Avocado Kingdom

After escaping the summer-camp of Mills campus living I moved into the Avocado Kingdom in West Oakland.

Construction paper decorations lined the halls of the student apartments on campus. As security guards let me into the building (due to the non-working keys I had been given) I was faced with an army of Winnie the Poohs. The flatmates in my "apartment" had added extra rules to the already middle-school-esque list, such as "No Drinking." Apparently taking out the trash wasn't a rule however, as the place stank like a restaurant dumpster in the sun.

I used someone's cutting board on my first day. The next time I opened the cabinet the entire thing was papered, angry sharpie exclaiming: "DON"T USE MY STUFF W/OUT ASKING!" Every time I entered the space whatever roommate was out and about would scurry away, slamming the door behind them.

Outside of my house.

The Avocado Kingdom is built in Victorian style, is over a century old, has a great view of the Port of Oakland and rent there was less than half price of living on campus. I lived with Vas, a Stanford PHD candidate and teacher focusing his rhetoric on animal rights, his wife Debs who had studied physics and art and works a 9-5 on environmental regulation, moonlighting as a torch-singer, Karem, an anthropology PHD candidate at Stanford, and Tina, a mysterious and shy woman who seemed to work at a school in Oakland. To juxtapose the last group of souls with whom I inhabited shared space, my new roommates would feed me vegan ice cream sandwiches and roll on the floor laughing at my jokes. We rotated who's avocados would be stolen based on which ones were ripe (hence the name of our kingdom) and If they took one of my beers they would buy me a six pack. 

In my neighborhood there’s a liquor store on every corner where there isn’t a Baptist church or a beauty supply store. At one juncture the former two stand next to each other, “True Light Church” is white with black lettering and has the same dimensions as “Sav-Mor Liquor” which is black with red lettering. There are projects, newly developed modern apartments, industrial leftovers and current industry, but mostly there are old Victorians in various states of repair - formerly suburbs for San Franciscans at the turn of the century.

My room through avocado leaves

Whenever I would mention that I commuted from West Oakland people would express their concern over my safety walking home through such a "ghetto" area. At one point I was walking home late at night and a van began to follow me slowly. A middle-aged man rolled down his window and with genuine concern said: “Are you alright walking this late at night?” Once I got to my block a shiny sedan tailed me for an uncomfortable distance. The driver of this vehicle seemed to have more malicious intentions than the first concerned citizen. He said “Why are you out so late at night?” I commented that he seemed to be insinuating that it was dangerous for me to be out and noted that he was responsible for said danger. I commented that if he stopped being a threat there wouldn’t be a threat and continued on my way. I started carrying around a mirror shard so that if something like that happened again I could hold it up and say: “You’re dreaming” but it never did.

Realistically I reckon the Lower Bottom (the title of our neighborhood) is one of the safest neighborhoods in Oakland. Our block is filled with people who watch out for each other, bringing one another food and chatting on porches. Everyone’s favorite neighbor is probably a man who goes by “Pee Wee” and takes it upon himself to weed everyone’s yard and tend the grass at the little park on our block. He does this all for free but whenever we would catch him tending our yard we’d make sure to give him a beer.

Corner of my room

One of the best things about my block is that it dead-ends into a vacant lot that’s filled with big metal pipes. I spent a lot of time recording the resonant properties within the pipes, and stopping by late at night to sing my little heart out. One day I was shooting video in the tunnels and was surprised to see some hipsters on a stoop nearby. Later I found a note on my car saying that I was: “Super cute” and asking to hang out. After I had finished two of my theses I finally had the time to kick it on the porch with fellow skinny-jean wearing, vegan hipsters holding requisite Pabst-forties. It’s too bad I had to leave to NM at the end of the semester, because my new hipster neighbor was himself “super cute.”

The best porch drinking experience I had was shared with my roommates. I came home to tell Vas that I would be heading home at the beginning of the summer and he poured me a third of a bottle of his fancy tequila. When Debs got back from work we broke out my shitty tequila and invited every neighbor who walked by to join us. Eventually I took everyone on a field trip to the pipes, but only Debs made it, as the others became engaged in conversation with Pee Wee. She promptly began torch singing and eventually we discovered that the others couldn’t find us and had encountered some mishaps, so perhaps the tunnels can only be seen by wizards. This point is further illustrated by the fact that one day I saw about 2 dozen people with bikes emerging from the pipes, causing me to infer that it’s a hipster-wizard portal.

