force field

Renegade Craft Fair!

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Sun, 13 Sep 2009 22:14:00 +0000

Those who know me know I've always strived to wear unique apparel. It's not that I necessarily want to stand out, it's more that I feel pride in saying, "Oh it belonged to my grandma/dad" or "I found it at a rummage sale" when asked where I got something I'm wearing. My mother, who is a big fan of department stores and has a license plate holder that says, "This car stops at Nordstroms," still does not understand this and scoffs in disgust whenever she sees the contents of my closet.

I just love all things old, used, with a story. Whether it's my dad's t-shirt from 1975, my Bubby's sunglasses or reviving the art of letter-writing, I'm all for it. Same goes for decorating my living space. I don't feel comfortable when rooms mirror catalogs. I want rooms to have character and look "lived in." So when I heard about the Renegade Craft Fair (coincidentally *right* where Lindsay and I just moved out of our good ol' apt. on Winchester & Division), I couldn't wait to explore all the handmade oddities.
Since last Wednesday night I've been totally out of commission, sicker than maybe I've ever been, possibly with the infamous H1N1 Virus (a.k.a. Swine Flu). Today is the first day I've woken up since first experiencing the symptoms that I felt like myself. I still have a bad cough and I was crazy dizzy from putting in my contacts (instead of wearing my glasses) for the first time in a week, but mentally, I was finally ready to brave the world again. Alongside my eye wear, I traded in the nightgown I've lived in for a sundress, showered, shaved my legs, and happily (& dizzily) stumbled out into this sunny September Sunday afternoon.
I met up with Shawna and we took advantage of the free photo booth, complete with fake mustaches.

I ended up participating in some major retail therapy...possibly as a remedy to selling my Regina Spektor ticket last night due to my sickness. The following is a visual documentation of my purchases.
A postcard I bought that I tend on mailing someone someday...when I grow a pair.
A postcard I bought for my friend Abbi. On the back I wrote: "In honor of all the people you've called a 'B'."
I actually did not buy this screenprint from Novem Studios (although I'm still considering it), but it's too awesome not to share. It immediately reminded me of my recent visit to NYC, where I stayed with my friend Zach and his 3 awesome roommates, one of which has a life-size plasticine zebra in the living room (which I rode during their housewarming party). Another thing I wish I bought, which is not featured on Owly Shadow Puppets Etsy site is a laser-cut heart-shaped valentine that said, "You had me at health insurance."
This is now hanging on my bedroom door. Two of my favorite people on one postcard: Obama&Dylan
I bought this really soft t-shirt from Megan Lee Designs with a nifty map sketch of the six-corner intersection that makes up the heart of Wicker Park, the neighborhood I've lived in for over three years.
I am a sucker for all things paper (if you haven't figured that out already)! Especially in the form of journals. So when I found old books turned into journals by a company called Overdue Industries, I fell in love. It was hard to pick which one I wanted, but I finally settled on "Tuning Up: The World Of Music" (first picture above) because I liked the cover design (imagine that: a library science student judging a book by its cover!) and the fact that some of the pages have evoke happy childhood memories with pages songs such as, "Yankee Doodle" amongst the blank journal pages. And, I loved their attention to detail and their mission to keep the old ways of the library, as in they have the outdated check-out card in the front of each journal, where each is stamped with the date of its creation and then again with the date of purchase (second picture above). Now I just need to start keeping a journal again instead of writing everything on one online venue or another...
Pictured above is an array of smaller artifacts obtained (for free) from various booths at the fair. Clockwise: Overdue Industries' business card, the paper bag my two yellow postcards came in, a pencil from 16Sparrows that says "Sarcasm Folded In Half," sunglasses from the Chicago Public Library, a ticket to enter the $100 Etsy raffle (I didn't know it had to be turned in by 4, and I missed by two minutes), a Letter Writers Alliance button from 16Sparrows, and a CPL button.

My most favorite discovery of the entire festival, though, had to be 16 Sparrows. As I've mentioned, I recently began my MLS degree through U of I's LEEP (online) program. A girl named Isabel, who I met at Boot Camp this summer (a 10-day on-campus session that kicked my ass), told me that if I went to the Renegade Fair I had to stop by 16 Sparrows' tent because it's co-run by another girl, Kathy, from our cohort. I poured over their website (the other half of brilliance is a girl named Donovan) before going and was immediately ob-sessed. First of all, their greeting cards are hilarious. What I found next blew.my.mind. A LETTER WRITERS ALLIANCE!!!! I couldn't believe it. And I couldn't get to the festival fast enough to search out their tent. Once I found it, I proceeded to screech about my love of letters and mailboxes and the post office and how I can't believe this existed and I didn't even know about it. I told them about the Letter Project I devised in college and they told me I should write about it on their blog, which is awesome and I plan on doing...and possibly reviving the project and doing a second round. I ended up joining the alliance (surprise) as member #601 and bought the LWA Gift Bag Tote Bag. And I'm all signed up to exchange addresses with pen pal strangers. How cool is that?!
Here's the stuff included in the gift bag, in addition to the actual bag:
I leave you (and the festival) with a picture of my dear friend Shawna (who lent me $20 when I found out the 16 Sparrows tent was cash-only), who has now adopted the nickname, Shawnimal:

in memory of the king of pop

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Sun, 28 Jun 2009 07:56:00 +0000

Since I was about 12, I've been stopped on the street/been told by waitresses that I look like a variety of curly-haired celebrities. Most of this nonsense occurred during the Clinton era, when more people than I can recount, asked me if I was Chelsea Clinton. Then there was Darlene from "Roseanne," Carole King on the cover of the "Tapestry" album (which I also don't agree with but wish was true because I love that album), and the girl from "My Girl"(not even close).
But the most hilarious, most ridiculous comparison I ever heard was from my own Bubby, may she rest in peace. I walked home from a sleepover at my friend, Amanda's, house some morning during the summer of 1993. We probably stayed up late, we probably took personality quizzes in "Seventeen" Magazines, we probably sang along to Sheryl Crow's hit, "All I Wanna Do." We definitely practiced using a curling iron. I don't remember who curled the long piece of hair that hung in front of my face, myself or Amanda. But I will never forget my Bubby's, who was living with us at the time, response when she opened the front door after I rang the doorbell. Her cigarette-induced, distinctive voice traveled through the screen door.

