crossed over an ethnic looking red bridge, and I walked up to a huge bell. I banged the bell with a mallet, and I felt exhilarated to be making a loud noise, though somewhat embarrassed amongst Japanese and Mid-Western tourists and their families. I was by myself.
Just outside of the temple, I took my black rubber slippers off and stepped onto the cool concrete floor. There were some randoms lurking in the dark corners, and a little boy lighting a candle in front of Buddha. They all looked uncomfortable as the huge statue of Buddha stared serenely at them. From where I stood, the fat woman with the fanny pack and the comfortable shoes felt a strange connection to the equally fat, though unequally happy man sitting cross legged in front of her.
Positioning myself opposite of my fat friends, I mimicked Buddha’s seat and slowly lowered my eye lids.
Then there was black and empty and a slight musky smell.
When I came back up from the depths of my consciousness, a teenage girl was staring at me.
I walked out to the koi pond and watched as a couple from Florida fed the fish. The fish were thrashing around like ravenous sharks.
“Would you like some fish food to feed to the fish?” the woman asked me.
“Sure.” I said, and I sprinkled the food she gave me into a particularly large koi’s gasping mouth.
“Does that make you happy? Do you like that?” she asked me.
“Mmm. Did you know that the birds like the food too?”
“Really? Here you go. Feed them.”
I held my hand out and a finch landed on my index finger, its feathery weight heavier than I expected from one who dances on the wind. The finch’s beak gently pecked at the round, brown pellets, and I froze myself so I wouldn’t scare it.
Then it flew away and I walked on by myself.
***
I was waiting for the bus stop downtown, reading David Sedaris’s new book “When Engulfed in Flames,” when a woman approached me.
I half expected someone to approach me at this particular place, because someone always does. Whether it’s a homeless man with male pattern balding positioned four feet long dreds, or a robust tourist who is lost, I am addressed with phrases like, “Excuse me,” or “We need to stop this cancerous Vietnam War….mmphhmmmph…that gun shot me in the face…get your hands out of my…get yourself some anti-war packets and hand them out…”
This time, an old woman came up to me.
“Excuse me…do you know where King Street is?” she asked.
I looked up from my book at that moment, and my two eyes were met by one blue eye surrounded by white, powdery wrinkles, and one gaping, empty eyelid. It was like a gasping koi’s mouth in the place where an eye should be. I couldn’t stop staring at it. Blink. Pinkish blackness. Blink. There were no eye lashes.
“It’s right down this way, just keep walking on this sidewalk.”
“Thank you. I can’t see very well, because I have only one eye,” she explains. As if I hadn’t been staring at it the whole time. I felt guilty for flaunting my two good blues at her pink and blue.
“No…it’s ok. Have a good day.”
But that’s not what I was going to say. I was going to say, “No, you don’t,” in the same sympathetic tone you tell your chubby friend, “No, that miniskirt doesn’t make your thighs look fat.”
Why is it that I’m so much more honest and open in my mind than I am in real life?
[Yes, another article for the newspaper. But GO LISTEN TO HIS SHOW! Ktuh.org on Wednesday from 12-3 pm.]
Ross Jackson, an undergraduate majoring in Religion who’s “been ready to graduate for about eight centuries,” has been at the KTUH radio station for four years. And what exactly does Ross do as a DJ? “They give me a button so I can talk to Honolulu. It’s like a button, and I’m like, press…Honolulu… ‘Hey buddies!’”
Hanging out in the dorm rooms in his earlier years as a fresh-faced college student, Ross was a self-proclaimed “record store snob”. A KTUH DJ heard Ross playing his cLOUDDEAD and Nico’s Chelsea Girl in his room, and decided that Ross would be great as a KTUH DJ. After forcing him to fill out an application and actually getting on the air all those years ago, Ross’ icy reluctance to be a part of KTUH thawed. He realized that the radio station gave him the opportunity to spread great music to the population of Hawaii, and to be the best local radio show in his idiom.
One of the aspects of KTUH that Ross loves the most is KTUH’s lenient guidelines. These allow Ross, and any KTUH DJ, to play whatever music they want, regardless of how “popular” it is. “Maintaining a semblance of independent music important. Playing top forty would be against the station’s unspoken rules. You wouldn’t want to be playing anything that someone could hear on 101.9. That would be tragic.”
When asked what genre of music he plays on his show, Ross quickly spouted out this anecdote: “Some one asked Dan Bejar from Destroyer [an indie rock band] what kind of music he plays, and he said that he plays European blues, which of course he doesn’t. He only said that for the people who read entirely too many books. So I play modern classics,” he tells me with a slight wink.
When pressed, he admitted that he plays indie music. Not wanting to get into the whole sub cultures of “indie,” he briefly describes the mainstream music industry and how they control the music the mass populations listen to. He says he plays “modern classics”, but he laments that hardly no one hears these classic bands. He cites the latest Band of Horses album, saying that it should have more exposure than it had.