My roommates half jokingly offered me free rent at the end of my time in Oakland, and we came up with a money making scheme so that I could continue to live there: A vegan ice cream cart called “Polar Bear Sex” (because it’s cool and ironic – ha ha ha). Our music would cater to our demographic and consist of vintage video game jingles done ice cream truck chime style.

At the end of my stay in the Avocado Kingdom my brother and I infused the neighborhood with our obese beats, taking pictures powered with AA batteries, and getting ice cream for dinner at liquor stores. If only Polar Bear Sex did exist – I wouldn’t have to break my veganism for the sake of irony. 

My office is the dance-floor

I have like 6 posts all backed up from February and early March, but I haven't posted because I wanted to have pictures, but my camera charger is lost. I ordered a new one and it was sent back because they couldn't deliver it. I haven't ordered a new one. Anyway, there went two months or so. I was just writing in my diary and was suddenly like: "I miss my blog!"

As my blog has slipped into low-tide like so many others, I've been waking up at 5 or 6 and working till midnight. I'm obsessively dissolving into a reality of my own creation, and am completely enthusiastic about it - I just don't know where to start describing all the ideas and projects I'm working on!

The reason I though I should write a quick blog post is because I was on the phone with my dad as I rode the bus, telling him about how I am most efficiently productive when I'm on the bus. I've read my entire Music Cognition textbook, and most of my the journals for my psychology thesis on the bus. The other day, as my little body shook loosely within this big singing machine, I got more done on the obese beats I'm making in an hour than I do in about 5 in a quiet room with an almond milk latte. I came up with a music video idea for my Video II group project entirely on the 40-minute ride to school (because I forgot to do so before then) and was personally satisfied with the result. My enthusiasm leaked to the rest of the class and I was selected to be the director of our group project.

When you have to intentionally block out a jangling discord it's a lot easier to really focus. When you have a silent workspace it can be painful to get into, and remain on one task. It makes sense that I prefer to work amidst some kind of chaos - I've always found it easier to sleep if there is a party raging in the background and when I was a baby my mom couldn't get me to sleep without shaking me around to Tom Waits.

My office is the dance-floor, I really can't focus without overpowering beats and strobe lights.

Now I'm Just Posting My Diary

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Too much fun too late at night.

Monday 14/11/11

* Spent the day in the music lab working on the coolest and most creative DJ set, with the best transitions in the world.

* It's that poignant end-of-the-semester time, especially since I won’t see my excellent professors, tutors, and internship supervisors again. Chris Walker said it was nice to meet me and I thanked him for his help over the semester. We chatted about music-neuroscience, and I left feeling sad that I won't be living in the music lab for very much longer.

Hair show elevator

* Ran into my black metal friend Christian at the train station. We shared a joyful hug and made plans to break into the pool late at night sometime soon.

Jack is a prince.

* I spent the rest of the day at the salon with Gen, who brought my hair back to its natural silvery-white color. Once again there was the poignant almost-the-end feeling. Gen said she would have to find a new muse once I left. I was touched.

* In the evening I did a small catwalk and reaped the free snacks and liquor.

* Jack and I decided we needed more snacks and liquor and went to Woolworth's. We had a walking picnic with white wine and an apple.

  

Tuesday 15/11/11

* Spent the day in the music lab working on the coolest and most creative DJ set, with the best transitions in the world.

Wednesday 16/11/11

* Spent the day in the music lab working on the coolest and most creative DJ set, with the best transitions in the world.

* Jack came over and we did fun stuff until too late.

Thursday 17/11/11

* Woke up with dark beasts for eyes.

* Had some coffee.

* Spent the day fine tuning the coolest and most creative DJ set with the best transitions in the world.

* Turned in DJ set.

* Spent night studying for neuroscience final, when I got bored with that I made a cake.

This is Why I'm Rich

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Remember how I was going on about scraping it kind of thin on bus fare? There are several techniques I’ve worked out for getting reduced transit prices. It’s easy on the train, because you just tell the machine you are a student and you are going to Chatswood, even though you’re going to Newtown. Chatswood costs a dollar sixty to get to with the student discount, and Newtown costs $2.30, but there are no ticket gates at Newtown, so you only need the ticket to get through on the Macquarie side. Technically study abroad students aren’t allowed student discounts so if you’re not sneaky and dishonest like me you’ll be a chump and you’ll be paying $4.60 just to get to Newtown.