"You look like Michael Jackson."

I couldn't find a picture from that age to illustrate this, but here is a picture from prom ('01), so you get the idea, more or less. That was not the first time the King of Pop made an impact on my life. When I was almost six, my parents took me and my three-year-old sister to Disney World in Orlando. Epcot Center blew my mind. Aside from the Norway ride, which I made my mom go on with me about twelve times in a row, "Captain EO," a sci-fi film starring Michael Jackson as the captain, enchanted me. The show was not only my first experience seeing MJ's dance moves but also my first experience with a 3D movie. All I remember is practically jumping out of my seat to try and catch the winged creature that I sincerely believed had flown off the screen right at me. Here's a picture of my sister in her Daisy Duck hat smiling beneath the 80s-rific movie poster. In, I want to say, third grade, around when "Heal the World" was released, our music teacher had us learn all the lyrics and we performed the song in an assembly for our parents while holding hands with other kids. I remember, even at that young an age, thinking, these are really important words we're singing. "Heal the world/make it a better place/for you and for me/and the entire human race..." Maybe it's what inspired me to volunteer my recess time to pick up trash in the field. Yeah, I was that girl.

In junior high, the movie "Now and Then" came out and my friends and I listened to the soundtrack on repeat. The Jackson 5 have two songs on there: "I'll Be There" and "I Want You Back." Abbi, Stephanie and I made up an interpretative dance to the latter in Stephanie's basement, taking turns being Michael. (This song makes a comeback during my the college years. Stay tuned.)
Whenever I hear the intro to "Black & White" I laugh because I picture myself in all my pre-teenaged-angsty glory...yelling at my parents about turning down my music..."No! No! It's the best part!"..."Too Late? Sure...Eat.This."

A month after I graduated high school, I performed in my last dance recitals, something I had been doing annually since I was three years old. My dance studio had themes attached to different sections of the show, one of them usually revolving around the latest Disney film. The older dancers got to wear the "big costumes" and dress up as the characters. I don't remember if the theme was "Wizard of Oz," but one of the songs in that recital was "Ease On Down The Road" from "The Wiz." I thought, okay, maybe I'll get to be Dorothy. I pulled it off rather wonderfully when I dressed as her for Halloween...in '86. But, no. As was proven many a times, I was not cut out to dance the part of the pretty princess. Instead, I was assigned the Scarecrow. While the little kids backstage fawned over Dorothy, I scared the crap out of them as soon as they took one look at my freakish mask and baggy clothes. But I danced my heart out because I loved the stage and I loved that no one knew it was me under the mask. I've never actually seen "The Wiz," but I am happy knowing that I shared that part with the one and only Michael Jackson.
Check out our comparison:

The finale to this same and final recital was to "Shake Your Body Down," a hit by The Jacksons, who had dropped the "5." It was one of the only dances I ever got to be in the front row and, lucky for me, there was a high kick involved (something not everyone could do). My buddy, Michael Novak (who has gone on to become an amazing professional dancer in NYC), and I would dance around to the song just past the wings on stage left in between our actual stage time. My mom has video footage of this, but because it's on an 8mm tape, I unfortunately can't share the love. Also included in the footage is that I am happy and bouncy, until I take one step past the curtain onto the stage, and totally lose all emotional control. I didn't know I cared that much that it was my last dance recital, until I came out to do the last performance of that dance and I was so overcome with sadness that I literally just stood there and cried and pretty much didn't do the dance.
Here is a picture of me and Ashley in the costume.
Onto the college years...
When I got home from work on Tuesday (7/7), I had a gchat message waiting for me, in response to a message I'd posted about a Michael Jackson tribute party that night, from my freshman year roommate, Brianna.

Brianna: will you be in your underwear? cause that's the only way i'd consider going

Seems I had conveniently forgotten about that day. That day that Brianna came home from class and found me dancing, donning only my bra and underwear, around our tiny room to the Jackson 5. I must have had my boombox turned up and didn't hear her come in. She just stood there, laughing, while I continued to shake my body down to the ground and pretend like I could hit MJ's high notes. That was 8 years ago. Clearly I made quite an impression on her.
Second semester of my junior year I studied abroad in Madrid. I barely ever went out with people in my program, for various reasons, but mostly because I wanted to use my money to travel around Europe, not drink and snort my time away in overpriced Spanish bars. One of the last nights living there, though, I did go out. I had finally started to warm up to a small group of friends and they convinced me to suck it up and head to an Irish (a.k.a. Engish-speaking, a.k.a. full of dumb Americans) pub. Almost our entire program ended up being there. For most people, "I was so drunk, I..." stories abound. For me, I only have about 3 or 4 notable ones. Two of them involve Long Island iced teas. One of them involve the aforementioned evening. I had never had an L.I. and my friend, Kristal, said I had to try it. "You can't even taste the alcohol," she persuaded, and conveniently failed to mention, "...even though it's 4+ different liquors mixed." I sucked three down in an alarmingly short amount of time and to Kristal's astonishment, said, "I don't even feel it." A short while later, about a quarter way through my fourth, I suddenly felt like someone had spun me around a hundred times and thought it was absolutely necessary to grab the mic as soon as the band playing took a break, and sing along to "Mr. Jones" at the top of my lungs. Immediately following, "I Want You Back" came on and I overly-excitedly called everyone over to form a circle around me, wherein I performed the entire interpretative routine from almost a decade prior. The next morning, I felt like I was in a movie when I walked into the computer lab and wanted to crawl under a table when almost every person pointed and laughed and had something oh-so-witty to say about "You last night."

