Literary warpath

I am so very, deeply pissed about the Pulitzer committee's failure to select a fiction prizewinner this year. There are many better (er, worse) injustices to be enraged by in the world, I realize, but the sheer waste of it is sending me into a frenzy. Hell, even within the publishing industry there are greater controversies right now. But man, am I steamed.

The situation is this: each year a few large literary prizes are handed out. These prizes bring acclaim to literary novels that otherwise might not see much in the way of sales. How do you get people to set down Hunger Games or Game of Thrones (both of which I think are ace, for the record) and pick up a literary novel? You give it a prize, a crowning - all hail the king of literature, for this short time. Booksellers put piles of these books out in front of their stores, newspapers run the lists, TV personalities repeat the winning titles on air. It's a freaking bonanza for the brains!

FYNCT

Every time I check out http://fuckyournoguchicoffeetable.tumblr.com/ I can identify what sites the images are from. It's usually Apartment Therapy, but sometimes they're from the house of someone who works at my company. Tee hee.

Also, is it terrible that I want to pin everything on there, even when it is an object of derision? Don't answer.

You go, guys

My friends are doing such incredible things! The recent round of incredibleness was kicked off with Nicole's 30 Rock appearance, and today I've got a three-fer!

1. Shwin's Atlantic article on Stephen Elliott
2. Simone's interview in The Bold Italic about her documentary
3. Mike's Bank of America "apology" website went live, and got all sorts of coverage

Today is also Besha's birthday, an occasion to celebrate a chick who works every day for women's public health and then continues to do so as a volunteer in her free time, all while riding her scooter around town looking super damn cute all the time. She rocks.

My daguerrotype boyfriend

is awesome. For example: Modigliani.

Dude got mad ladies, and now I see why.

In the aeroplane

It has been a fabulous couple of days in the Life of Me, despite rain and wind and lots of work. 

Friday Mike and I finally hit up Una Pizza Napoletana, which was as good as everyone says it is. We showed up toward the end of the night, were seated almost right away, and wound up with two gorgeous tender (tender! did you know pizza can be tender?) pies in front of us. Mike gets a dreamy look on his face when he talks about them - ask him sometime. 

We stopped by a friend's metal show, where I was one of 3 ladies in attendance. One of the bands had a pole dancer performing during their set, and she was completely amazing. My feminism had some weird spasms. Based on the sweatshirt she put on after her show, she's part of the National Poledancing Team. And now you know that exists.

Saturday we went for a hike in Point Reyes, but first stopped at Cowgirl Creamery for fortifications.

Texts from Hillary

Love.

Bean

I feel like Boston and I are related. Like with family, I really look forward to seeing it, then it drives me a little nuts, then I get drunk and love it, then I feel a little sad when leaving but also excited to go home.

I had high hopes for beautiful spring weather on my trip, but when I landed on Sunday it was cold and grey. I walked across the Charles to the North End, bought myself some pignoli cookies and jordan almonds at Mike's Pastry (don't worry, I got cannoli for my coworkers), ate some oysters, and napped with a vengeance back at the hotel as it drizzled outside.

My coworkers and I had an intense couple of days meeting with engineers, but managed to get in a good dinner at Cuchi Cuchi. It's froufrou-ness makes it less than ideal for a work event, but I have good memories of blowing my alcohol budget on cocktails there in ye olden days, and the booze did not disappoint. Neither did the servers, all of whom dress like flappers and speak in unidentifiable pseudo-European accents. Anything is better than a Boston accent, I say. (Sorry!)

Tuesday I rounded up a motley crew for bluegrass night at the Cantab, an event I went to almost every Tuesday night in college. They started letting me in before I was 21 (shhh), so I repaid them by drinking my weight in Bass and eating it in curly fries for the rest of my college career. They don't have Bass on tap anymore, and the kitchen apparently closed for good 4 years ago, but otherwise it was the same. Same bartender, same waitress (oh, Christine), same weird mix of falling-apart old men of various races. Once the bluegrass gets going though, the yuppies turn out in hordes. Just doing my part!