It’s trickier to get a student discount on the bus because it’s easy to spot a North American accent, and you have to show a real-life bus driver a student-concession card. My first technique to evade this was to fake an Australian accent. “G’day” I would say, and I would automatically get a discount – probably because I looked like a poor American trying to get concession by faking an Australian accent. I then upgraded to a three step system: 1) State Destination 2) Hand over exact discounted fare 3) Search in wallet for “concession card” and vaguely wave some other card as I walk away to find a seat.

The best way to get discounted bus fare is a recent discovery. 1) Wear a paper crown. 2) Carry a cupcake. 3) The bus driver thinks it’s your birthday and lets you on for free. With the money you save you can afford to make more cupcakes. 

Empty Train

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That’s ghostly, an “empty train” is supposed to arrive next. “Attention passengers on platform 16: the next train does not carry any passengers, it is an empty train.” You’ve got to respect emptiness.

Junior Fauxdult

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Living the life of a fauxdult (faux adult) it makes sense that suddenly my only cup is a martini glass. It may have replaced human clavicles as the perfect thing to drink cocktails from; it has also claimed a role as the best vessel for watering plants. There’s something so satisfying about dumping water evenly into a potted plant from a martini glass.

It’s triumphant to have the power to make yourself a delicious meal when you have a cold. Halloween is so important to me that when I realized I had been struck with the cold spiraling in my vicinity, I stayed up nearly 24 hours two days in a row instead of resting. I awoke from the tail end of these adventures saturated with dreams of family and home, with a craving for green chile soup and cornbread.

In one dream I was grocery shopping and there were these raspberries that were as big as apples. Their colors were nearly seeping out of their skins for how ripe and juicy they appeared. I wanted to try one so badly but didn’t have enough money. A girl at the register was pulling out stacks of American hundred dollar bills and saying she didn’t have very much money left. I reflected on how much money remained to my name and figured it to be about $2.30 – just enough for train fare to the city. When I woke up I found out I was correct. Because I didn’t have bread I didn’t enjoy my usual breakfast of vegemite on toast. Instead I made delicious spicy lentil stew and felt proud of myself for being such an efficient fauxdult.

Kindred Art Kid

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It is convenient for two vegetarian ghosts to go out for dinner, except when the world of wait-staff cannot perceive their presence. One Saturn’s day I ordered a “Victoria Bitter” and discovered it was just my favorite cheap AU beer “VB.” At Kelley’s, a Newtown bar that consistently holds a place for me, I asked for the finest “Victoria Bitter” and was given blank stare in return. Finally the bartender said: “There are only four people in the world who know what VB stands for, and two of them are dead.”

Jack and I swapped jackets because ze was shivering, and I happened to be wearing my pea coat. At the next pub a guy with “New Zealand” shaved into the back of his head questioned: “Who are you ladies rooting for?” Being Australian by birth, Jack reckoned Melbourne would win. Naturally, I said I was going for NZ. I don’t know who eventually won, but it was a victory for me, having always hoped to find someone to be androgynously confusing with.

I wouldn’t mind being mistaken for a couple of hipster creatures eating spaghetti out of jars with chopsticks either. Uni life has left my kitchen forkless, and with few plates, but we always have jars. Even though I have posted an insistent set of kitchen rules, the only one anyone seems to be following is the addendum created by Jack and our good friend Clarance Clancy Jr. (CCJ): “Don’t forget to smile like a powerful whale.” I escape the gritty kitchen often these days, for friend adventures and modeling gigs, but mostly to go home to the music lab, which is where I truly live. I made a DJ set looping live soda-can opening and mbira, with video to match each track and transition. I also dropped many samples of the New Mexican folk storyteller Joe Hayes. Naturally I began with quotes from the drunk coyote hiding under the table: “Ah que carai, ahora se voy a cantar, now I’m really going to sing!” I myself am quite a Table Coyote. But who wants to sit under one’s own table when one can depend on a campus of climable sculptures to drink on? Plus, all the fatherly security guards see us and offer us packed lunches with sandwiches and juice boxes.