My senior year at NYU I interned at Saturday Night Live in their photo department. Part of my job entailed being a celebrity stand-in for lighting purposes. I made it my mission that by the end of my time there, I would learn how to moonwalk in between shots. I'm still not sure I can do it, but I'd still love to perfect the move some day.

Also senior year, I was walking in the village one day, and although it was slightly sunny, it was snowing. I was listening to my fourth-generation ipod, which only had a few songs on it because my computer was a piece of crap by the end of college and didn't support itunes. "Will You Be There?" by Mr. Jackson came on and I literally started skipping and twirling down the street. And yes, I was by myself. I don't know if I love that song because it was in a crucial part of "Free Willy" or what, but I was all smiles in my private unburstable snow bubble. I ended up running into my roommate, who said she had seen me skipping. Awesome.

This brings us to just over four years later, July 7, 2009. At Michael Jackson's memorial show, Jennifer Hudson took the stage and belted that song. When I realized the people behind her were not dancing, but signing, I lost it. That song, her voice, MJ's death, and my love of ASL was too much to control the tears. Instead of all smiles, I was a blubbering mess.
She was then followed by Reverend Al Sharpton, who blew me away with his words and his poignant delivery. Especially when he looked at Michael's three kids and said, "Was nothin' strange about your daddy. It was strange what your daddy had to deal with." And little Paris stood and clapped in gratitude. In an interview, Sharpton said, "No controversy will erase the historic impact. He learned how to create even beyond his own shortcomings. Michael Jackson made culture accept a person of color way before Tiger Woods, way before Oprah Winfrey, way before Barack Obama." Here is the video of his speech in its entirety.

The day after Michael died, everyone on the road seemed to be blasting some pop homage to him out their rolled down car windows. It was like a Chicago-wide Jackson musical! And the day after that I went to a sleazy Vanilla Ice concert in a Wicker Park alley as part of a bachelorette party. As we waited for V.Ice to take the stage, the speakers blasted MJ's greatest hits. I love dancing. This is widespread knowledge that grew in numbers when I started dancing to "Billy Jean" amidst a crowd in the rain. I did a turn around myself and some sort of leg swivel, which prompted a man to say, "You did it!"
I don't even know what I did, but I felt proud and like I understood what Michael meant when he said, "Dancing is about interpretation." Sometimes I feel like I should claim music as my religion. I feel about music how some people feel about a god. Think about how much debate there is surrounding actual religions, then look and see how many people around the world joined hands, flicked on lighters and came together as one to honor the Kind of Pop.
Music makes me feel complete. An extension of this is through dance as an expressive means. I grew up as a pretty shy person, but throw on some music and strap on some dancing shoes, and I've always become a whole new person. In these moments, I sincerely couldn't care less what anyone around me thinks. I feel the music and I want each beat to be recognized. I don't think, I just do.
[Maggie snapped a photo at the V.Ice dance party]

Michael, I look forward to continuing blasting your tunes whenever possible, and I hope now you are at rest and at peace, where people can bother you no more. And, if there is a heaven, I hope you're teaching my grandparents how to moonwalk. Love, a fan (one of your millions)

memorial day

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Tue, 26 May 2009 01:35:00 +0000

The Modern Wing

I.

The new Modern Wing opened at the museum
and on the last day of celebratory free admission
and the start of Memorial Day weekend
I walk through the slender glass doors.

The first piece of art I come across is
a picture hanging on the wall outside the photography wing.

It's a rooftop view of the lower Manhattan skyline.
I watch two girls point at it, share some thoughts
and walk away.

The thing is, before that day,
there wouldn't really be a reason
to take a second glance at this photo

But as the two girls walk away,
I step forward, close enough that I forget
I'm in a museum

And I remember what those towers looked like.

And I remember that plane, its wings outstretched.

And I remember the smell of cremation.

And I remember being 18.

As my chest tightens and I will myself to the present,
I notice there are two topless girls
smiling at each other on an adjacent rooftop,
their arms outstretched towards the sky,
mimicking the structures towering behind them.

At the time, 1998, this was probably Epstein's
subject within the big picture.

II.

Upstairs there is an entire room decorated in
United States wallpaper and on each wall
there is a framed full-page spread of the New York Times
all from September 12.

The artist sketched bodies embracing atop the newsprint
and the black and white photographs of people running
and of people tumbling out of windows.

I stumble around this room in a daze.
The pastel states are scattered and separate on the walls.
I remember what we are memorializing.
I remember when this war started.
I remember the death count overseas.
I try remember why this war began in the first place.
The reason escapes me because there is no reason.

III.

I leave the museum and outside the Aon Building stands on its own
and looks eerily like one of the twins.
I remember when there was one left standing.
I remember when this was called the Standard Oil Building.
And I remember what it felt like to see zero.

lake lightning

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 30 Apr 2009 12:51:00 +0000

There was an incredible hour-long lightning storm over Lake Tanganyika last night. Despite my previous post warning of no more pictures before my return to the U.S., I couldn't resist posting this one. Enjoy.