Goooood morning

It's 5 a.m. on a Sunday and I'm at the airport for a flight to Boston. The only thing giving me half a reason to live right now is this.

Wheat berries with roasted cabbage and fennel, avocado and parsley. Not breakfast food, you say? It is still nighttime, I argue. And I'd love to plop a fried egg on top, but that's not an option available to me right now. So this will have to do.

Famous bros update

Last night I dreamed about Bruce Springsteen. The dream started in my childhood bedroom, where I went through my bookshelves and found a Russian novelist I apparently loved (Dovyovev - way to make up a Russian name, brain!) and an old used version of the fourth Game of Thrones book (important dream discovery - the series was actually published in the 70s, but no one bought it and so George RR Martin republished it recently, to great acclaim!).

The doorbell rang, and it was Bruce Springsteen, to see my parents. This made sense, because we lived in New Jersey, and Bruce, as everyone knows, is from New Jersey. I let them talk for a bit in the family room while hovering excitedly in the kitchen, eating an apple. When he got up to go, I caught him at the door to introduce myself, but my mouth was full of fruit. I shook his hand, and he said he had to run, so I never got to ask him about Woody Guthrie's influence on his music. Damn that apple.

But still, we were bros.

Famous bros

Lately I have been having dreams in which I am bros with various famous persons. It started a few weeks ago, with a dream in which I was interviewing Brad Pitt for Google. I asked him about what kind of food he likes, how he combats jetlag, and a host of other titillating topics. He was very pleasant, and we had good rapport. We were bros.

Dream #2 was even stranger. I texted President Obama to ask him to have Michelle call Mike to wish him a happy birthday. I knew he'd come through, because we were bros.

Finally, last night I dreamt I was at some sort of hotel with a bar next to the pool. On my way back to my room from the pool, I figured I'd stop by the bar and see who was hanging out. It turned out to be my good buddy Taylor Swift, along with two other famous ladies who, in true dream fashion, I can no longer recall. They were settling in for a night of girl talk, and I sat down with them so we could dish. We were bros.

What the hell is wrong with me?

Coach

So here is why I think I may need a life coach. I was considering what I wanted to write about today, and I thought about all the delightful things I see on the internet over the course of a day. Facebook and Twitter are a cornucopia of clever videos, stories, and photos. And the captions! My god, the captions. Every time I see something smart on the intertubes, it gives me a pang of gladness to be a human. I avoid Pinterest altogether so I don't over-pang myself. The downside is that by the end of the day I have no internet serotonin left. I collect browser tabs with interesting stories all day, but when I get on the bus in the evening I'm straight up brain pooped.

Here's where my need for coaching comes in. When I ponder all this, I think, Has there ever been a time in the world where humans were so aware of how clever and strange we are? Does it matter that we know? What does it mean that we know?

And what does it mean for me, and for those around me?

So ok, minor existential crisis, no big thang. At least it's not compounded by honkytonky hormones like in middle school. But lately I've also been turning all conversations with friends into probing studies of their hopes and dreams. What would they ideally be doing with their time? What's their calling? If they don't have one, how did they decide what to do with their life? Are their plans achievable? How do they know? I think half the time they sit on their bar stools looking at me and thinking I'm going manic, and half the time they seem to enjoy obsessing over What They Are Going to Do With Their Lives like I do.

My Obsessing doesn't extend to actual Action, however, nor have I dipped my toe in the font of Planning. I've just stewed about how many pretty things there are in the world and how much I like them, and how many people there are in bad situations who I would like to help, and how I know I can work hard if I need to but I really don't want to work hard all the time, really. So, law and medicine, let it be known that you're off my list. I'm sure the feeling is mutual.

A number of my friends have gone to one particular career/life coach, and subsequently quit their jobs for new and exciting things. I don't want to quit my job, but I'm very much pro-new and exciting things. In favor of coaching: it would require me to dedicate time and effort to considering how I want to spend my not-nearly-enough time on this planet, and to begin to work out how I can go about achieving any life goals I might gather up. Opposed: it would require paying for something that many people figure out on their own, and seems noodley and self-indulgent. Discussing a career is a noble goal; discussing a life path seems new age-y.