It is convenient for two uncanny kids to drink cocktails out of one another’s clavicles. Uni life has left the kitchen cupless, and when all the jars are in use the most elegant cups are those created by skeletal structure. Of course pre-drinks and facepaint on the Hump Day before Halloween led to the missing of yet another costume contest at The Ranch, but when one has a kindred art-kid to make faces with, that type of thing just doesn’t matter.

Human memory is a fundamentally creative act, each time we visit a memory we are making that memory again. Each blog post and picture from this era in my existence as Emily is being solidified into a golden-fun-feeling. Each message in my inbox is a small poem about how much fun life is. The fields of communication are littered with happy-faces. 

 

Psychedelic Roadkill

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For Halloween I bought garden wire for $2. I made a stag mask for myself, and helped Jack make a coyote mask. To the top-forty bros on George street and at The Ranch’s “undead” party, I introduced myself as “Toohey’s Undead” (Toohey’s is a "cheap" AU beer that features a stag on the label). To the more indie crowd Jack and I became: “Psychedelic Road kill.”

A Stag prepares for dinner

Inter-Species Love

After spending some time seeing Metropolis accompanied by a live score from the Sydney Symphony Orchestra, I greeted Jack: “Destroy the machines!” We painted our faces in a building’s reflective surface, and ambled across the city. I had done some research and found a party in King’s Cross. If it weren’t for our address knowledge, we wouldn’t have found “Tatler’s,” there we were greeted by harsh bouncers, who shoved us inside and ID’d us. Apparently we made the cut, and found ourselves in s tiny club, that was basically a converted apartment. Later we found out that “Tatler’s” has the strictest door policy in Sydney, and has housed VIP parties for the like of Biggie Smallz. There was Astroturf on the walls, brilliant beats emanating at perfect volume from large speakers, and black lights that made our (UV painted) masks glow.

I aimed to get some serious dancing done, but we ended up making friends on the Smoker’s porch till the wee hours. A woman in her last year of law school, and her fiancé, a professional horse-race better, both in thick-rimmed wayfarers took a liking to us and bought us Gin and Tonics. Their friend, a former member of the hit band Sneaky Sound System was telling me about how he had gone to the states to research this one kind of hummingbird and to go to Burning Man. The more I spoke with him the more apparent it became that he loved birds. I then noticed that he had a tattoo that said: “I love birds.” He told me about some of the birds that he loves.  The Bowerbird loves blue, and makes really tall nests out of anything blue. They’ll steal anything that’s blue to make their nests: “Shells, pigs, straws plastic, ANYTHING!” Blue Wrens don’t love blue like Bower Birds, but they always have multiple dates. “If you see a Blue Wren, it’ll be cruising around with 3 or 2 dates!” As for the Butcher Bird It’ll hypnotize its prey. “It’s killer.”

DJ Cosmonaut

What with our late start and new friends, Jack and I started our walk to the night bus stop around 3:00 am. In King’s Cross I saw real life prostitutes for the first time. On George Street a bro came up to me, looking like he was bowing. Then he began doing push ups. I accepted the challenge, handed Jack my bag, and did push ups back. Finally the bro staggered, not being able to do another push up, and I stood up the victor of our impromptu competition. This time his bow was a real bow. Jack and I played push hands as we waited for the bus, found out we were waiting for the wrong bus, and waited for the right one for an hour and a half. There kept being N10 busses, which weren’t our line and I said: “Why do they get all the busses? I’m going to kill their mayor.” So when Jack and I were skipping back across campus at 6:00 am, we shot fake guns and sang about killing “Princess Mayor.”

The couple that bought us drinks

Describing a bird

Heeding my cold or getting some sleep would have barred more fun times, so the next day I went to Aneshka’s party (Aneshka is Adhit’s sister, who is the really good kind of Fauxdult that is a good artist and a good cook with a nice apartment that comes with its own time-warping ability). Aneshka and all her friends were fun and giggletronic, Before preparing for another big night of Halloween in the city we enjoyed ∞ sangria and the night water of the pool Adhit grew up in. We were perfectly dressed for the Jungle Voodoo themed party that we were so excited to go to, but it ended up being the opposite of the cool description. Because we got a late start and had to walk a good distance to get home, and because we had to satisfy our animalistic cravings (nothing like falafel at an hour when no one should be awake) we didn’t get to sleep until 4:00 am.