(And for those who heard about the explosion in Dar es-Salaam, don't worry, I won't be back there until tomorrow...nevertheless, it's a bit disconcerting based on my track record.)

african blog hiatus

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Tue, 21 Apr 2009 11:42:00 +0000

To anyone I told to keep their eyes out on the blog for the month I'm away, I just wanted to warn you that I can no longer upload any more photos while I'm here.
We just found out last night that the place we're staying on Lake Tanganyika (Lake Shore Lodge) only has 1.5 gb of bandwith per month, which means we all need to halt the picture uploading in order to preserve our internet connection for the remainder of our time here.
I am having a wonderful time though. The Lake Shore Lodge is a sustainable organic farm in one of the most remote places in Africa, if not also the world. Chris and Louise, the owners, are two of the nicest, most accommodating people I've ever met. We are their first-ever guests and we're all more than impressed with everything and everyone here.
The stars here are like nothing I've ever seen. You can even see the milky way. And I learned that the Big Dipper is upside down here due to being in the Southern Hemisphere. Learn something new every day.
This past weekend I went on an overnight safari in Katavi National Park, since the mosquito nets STILL have not arrived for distribution. It was one of the best weekends of my entire life. To see those magnificent animals in their natural habitat, especially the giraffes, was a life dream of mine. Just magical.
At least half of the nets are supposed to FINALLY arrive today...keep your fingers crossed!

In case I don't get a chance to write again, I'll be sure to write in more detail upon my arrival back in the U.S. and of course post tons more pictures.
Thanks for sticking with me.
xoxo

lake tanganyika

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 15 Apr 2009 10:01:00 +0000

refueling in dodoma, on the way to kipili from dar es-salaam
smallest plane i've ever been in (taken by tiffany)
12,500 feet above
fisher stevens and i get our own "vegetarian menus" at every meal.
in search of a hippo...still haven't found one
the film crew interviewing chris and lou about the history of the lake
captain fisher (stevens)
kayaking with max (taken by tiffany)
wooden canoe
crazy bug comparison

dar es-salaam

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Fri, 10 Apr 2009 15:42:00 +0000

my british airways airplane tray
max in our kempinski hotel room in dar
max waiting for "meat on sticks"
"fun with sunscreen" max: "doesn't this look like arabic?"
greetings from one of those pools that looks like it's on the edge of a building...and overlooks the indian ocean
my first hint of wildlife!
shadow&reflection
journaling by the pool
we ate really good italian food (go figure) at the mediterraneo hotel on the indian ocean with a full moon illuminating the water
bora, muele, amy, max, alwyn

48 hours in London

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 08 Apr 2009 14:11:00 +0000

Max playing "WOW"
haha, no dog "fouling"--this is for my dog-walker friends/clients
the oh-so-appropriate blanket in felix's room, where i stayed
secret garden, behind the house we stayed in, where i wrote in my journal
where i slept, in felix's room
out felix's window

one week till africa

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Mon, 30 Mar 2009 23:16:00 +0000

That's right. One week from today I will be embarking on my dream trip to partake in my dream job. Ever since my friend, Okado, showed our third grade class a video of him playing soccer in Kenya with his cousins, I've dreamed of going to Africa. Yes, technically I've been to the continent before during my brief weekend in Tangiers, Morocco, but this is different.

At first I was admittedly a little nervous about picking up and leaving for a month. I've gotten too attached to my daily routine and too attached to the dogs I walk. But then I reminded myself, that that is exactly why people need to travel--to break out of their bubbles. And here's what really put me over the edge: I was listening to the radio early this morning while driving into the city from my parent's house. And the DJ asked listeners to call in with their opinions about whether there should be a salary cap on people, like athletes and actors and CEOs, who make over a million dollars a year.
"Joe from Oak Lawn" called in and said, "America is all about making money. That's why we're here!" And in that moment I realized why I need to get out of here. We may be the "richest nation in the world," which isn't even true, seeing as we're in debt to everyone and have a terrible economy, but I don't think that those are or should be the ideals of our country. I think that what is more important than making money is helping people who are less fortunate than ourselves. And it got me really excited to have the opportunity to join forces with surgeons and filmmakers and doctors to help fight against the Malaria epidemic in one of the most remote parts of Africa, along Lake Tanganyika. For more information, you can check out the Lake Tanganyika Floating Health Clinic website HERE and download the malaria net initiative proposal.

The past few weeks, as I walk my dogs, I keep noticing things that I don't usually notice because they're things I, and most people, take for granted...like electrical lines, the radio, my van. I keep noticing these things because I know they're things I'm not going to have for an entire month. And I'm excited about that. Makes life interesting.
I look forward to meeting the cast of The Lion King while there, but I (unfortunately) learned my lesson a few days ago, regarding wild animals. My hand got massively attacked, both gashed and bitten, by a house cat, completely unprovoked. After I got over cursing the cat and cleaning the blood off my throbbing hand, I decided to look at this as a good thing too have happened before I go into the land of wildcats. Knowing me, I probably would have attempted to hug a lion cub. Now that I've seen what a small house cat can do, I will be sure to stay a safe distance from all wild animals while I'm there.
Except giraffes.

Stay tuned...because I'm going to try and post a few times while there.
Until then...keep it real.

found!

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 25 Mar 2009 03:50:00 +0000

My freshman year of college my dad sent me an article he cut out of the Tribune about Found Magazine and attached a Post-It on which he wrote: "This sounds like your bedroom."
Turns out he was pretty accurate in that statement. While some may define treasure as diamonds and gold, I revel in marginalia and ephemera. I love finding notes people wrote, whether they lie hidden in the pages of a novel or on a found piece of paper crumpled on the street. I love imagining the person behind the handwriting, what they were thinking and marveling (and a lot of times laughing) at their choice of words.