Despite the lack of exposure great bands don’t get, the mainstream media has been steadily splintering into a less monopolistic industry, which is good for independent listeners. Ross, of course, isn’t part of conforming masses being force fed the mainstream pop music. So where does he get his music? KTUH receives albums from the labels for the DJ’s to peruse, and Ross sits down and listens to them about once a week, but tries to avoid the inevitable radio ear, which tends to box him in. He also hits the Interweb for inspiration. “Pitchfork [an online mp3 blog] was really good for a while. It helped out Broken Social Scene a lot. But Pitchfork really fell of badly, as even most of [the major online music blogs] did. So really, truthfully? Torrent sites are most effective for from the gut reviews.” He mentions indietorrents.com. “Maxim will give you a better music review than Pitchfork.” At this he cringes in distaste, and disgust fills his eyes.
Though he adventures around indietorrent and other such sites, Born Ruffians, Helio Sequence, Pete and the Pirates, Stereolab, Sonic Youth, Sea and Cake, Nick Drake, and Nico are some of his solid staples. As a DJ, Ross says, you have to explore music in three directions: past, present, and future. You have to know what’s classic, what’s great now, and what’s going to be good in the future. The driving base line type of “sexy rock and roll” will always be received well in a club type scene. As for twee rock, “I was going to start sock hops all over town and play Belle and Sebastian. It would be adorable.” He also mentions Andrew Bird, “the Edith Piaf of our time”, and some other singer songwriters musicians.
Andrew Bird’s live talent prompted the comparison to Edith Piaf. “He can’t sing the same song twice even if he wanted to,” and this is part of what makes him an interesting musician and something that enhances his live performance. The Shins, despite their ability to make write and produce great records, didn’t have this unique quality in their live performance when they came here in the fall of 2008. “Every song sounded the same as it did on the album,” he explains. That leaves something to be desired as a fan. You can listen to Andrew Bird live at Coachella, and his songs will sound different than when he played at Sasquatch, or the Pitchfork music festival.
And the constant line up of festivals in the United States make it an even more prosperous time than the sixties for music. “It’s an awesome time to be alive,” he smiles, and then corrects himself, “from a musical standpoint, not a political standpoint.”
With great power comes great responsibility, and KTUH gives that to its DJs. This can produce horrible shows or amazing shows, because despite the seeming ease of picking and playing good music, the formatting and the programming are challenging. The training director at KTUH helps them out, and most times they’re able to help them out. “Do a good show, or go away,” Ross chuckles. But he assures me that he’s “a huge fan of KTUH. It’s so much better than most of the college radio stations. People in Hawaii don’t even realize.”
[I wrote this article for the newspaper, but it's interesting so I'm reposting it here]
In early April at the Ihilani Resort, the Blue Planet foundation had a 3-day Global Energy Summit, where world leaders, energy experts, environmentalists and artists discussed the environmental problems we’re facing today. They explored the answers to the essential questions of our energy crisis: where do we need to go? How quickly? How should we get there? They plan to make this an annual collection of events that, according to their website, will “celebrate achievements, and inspire people around the globe with the power of human imagination to solve our energy challenge.”
The imminent environmental problems challenge our earth require a unique and unparalleled global response, making it necessary to put aside our partisan biases and come together to address these problems. Blue Planet foundation’s summit is a forum that will aid this need. The hope is that Blue Planet will be able to provide a platform for cooperation across interest groups, industries and national boundaries, and help create a new vision of the way we create and package energy. Their goal is to inspire a “global commitment to change” and the realization that the responsibility for the implementation of change falls equally on all of our shoulders. “Most of all, this will require a new level of communication, understanding, tolerance and trust, and a belief in new possibilities.”
The afternoon after the Blue Planet foundation had their last speaker, Bobby Kennedy Jr was lounging on the deck of a friend’s sail boat, relaxing in the Hawaiian rays and gazing out at the ocean. As one of the speakers himself, and as a man who has a passion for saving the environment, Kennedy had a lot to say on the concept of the summit: that Hawaii has the potential to become a sustainable model. “Hawaii has extraordinary natural resources,” he said. “Solar, wind, tidal, otech, biomass, everything. There’s no reason why they need to ship oil to the islands. Hawaii is the only state that’s still using oil as a major energy source. There are a lot better choices.” He turned his eyes to the horizon, his brows furrowed and eyes passionate.
Kennedy gave the example Iceland as a country that has benefited from almost complete switch to sustainable energy. With an unemployment rate of 1% and an extremely healthy economy, Iceland has gone from being one of the poorest countries in the world to one of the richest. They’ve also switched from being 100% oil dependent to 89% geothermal dependent. Consciously making the choice to be sustainable, Kennedy says that they have demonstrated how switching to environmentally sustainable energy resources has spurred economic growth. Hawaii could follow in their footsteps. He believes that sustainable energy usage gives space for entrepreneurs to make money and provide jobs that benefit the environment, but also benefit the economy.
But isn’t sustainable energy more expensive than oil? “It’s not,” Kennedy insists, shaking his head. “Sustainable energy is actually cheaper.” The difference is made up in subsidies: the seemingly cheap price that we pay for oil is all because of the tax dollars that went to the oil companies through subsidies. So, when the hidden taxes are revealed, oil is more expensive.