"I Love Birds"

The next day I think I did more damage to my homework than good for how tired I was. I was reduced to plain roadkill. The incessant sunlight filtered through the layers of discomfort that made up my very being, telling me: “I am a beautiful day you motherfucker. I will illuminate your electric-static aura of confused sadness.” I was a stinky stray dog as I walked to the train, across a Sunday morning of friendly pretty people at charming corner cafes, having the best cups of coffee they’d ever had, with their best friends who would always love them. I couldn’t hold a single thought for long but most of them were along the lines of: “I must be a terrible person.” Then I had a nap.

The late afternoon sunlight changed its tune to: “Everything is great and everyone loves you,” as I collected the headphones and face paint I had left at Aneshka’s and savored cake, olive oil drenched bread with haloumi, and double-hugs from beautiful people who smell like hints of incense. I was ready for my next adventure. 

Catching Sweet Tangents

I contacted Orion with a few statements about minimalism and menswear. 

My first impression of Orion was that it was sunny and hot outside, that he was wearing blue, and had a nice open face. He waved and I waved and then we shared two bottles of chardonnay in Hyde Park. Orion selects wine by the label art. On one bottle was a bird and one the other a “dignified but corruptible” young woman. We sat in an ideal patch of gradience between sunlight and shade.

We rode tangents until they delivered us at a charming café, where we shared a meal complete with crembrule. Iconic cocktails populated the remainder of the day, at a hip joint called: “Tonic.” By the end of the night the night felt young, but I had to get a good night’s sleep before realizing the Australian dream of catching a sweet wave at surf-school the next morning.

Orion and I had one perfect date and never saw each other again.

Clarence Clancy Jr.’s Crazy Mom

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Rey Osterrith Complex Figure

During Wednesday’s Neuropsychology tutorial the guest teacher Jamie impersonated patients so that we could administer tests and come up with diagnoses.  It was one of the most fun classes of the semester. For each of the three imaginary patients we were given the same information: She is 65-years old and her family has been complaining that she has trouble remembering and performing day to day tasks. Her life history is that she has had nine years of education, that she worked at her family’s corner store until she got married at age 21, after which she worked at a RV Park with her husband until he passed away one year ago. Her son is her closest relative. The stipulations were that each class member got to ask the son one question, and we each got to ask the patient one question, along with administering standardized tests. We also got to name the patients/sons. The first characters were: “Bob” and “Mary” and Jamie said that those are almost always amongst the first names.

It was obvious upon interviewing Mary that she did not remember what had happened five minutes ago, and that semantic memory was impaired (for instance, she called cornflakes “golden crunch bits.”) Her results on word memory tests showed that she had an encoding problem, indicting hippocampal damage, and her copy of the Rey Osterrith Complex Figure showed constructional errors relating to a suspected disturbance in the parietal lobe. Although the brain scans were purportedly normal, hippocampal damage can be difficult to pick up in an MRI due to the angles of the scan. The hippocampus was obviously damaged in this case and based off of behavioral evidence - the class was certain that imaginary-Mary had Alzheimer’s Dementia.

The next patient was “Joe” with her son “Thomas.” The verdict from both characters was that Joe was severely depressed after the death of her husband, and had some memory disorder that was either caused by, or went along with the depression. The class’s verdict was a probable case of Depressive Psuedo Dementia.

Betty was the last patient, and her obviously damaged orbitofrontal cortex was a relief after the heaviness left in the room from Jamie’s convincing portrayal of depression. There was a lag before anyone came up with the son’s name, so I said the first name primed in my mind: “Clarence Clancy Jr.” I felt vindicated when the room began to roar with laughter and asked: “What do we call him for short?” So it was that CCJ began to tell us of his mother’s troubles. Betty had been arrested for shoplifting some fifteen years prior, and this marked her decline into socially inappropriate behavior. Betty was drawing boobs on the dry-erase board when the first question was asked: “How are you feeling.” To which Betty replied: “ I was bored until I saw you handsome, now I’m feeling just fiiiiiine.” She was distracted by the things in her immediate surroundings and spent the interview spinning on her chair, turning the lights on and off, and going into descriptions of her sex life. When it was my turn I challenged her to attend to the rest of the interview/test, because it was “all about her.” This held up until the standardized tests, which were wrought with evidence of short-term memory loss, erratic executive function, and obsessive behavior such as repeating phrases and turning everything into a rhythmic pattern. Betty was diagnosed with Fronto-Temporal Dementia, but one wonders if she didn’t always have some orbitofrontal disturbance, naming her son “Clarence Clancy Jr.” and all.