Recently, while out dog-walking, I found two things worth sending in to "Found" if I ever get around to it.
The first is a note I found in a crate in an alley off of Crystal Street, just East of Damen. I blurred out the last name mentioned. [click the images to read]
The next treasure I found a few days ago lying, white side up, on a patch of grass on Maud. I thought it was funny enough to pick up and it turned out it got even funnier on the cardboard side. It was an art pad with no pages.
["Give Me My Money NOW" "You said that you was gonna give me money in the morning."] ["You are bad! You are sad.
Phillip Carter
When are you giveing me
my moeony big fat man
You get nothing
Yes I do Dont say that
--big Head
Phillip Jason Carter
You are A Faty"]

And just for kicks, I thought I'd finally scan a map--of our DRIVEWAY--my dad once left on our kitchen table for a neighbor who was house-sitting. Although it's technically not a "found object," it's one of my favorites, a prized possession if you will.

remembering 5 years ago

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 11 Mar 2009 05:07:00 +0000

Five years ago I was midway through my semester abroad in Madrid, when I woke up to hearing my Señora frantically talking to my roommate, Lisa, in her kitchen. All I could pick up on was the word "bombas." I figured I must have heard wrong, that surely I would have known if bombs had exploded. I figured wrong, I learned a few minutes later.

I just dug up my journal from that international time in life and below is what I wrote on that day. Although I sound disconnected from the events, the repercussions ended up being eerily similar to those of 9/11. I still seem to involuntarily shiver any time I enter a train or train station and my brain automatically assumes one or the other is going to explode. Comes with the territory, I suppose.

"March 11, 2004. Exactly 2.5 years, to the day, after experiencing the worst terrorist attack in the U.S., I just lived through the worst terrorist attack in Spain. It's remarkable how similar the two days started out...it was like de ja vu. Around 8 a.m. I woke up with a bad stomach ache and went to the bathroom. I was so mad that I was awake cause my alarm was set for 10, that when my Sñra knocked on my door soon after I reentered my room, I ignored her. Even when she frantically said, "Alyse?!" three times, I pretended to be asleep. At 10 my alarm rang and about 5 minutes later Lisa came home. I heard her talking to Sñra in the kitchen and then she came into our room.
"Bombs exploded in Atocha Station, most likely ETA terrorists."
I was going on day-5 of my constant headache and my stomach was still upset. I crumpled onto my bed, still holding the hot pink pills, and stared up at the ceiling.
"Why?" is all I could think of to say.
"Probably because elections are this week," Lisa said.

The flashbacks began. Brianna coming into our room freshman year--"A plane just crashed into the World Trade Center!" I decided to go to school despite the news, mostly because I needed a computer. Skipped my shower and breakfast, wore my glasses. When I went out to the bus stop, I took my phone out to text message Sheri since it was 3:30 a.m. back home. As I started my phone rang like I had a message. So I stopped typing and listened. My mom, as usual, woke up and read online about the bombs before I had a chance to call home. She was hysterical, telling me to call her asap even though it's the middle of night. So I called her back right away and she couldn't stop crying. I felt really bad.
When I got to school I sent out a mass e-mail letting people know I was okay, since most were still sleeping. Then, for part of Spanish class time, we had a "news briefing," but I don't remember most of what they said. Walking onto the patio I had lost my balance and scraped my elbow really hard against the rough wall. So that hurt and was bleeding and I was just in such a daze.
I felt bad for Raquel (Spanish teacher) because she said something like, "I don't even know if all my friends are alive. I don't want to teach grammar." So, for awhile, we talked and then, because NYU sucks and wouldn't let her end class, we learned the words for body parts...as grossly ironic as that is.

The rest of the day was very unlike 9/11. Yeah I saw some news coverage on TV, but it wasn't like NYC where I then ran to the window and watched it in person. And there was no suffocating smell. And the weirdest thing was the city seemed to function as normal.
On September 11, I walked down FIFTH AVENUE and nothing was going on. The whole day I had horrible flashbacks of 9/11 and selfishly that's what disturbed me most. I feel very detached from what happened here. I am just baffled that I've now lived through two terrorist attacks...unreal. When I got off the bus and walked to school, "Ooo child, things are gonna get easier..." came on my CD and I thought, I really don't think they are and was overwhelmed by survivor's guilt for the third time. I mean seriously, what is the point of life? Nothing makes sense. One could argue--love. But usually that's about as non-sensical as you can get and your lover just ends up dying too...

It's always been strange to think back at the things that happened the day or night before something like this happens. For instance, the night before in my cities class, my teacher passed around a special edition of "Time" magazine dedicated to why "SPAIN ROCKS," why it's become such an amazing and innovative country. Then, when I left, I was waiting at the bus stop and there was bad traffic because of the Real Madrid vs. Germany soccer game. There was a young girl watching two cars slowly roll by, decorated with politician faces and megaphones playing music and declaring the possible presidents' stances. And, I don't know why, but I thought--"If suddenly these cars were shot down, like JFK style, when I got around to finding words to describe what happened, I would write from that girl's perspective."
After dinner (on 3/10) I talked to both my mom and sister on the phone. My mom excitedly announced, "9 days!" and when I talked to Sheri I was like, "Are you so excited to come here?!" She was."

3/15/04
"...At dinner Maria told us the bombs were from Al Queda, not ETA. I almost threw up on the table...I wish I would have been here this weekend to join the protests [I was in Paris] and vigils and take pictures...yesterday were the elections, Zappatero won, the Socialist party...apparently public opinion changed overnight...this should be a slap in the face to Bush as far as supporting the war against Iraq...or so I hear..."