It also doesn’t help that ex-oil company executives have suddenly been reborn as politicians. And when lobbyists are wooing their way around checks and balances, it makes it hard for any honest and good change to happen in environmental policy.
What should we do?
“Take the oil companies by storm! Run for the hills!” he smiles playfully. “No, we need to take our government back.”
Warning: This is by far the trashiest post that has ever graced the photons of Love and Logic.
1. Ira Glass
2. Slightly vapid, but with some quality substance, teen TV shows (i.e. the O.C., Gilmore Girls)
4. Radiohead
5. Sustainability
These things have made me very happy recently.
First off, if you don’t know that I want to marry Ira Glass and have his babies, then you have either been living under a hole, or your universe isn’t centered around me (how dare you!). He is perfection in a voice. I won’t wax on about his simpering vocals echoing from my radio every Saturday morning like clockwork. But they do simper. Very well.
They were simpering along last weekend, doing a very good job of it, too. The show started off great–Ira Glass talking about radio vs television, J.J. Abrams talking about the Golden Age of television, David Rakoff: a story about a man who lived without television, Sarah Vowell talking about Thanksgiving situational comedies with all situation and no comedy, Ira Glass talking about…WHAT??? THE O.C.?????????????? THE CHRISMUKKAH EPSIDODE? WITH A REFERENCE TO GILMORE GIRLS????????
Stop.
Have I died and gone to heaven?
No, really. I think I must be walking down obsession lane.
Let me transcribe:
“One Saturday night I was watching the O.C. with my wife [who is not nearly as mentally witty and physically attractive as Lindsea]. I don’t know if you watched the O.C. before it got taken off, but it’s kind of a funny, interesting show. If you have no idea what I’m talking about, go to season one and watch the Chrismukkah episode. And, uh, it was a teen soap opra on Fox network, and the main couple was Seth and Summer, not Marissa and Ryan. They could have killed off Marissa back in season one as far as I was concerned. And uh, so there’s this scene on this particular Saturday night where Seth’s in his room, talking to his girlfriend Summer on the phone, and a girl is in his room, Taylor, who is basically the same character as Paris on Gilmore Girls, but that’s a different story. So there’s this girl in his room, and Summer hear’s her voice in her boyfriends room. And this moment happens: [plays the audio recording of the O.C. episode]
Summer: That sounded like a girl.
Seth: Did it? Yeah. Well. Sure. Because I’m listening to the radio and This American Life is on, so…there’s a girl talking.
[Back to Ira Glass] And then Summer makes this reply which I have to say totally…
Summer: Is that that show by hipster know it alls that talk about how fascinating ordinary people are? Ugh, God.”
It goes on, but you’ll just have to listen to it yourself. I think at one point Ira Glass admits to belting along to the theme song to the O.C.. “Callliffooorrrniaaaa….”
Anyways, that made my weekend.
So that’s number 1 and 2 covered. Now on to number 3.
I love Nine Inch Nails. I went to their show when they came to Hawaii, and I’ve gone through the obligatory “I’m in love with Trent Reznor!!” phase. It was not my shining moment, of course, but it happened. As most of you know, I’m also a fan of web 2.0 and the whole I’m-John Vanderslice-and-I-support-music-blogs-and-free-mp3-downloads. Yes, I do.
If you don’t already know: Nine Inch Nail has made their album downloadable. Full quality. I love love love them.
And then Radiohead, same basic concept. But add sustainability.
Inspired by Clay
A little cloud poetry:
today wish world peace
want sounds music party
wish today heard
art body love happy
listening: life teachers, thanks
think. thinking. thought.
going, doing, writing
ideas “hows” hope
@cburell, life loved, education learning
@dmcordell favorite tutu
@ohcloudydreamer love the conversation
@bassman_sean band rocks, new music
@kevinwalter (heart)
@soojinlee learner.
@taylorteacher you’re real horrorshow
@jennyluca pgc learning
@jphilipson first real person!
watching makes learning
people discussion makes thinking
nice night nice life
I love him and I want to marry him. The age difference doesn’t really matter. We have a connection. Obsessively I pine for him, each week listening to his voice on NPR. I paint his voice. I paint my love.
I know that one day I’ll be on his show, and he’ll catch my eye. I’ll smile at him, and he’ll wittily ask me some question about my fortune telling skills, or my ability to live off of nothing but organic milk and cereal.
It will be magic. Afterwards, he’ll ask me out for drinks (of course, I’ll be old enough to drink them), and we’ll have sarcastic, and yet deep heart to hearts. He’ll understand me, I’ll understand him.
Our marriage day will be quirky. My bouquet will be made up of big black radio microphones, and I’ll wear a dress made of T.A.L. season DVDs. We’ll walk down the aisle to All Songs Considered, and we will be married by Renee Montagne.
“Hi, this is Renee Montagne, reporting for Nation Public Radio’s Morning Edition. Today we have Ira Glass and Lindsea Kemp-Wilbur on our show.”
Ahh. A girl can dream, can’t she?