Afternoon Bedtime Chat

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When it’s afternoon in Australia it’s bedtime back home. Sometimes I still get to have bedtime chats with my mom via facebook:

E: James Koskinas is a good artist

G: Shit fire! He's all over the world, and is going into a museum, but he's outside repairing stucco in the wind. He liked my paintings, too. I'll send you the photos.

E: Of him liking your paintings?

G: Yeah! He was all bent over in the wind, liking my paintings, and I got a snap shot with the camera I don't have. I'm laughing at my own self now.

E: lulz

G: wha? You kids need to use your words.

E: Have you been painting any more paintings? Painting paintings lately?.

G: I've started another big one, but I've been too busy to work on it much lately.

E: Cool, what's it of?

G: It's a big silver one, and I'm doing a graphite wash over it. It's a side view of Heather's rusty cake pan. Also, weird James told me how to make my own rust: Dissolve steel wool in vinegar. Hee-Haw! He paints with it, and I aim to do the same.

G: I'm going to send you the photos of all my paintings. The gingerbread pan is on it's side, and Heather's cake pan is upside down. I haven't managed to manipulate those accordingly yet, but whatever. I'll send it to you right now. I love you, and I'm glad we get to talk online. Take care of your teeth, and I'll see you in the morning. Say, that reminds me: Did I tell you about the dream I had the other night where I gave birth to twins, one girl and one boy, and I was trying to figure out how to nurse both of them at the same time so neither of them would ever want for anything, and they were both bathed in blue light, and as I was holding them to my chest, they were speaking French to each other, which I couldn't understand?

E: Whoa, that's crazy. You'll definitely be a famous artist in that case.

G: I think so. Nodia says the dream is about giving birth to my new life, and not understanding the language quite yet.

E: Also, since it's French that's bonus points in style.

G: I'm going to the gym in the morning, and I need a good nights sleep. Take good care, I love you sooooo much.

E: I love you too! Have sweet dreams, good luck learning French!

(The Paintings are all from my mom's "Rusty Pan" collection)

Snapshot of Villagers on a Friday Night

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Roomate #4 and I were yelling at the internet, for it was not loading a video fast enough. There was an insistent knock at the door. It was three Aussie boys, all in suit-jackets, two with accompanying bow-ties/cummerbunds, and one with a Hawaiian shirt, boxers, and tall socks. "I'm so sorry" boy #1 said about five times, I stood in the doorway and laughed. "We heard tons of girls yelling," Boy #2 said, "but you two were just skyping each other from across the table.” "Oh no, they're doing homework!" said Boy #3, followed by: “We’re drunk.” Boy #1 sat down and started to read the blog post I was working on out loud: "There happened to be a cake waiting for us when we arrived…" He trailed off, not being able to pronounce "cherry jam." "What are you drinking?" asked boy #3. I told him it was hot chocolate; it was just in a jar because we don't own cups at apartment 49.  Naturally I was then challenged to a Goon battle. Naturally I was a victor at said Goon battle. (Isn’t it funny how I capitalize Goon?) The new friends invited us to a party at 114, I was grabbing my Flying Silver Tiger when Boy #1 whispered the secrets of the party at 114 in my ear ("It's gonna be lame, I wouldn't turn up if I were you"). I decided to write my blog instead.

Roommate #5 stumbled in singing: "Party rockers in the house tonight, everybody just have a good time!" Then he spilled beer on the carpet. I reprimanded him: “clean the floor, and while you’re at it, eat your fucking raisons, they’re good for you!” "You're such a terrible roommate!" he cried as he scrubbed the floor with a dishtowel. It was then that I figured out why our dishtowels always smell so bad. Roommate #5 then related tales of hooking up with four girls on the bus over to the city. In the city it was raining and it was a "shit show." "It's all about the journey," I commented. "Good talk" he said, as he ran out the door with a piece of white bread and the half of his beer that remained. 