I remember going to view the memorials a week or so later and thinking, "Man, this is like 9/11 in Spanish." I remember seeing a drawing that a kid made with markers of a train on fire and dead stick people lying on the ground. I was so overwhelmed, that I penned a letter to Joey back home. I recently found out he never received any of the letters I sent him while I was there, which still blows my mind, but as I've been paging through my journal, I've found multiple excerpts from those letters that I transcribed as entries for myself.
So, in closing, here's another entry:

"excerpt from 3/19 letter to Joey:
...How do you possibly explain to a child the terrible things that happen in our world...that there are people who will ruthlessly blow up cities without an ounce of remorse. Last summer I worked with this guy Tim who was the most negative person I've ever met. He hated everything except cigarettes and soup. On more than one occasion he mentioned hating kids, but I distinctly remember him saying once why he would never have his own--because he wouldn't want to 'subject another human to this fucked up world.' At first I just rolled my eyes, but later I actually found myself thinking about what he said and that maybe had a valid point. I thought of that today when I was looking at that kid's picture. I guess it's just another one of those 'what ifs...' or 'why bother...' thoughts. What if I had a kid and he/she ended up a victim of senseless violence? Or what if I didn't have a kid because I was scared, but he/she would have been able to change the world? Why bother letting yourself fall in love when it might end in heartbreak? Because as cliche as it sounds, nothing is for certain and every day should be lived how you want it. I don't know why I'm still here after all that has happened around me--survivors guilt times two--but since I am, I hope I can someday die knowing that I've positively impacted at least one life...I think that is probably the purpose of life--to help others live and love."

the soundtrack to "soundtrack"

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Sun, 08 Mar 2009 09:26:00 +0000

I pride myself in having quite an eclectic collection of music. My itunes library has just under 7,000 songs, and if I was to import ALL of my CDs, I'm pretty sure I could probably boost that number up closer to 8,000. Ranging from Bessie Smith to Outkast to Amalia Rodrigues to Bob Dylan to Andrew Bird to Brittney Spears to Talking Heads to Run DMC to Dixie Chicks, you get the idea.

So when Abbi proposed going to see a two-man improv show at Second City's Skybox theater (a smaller room than their famous mainstage) that revolved around putting an audience member's ipod on shuffle, I enthusiastically said I'd go. I also was pretty adamant about insisting I wanted "a-pod" (the name of my ipod) chosen. Even during the ride to the show, while driving six passengers in my van (yes! owning a minivan in the city finally served a purpose!), I still thought it was beyond a good idea for my music to be the soundtrack to "Soundtrack."

It wasn't until we were sitting front and center that I started to get nervous--mostly that obscure tracks would come on, like Hebrew rap or Amy's Answering Machine--but also that I'd be judged by a bunch of people for my taste (or lack thereof) in music, just as I would have judged whoever ultimately got chosen. So when Tom Blandford and Mark Piebenga walked on stage and announced that this was their last show and, "Before we get started, we'll need an ipod from someone in the audience," I totally second-guessed my initial confidence and didn't raise my hand. My friends and sister immediately yelled, "ALYSE! RAISE YOUR HAND!" In response, I did the timid I-don't-actually-want-to-be-volunteering-myself-right-now raising of my hand only to shoulder height. Because I was sitting so close, one of the actors saw my ipod sitting on the table and despite first pointing out that someone's hand "shot up" in the back, chose me. As soon as I handed over my ipod, I slunk down a few inches in my seat, already regretting my decision.

Just as I feared, neither I nor anyone else in the room knew the first song. I guess this made their stage presence all the more humorous, but I felt my face growing hot and was glad no one could see me. "What is this, Alyse?" I heard Lisa, who's friends with one of the actors, ask from the row behind me. I turned around and said, "I have no idea."
Somehow he turned those interpretive dance moves into a skit about being obsessed with roller derby, and that theme carried throughout most of the hour-long show. The rest of the songs chosen at random, which served as interludes where the actors improv-danced between skits, went as followed:

2) "Not Ready To Make Nice" by the Dixie Chicks
3) "Ballad of John & Yoko" by The Beatles
4) some instrumental song that sounded familiar and foreign that I couldn't quite place
5) "Hard Knock Life" from Annie (of which more than one person later said to me, "I was totally expecting it to be the Jay-Z version, but nope, it was from the actual musical..." I totally forgot about Jay-Z's rendition of that.)
6) "Play With Fire" by The Rolling Stones
7) "Jai Ho" by A.R. Rahman from the "Slumdog Millionaire" soundtrack
8) "Wind Cries Mary" by Jimi Hendrix
9) "Burnin' Love" by Elvis
10) "Opposites Attract" by Paula Abdul
11) "Supercalifragilisticexpialidocious" from "Mary Poppins"...I lost it laughing when this came on. Could you think of a more potentially embarrassing selection??
12) some song by Led Zeppelin I didn't know by name

Ben tapped me on the shoulder towards the end and said, "So Oldies or Soundtracks, huh?"
"Pretty much," I replied, laughing.

All in all it was hilarious, and the actors both thanked me at the end for the "awesome" songs. Not so sure "awesome" would be the right word to describe that particular collection, but as long as they were satisfied, I felt fine about it. I wish now, for humor's sake, that something from "Fiddler On The Roof" and/or "The Lion King" had also made an appearance.

What would your soundtrack be? Put your ipod or itunes on shuffle and write down the first 12 songs.

another reason i want to be a writer

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 04 Mar 2009 03:21:00 +0000

I know I've already posted twice before about Writers Week, but it just never fails to be magical and calming--to the point where I'm so grateful to be immersed in spoken word again that I feel on the verge of tears standing in the shadows watching these word-wizards speak.
It happened to be that the only hour I could attend Writers Week this year coincided with three of my favorite former English teachers (and it turned out the other two were also in attendance) were reading. Perfect timing.
Afterward, I got to listen to most of Chuck Perkins' electric performance of his N.O.L.A.-centric poems, complete with a jazz band and Indian drummers, who danced around in elaborate costumes full of colors and feathers.