And yet I'm probably going to suck it up and do it, because I'm not writing stories these days, I'm not doing comedy, and I'm not helping people. Don't worry, there's practically a team of people, led by Mike, pushing me to do those things. But for now I'm not, and maybe I just need a coach to tell me why.

[Insert your own clever sports and coaching metaphor here.]

Grind

I realize it is deeply uncouth to complain about being tired after a vacation. But really, my recent adventure was EXHAUSTING. Exciting and indulgent, but also physically and emotionally draining. I love travel more than almost anything else in the world, but it's a guaranteed way to create some serious emotional ups and downs.

Today is my first day back in the office, and for the first time in a long while I'm realizing exactly why it's called the daily grind. I feel like I got ground down today, a little bit around the legs and the neck. Maybe the shoulders too. My teeth definitely did, grit grit grit. My job is interesting, my coworkers a delight, but a day at a desk wears on you. The waking up before your body wants to, the hurry to get all the usual things done (pee-wash-brush-dress-eat-pack-dash), the commute, the sitting under fluorescent lights in recirculated air, the arrival home and subsequent panic that there are only 4 or 5 hours left in the day for Real Life. I work for the best employer in the world - I should have nothing to bitch about. But I am a champion tooth grinder and jaw clencher, and if I am doing something I think is important I will not get up from my desk to pee, even if I have had to go for like 3 hours. As follows, I don't drink nearly enough water. My blood is probably clotting in my leg veins as we speak.

I'm also stymied by the mid-afternoon snack. It's completely necessary - by 3 or 4 p.m. I'm super hungry - but in my many years of adulthood I still haven't tracked down the perfect afternoon nosh. Sweet treats are too sweet; fruit isn't filling enough (don't even get my started on what an absolute snack sham bananas are); chips and crackers are too salty; nut butters aren't good enough on their own; and yogurt gets gross if you eat it every day. Suggestions welcome.

So what to do, aside from quit my job to become a shepherd somewhere in Sonoma, then start an arty wool shop with the fleece of my flock? Well, I vow to drink more water, to start. That will force me to stand up more often, which seems like a plus. And I'd like to say I'll grind my teeth less, but that's just not going to happen. I have plans to stash some workout clothes in my desk so I can dash out for a quick run if I feel like I'm getting sucked into braindead land. And finally, I'm going to use my words - I'm going to blog here more, or write stories, or email amigos to pull me out of deskdom at the end of the day. Every once in a while, anyway.

SXSW

As always, SXSW was a huge and exhausting and heartwarming and occasionally disappointing experience. In the five years I've been going, I've never managed to see all the shows I've wanted to see, I haven't spent enough time with all the friends I wanted to have a beer with, and I've spent too much time rushing around and not enough time just enjoying the scene. And yet, as always, I'm incredibly glad I went.

While I go through my photos and process the last week in my overwhelmed and underslept brain, here are some good insights on the SXSW experience:

• a friend of a friend's blog is well written and gives the musician's perspective
• a friend's interview in the Atlantic about the Austin music scene 
• this is a pretty solid list of artists to check out; we saw Grimes and Dustin Wong

Bloom

This project is amazing.

I am made of mush right now. Sleep deprived, dehydrated, alcohol-sodden mush. A week and a half ago I flew to London. I walked, I ate, I worked, I sightsaw. Wednesday I flew to Dublin. I crossed the country, visited the family homestead, drove back, went to a wedding, strolled Dublin, and flew to New York yesterday. I had a birthday dinner with my dad, caught up with friends, and was escorted by those friends to a very hot bath and some chamomile tea. Thank god for that.

Tomorrow I fly to Austin for SXSW. I really can't wait, but I'd better be very very nice to my body so it doesn't break down on me even more.

Here's a few select phone shots from London - will post more on Dublin later.

View from the Thames

 Morning run along the river

 My travel uniform. I'm a packing ace by now.

 Atop the London Eye.

I realized while walking by Big Ben that most of my mental images of it are from disaster movies where it gets blown up.

 Food pilgrimage to Ottolenghi.

 I could eat nothing but Ottolenghi for the rest of my life and be a happy happy lady.