Letter From Mom

I thought this was so cleverly written it should be on my blog:

Phew! Thanks for letting me know you've got food. Seriously, I've been wracked with some weird "beyond-my-control-child-is-far-away-and-I-can't-feed-them" illness for days. I know you're a big grown up with your own resources, on top of which you've got two lovers who would probably give you grocery money, or at least a good dinner, but I will probably never get over the innate need to feed you. It's the animal in me, I guess.

I washed your car today, and took it out on a nice little run about town. Damn, that thing is fun to drive, and it's so stylish and cute when it's clean! I was pissed that Noah lost my ipod charger somewhere in his room, and killed the battery on my ipod using it last week, because the radio was sucking in many different languages today. The shit they were playing on KSFR and KUNM, which is normally just some kind of jazz, ranging between crap and greatness, was, during my hour of listening enjoyment, a mix of out of control vomit. It was a fire hose of puke, and I don't mean that in a good way. It wasn't some bebop noise or silverware drawer music, which I like, it was white people trying to sing the blues with fake Mississippi accents, talking about their guitars being "women." Fuck! They couldn't even play their guitars, and their lyrics were as stupid as can be. It's a good thing I hadn't eaten lunch, or I would have lost it. And when they weren't playing that shit, it was the BBC news, (Horrors from Around the World), or the local news where they read the front page of the New Mexican to us for ten minutes. Not only that, I made the mistake of thinking I could drive down Cerrillos Road and actually get to my destination, (Artisan). But, as we like to say around here, "you can't get there from here." That whole side of Cerrillos Rd. is a big pile of dirt, and there's no left or right turn allowed.

It's fun to rant about the amazingly small inconveniences of our little city. They don't amount to a hill of beans, which of course, is what's for dinner.

I love you,
Mama

Young Professionals

Noah's lil' scooter is called the "Sky Leopard" so I named mine the "Flying Silver Tiger." It cuts my internship commute in half!

Discipline's Disciple

    It looks like the barista job fell through, hopefully my gigs as Australia's Next Top Guinea Pig will pay for groceries, goon, and transport. Now that I'm deep into my school-schedule I realize the time required for a job would be too much though. This way I can have learning, sleep, and a social life!

    This week I've been discipline's disciple, waking up at 7:00 to begin studying, and only stopping studying directly before falling asleep. I study on the train, in waiting rooms, and while water boils. This was my plan for Wednesday evening as well, in spite of the singing issuing from a neighboring fun-party but when Candice and friends broke into my house and handed me a can of vodka I could not refuse.

    As I did some bureaucracy the following morning, Chris, my academic adviser, asked if I had had a fun time at The Ranch. Naturally he was there. One of the main differences between here and the States is that social activities and academics are not inherently separate. Here RAs scour the village for parties to join, and at orientations academic advisers brag: "How drunk did I get last night?" and everyone replies: "SO DRUNK!"

Connecting the Dots

    I was down to a hundred dollars, and a hundred dollars was the minimum balance to keep an account open. I was running low on groceries, and had stopped going out, drinking, and snacking.

     Luckily I was single-mindedly devoted to the idea of proving myself Australia's Top Intern Candidate, and spent a lot of time making neuroanatomy study guides. I also volunteered for a couple of experiments, making ten and fifteen bucks at a time, and nearly spending it all on public transit.

     My mom put some money in my account, and in two days I was hired as a barista and an intern in a neuroimaging lab. It turns out the shiniest thing on my psychology research resume was something I put in as an afterthought - proficiency in Final Cut Pro. The lab needs someone to edit promotional videos and experiment stimuli, along with helping with day-to-day lab work. I was hired for the internship on the spot, and wore the goofiest smile for about a week.

     On top of that, all my classes are super great. DJing class is my favorite so far and I am happy to report that I will be learning Abelton Live . Contemporary Music Production is perfectly structured to develop my musical creativity, and Neuropsychology is filling in the blanks of my psychology education.

Ask Us Anything!

At orientations and informative sessions, people tend to over-guarantee how much they would love to help you. In the past two days, I've heard phrases like: "Just ask the RA/lifeguard/student adviser if you have any questions or concerns about ANYTHING, I mean ANYTHING!" About 7 times.

"Student counseling services, how may I help you?" - "Hi, Can I borrow like, 5 dollars to cover bus fare?"