Because I haven't written much in the way of poetry lately, I am going to post two of my new favorite poems. The first was copied into a handmade journal by my friend's mom and it's one of those pieces I wish I would have written myself. I just learned the title and author by Googling the first line.
And the second poem, "Parallel Universe," was written by my cousin, Ellyn Maybe, who I'm proud to say, makes her living as a real-life poet. She recently shared a link to a magazine that published this poem. I love it because I can relate to how I feel like I could never live without music and how some people just don't get it.

Enjoy.

Summons

Keep me from going to sleep too soon
Or if I go to sleep too soon
Come wake me up. Come any hour
Of night. Come whistling on the road.
Stomp on the porch. Bang on the door.
Make me get out of bed and come
And let you in and light a light.
Tell me the northern lights are on
And make me look. Or tell me clouds
Are doing something to the moon
They never did before, and show me.
See that I see. Talk to me till
I'm half as wide awake as you
And start to dress wondering why
I ever went to bed at all.
Tell me the walking is superb.
Not only tell me but persuade me.
You know I'm not too hard persuaded.

~Robert Francis

Parallel Universe

Sometimes I wonder if there are one million people
listening at the same time
to the same Leonard Cohen song.
The one that keeps people from killing themselves.
It's a long playing record
It's a long song

Where do people play each other the songs that will keep them
standing
when one foot in front of the other is more myth than practice?

I once tried to play Beware of Darkness by George Harrison for a
friend,
cause its beauty and pain were singular at that moment and
I wanted to share
I wanted to hear as close as we could the same thing and
make of it what we would

He said he heard that song when it first came out and ran out
to smoke a cigarette
We lost something in that moment

I listen to music alone, but I imagine there are sharp notes
bending the backs of the universe into more flexibility, more love,
more tenderness, more a capella chiropractors

Somebody is strumming 3 basic cords and
somebody will live through the night.

~Ellyn Maybe

happy singles awareness day

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Sun, 15 Feb 2009 05:12:00 +0000

Dumbest Question Award: "Why don't you have a boyfriend??"

What do people expect you to say when they ask that? Oh, well I've thought long and hard and I've come to a few conclusions:

a) I don't look like a swimsuit model
2) My high school English teacher senior year once told me I'm intimidating because I know what I want out of life...?

I guess I should find it flattering that people apparently find the fact that I don't so shocking, but it also feels a little backhanded--can one not experience self-worth without being someone's significant other?

"Oh and by the way, it's Valentine's Day. So if you're watching at home, better luck next year." ~Seth Meyers, Weekend Update

(Here I am at my childhood friend, Shelley's, wedding in December. Her dad called me off the dance floor to tell me, in front of my dad, that he can't believe I "don't have a line of guys waiting to go out with me and that I should really try the online dating scene." Thank you?)
My only response: laugh it up.

the inauguration

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 05 Feb 2009 21:54:00 +0000

First things first. I love road trips. I love experiencing everything that comes along with being on the road. This particular road trip occurred on January 19, which marked George W's final full day in office after eight treacherous years, as well as Martin Luther King Jr. Day. So it really meant something to wind around tree-lined Carolina roads, eating McDonald's breakfast and singing along to Willie Nelson. And it meant something to not feel embarrassed when we passed under an overpass where people stood proudly draping a giant American flag above the road, waving at drivers headed in the direction of our nation's capitol.

Zach and I barely talked the entire drive to D.C. He loves music as much as I do, so the night before I left to meet him in South Carolina, I burned 16 mix CDs in anticipation of our trip. I know I feel completely comfortable around someone when I let myself sing along with songs as if I was alone, full well knowing I don't sound great.
We stopped for gas once at a surreal tourist trap called "South of the Border," just before crossing over the North Carolina state line. Awhile later I pulled off at a rest stop where we met a car-full of guys also headed north for the big day. They started chanting, "O-ba-ma!" when I got out of the car, which I realized later was because our President-To-Be was on my t-shirt. They were driving all the way from Florida and couldn't believe I was only wearing a t-shirt and said they were freezing. One of the guys was even wearing a ski mask!
We made one last stop as we approached our destination, Dunkin Donuts for more caffeine. Our fuel light went on just as we saw the first sign for Dulles Airport, where we had to return our rental car. Since we had already paid for the tank of gas in advance, this was unbelievably perfect timing. There was no traffic and we made it from Point A to Point B in under nine hours. I drove the entire way and apparently was driving, although safely, around 90-100 mph most of the way. We only had to wait behind one person in line for a Super Shuttle and were immediately called to board one as soon as we paid. Everything seemed to be going almost too smoothly, since we were expecting major traffic delays and a mob-like atmosphere at the airport.
I was expecting to get to P.J.'s apartment late at night and we got there before 7 p.m., in time to get some pizza for dinner down the street with him and Ryan, who I didn't know was going to be there and I hadn't seen since high school. P.J. and I have been friends since first grade, and he's currently in med school at Georgetown, so we lucked out with having a free place to crash.

We woke up before the sun and left at 6:30 to catch a bus. We got on the first one that arrived, no problem. I bought the $5 commemorative Inauguration-Day bus pass with Obama's face on it and as I sat down next to Zach, I remarked how smoothly this whole plan continued to play out. We got off as close to the Mall as the buses were allowed and walked the rest of the way. This is how the Washington Monument looked as we approached. We found a place to plant ourselves, just past the Monument for the next five hours, where we had a relatively unobstructed view of one of the many Jumbotrons. The screens broadcast footage from the day before of different speakers and performers. Some celebrities didn't quite make sense...like the actor who played Kumar in the Harold & Kumar movies...why does he get to speak at the Inauguration? I don't know. Throughout the morning we kept tabs on Devon, who had pretty much the opposite experience as me and Zach. She drove from NYC to D.C. with a filthy windshield (and had never driven in snow before!), got stuck on the Jersey turnpike, and then in the morning had to stand in a crazy long line to get on a Metro train into the city, which ended up breaking down. But, despite all of that and only semi-functioning phone service, we found her! As we waited for the event to begin, I photographed some of the people around us. Here are some of my favorites. I wore my "Be the change you wish to see in the world" shoes again. By the time the introductions began, we had all been already suffering from numb toes and frozen noses. The last person to be introduced before the President-Elect was former President George W. Bush, emphasis on the former. As soon as his face hit the big screen, the crowd erupted in "BOO!" I was shocked. I mean I've said some not nice things about him, I even sat in Washington Square Park beside a painted sign I made that said, "STOP THE BUSH SHIT, SAY NO TO WAR!" in college during the weeks following September 11. But in this moment, I saw him as a defeated human being and I actually felt bad for him. Today is supposed to be a day of celebration, I thought. Shame on you for Boo-ing! I understand being excited that he's out of office, but then clap it out and cheer for the new one. Because that's why we're here. We're not here to dwell on Bush's mistakes, we're here to support Obama's challenges.
I did join in the collective sarcastic laughter, however, when the moderator said, "You may now take your seats." How few people out of the million there actually had a seat to sit on?
Then came the man of the hour or, I should say, the man of the next four (hopefully eight) years. A poem came to mind that I wrote senior year of high school when I was obsessed with the 60s and civil disobedience. (Note: I am not claiming this to be in any way a well-written poem, but I'm going to share it regardless)

August 28, 1963

Let

Visions of Emmet
Voices of Martin
Screams of Protesters
Gospel of Supporters
This is the place
They all come
This is the place
They all march to-
They

Freedom

March
To america’s
Holy land
With the strength
To pass through
fire hoses
and hungry
dogs

Ring

The King
Steps up to
Lincoln
Turns and faces
the Future
Thank God Almighty,
We Are Free At Last

The swearing in was actually more humorous than emotional because the voices didn't match the visuals on the screen, so it actually looked like Obama was swearing in the "repeat after me" guy. This on top of the whole swearing in slip-up that ended up requiring a do-over the following day. I don't remember much of his speech and I don't have favorite excerpts to share like I did after Election Night in November. But I do know I teared up. And I do remember noting that when addressing, "Christians, Jews, Muslims..." he also included "Non-Believers," which I don't think I've ever heard anyone who's anyone say. And I do know that after everything he said, the woman to my right proudly punched the air and loudly said, "YES!" How pleasant it felt to listen to such an eloquent President. How awesome it felt to stand on the same soil that so many people stood on in the past.

What was poor planning on the Inaugural Committee (if there is such a thing) was waiting until after Obama's speech to let Elizabeth Alexander recite her beautifully-written poem, "Praise Song for the Day," when people were already turning to leave. As soon as Barck's part was over, it was like a mass exodus of the Mall. At least people were in good spirits, despite the cold and despite the length of the ceremony. Well, everyone except this guy. I mean, really? You're going to choose this time to say that God hates a specific list of people? Classy.
No one knew where to go. Every direction we attempted to walk, we got stuck. Finally, we joined a group of people who had formed around a fence and were, one at a time, crawling underneath it. That worked. But then we ended up walking ALL the way back to Georgetown. The frozen Potomac was pretty and the Starbucks pit stop was much-needed. It was funny to see everything Obama-ized, such as the drink special at this bar (the Barack-O-Bomb): When we finally got back to P.J.'s, it was after 5 p.m. and we all crashed for several hours, sprawled on the floor and couch. Eventually, we all sleepily rejoined the waking world and mustered enough energy to play Rock Band for awhile. That game is seriously non-stop entertainment. Zach's friend, Joe, who was also down from NYC, met us at P.J.'s and we all piled in a cab to U Street, in search of a restaurant/bar called "Utopia." How appropriate, I thought. Instead, we ended up in a pizza-Indian fusion hole-in-the-wall with disco lights and reggae music. We got huge slices of pizza and watched the new President and First Lady share their first dance at the ball on a small TV suspended in the corner of the pizza parlor. While jamming to UB40's "Red Red Wine." From there, we walked down the street to a bar, where P.J. led us to the basement. The DJ played awesome old music and the small space was packed with elated patrons. Everyone was smiling. Everyone was dancing. Everyone was cheering Obama as they clinked glasses. A guy with a Boston Red Sox hat came up to me and asked to temporarily switch hats. Then this happened. Devon left from there to head back to her cousin's house. I took a cab back to P.J.'s with the boys, where I sat shotgun and interviewed our cab driver on video. It was a long day, but so worth it.

Zach and Joe left early next morning to meet Devon, who was driving back to NYC. P.J. had class, so I spent the day walking around the Mall and going to the Postal Museum. While there I took advantage of their postcard machine and printed and mailed postcards to a few people whose addresses I knew by heart. They even had an exhibit about one of my dream jobs, working in a dead letter office. After the museum, I decided to try and figure out where we had been standing the day before. First I walked to the Capitol Building and had someone take a picture of me. As I walked from there in the direction of the Washington Monument, I realized how close we had been the day before. To be honest, at the time, I didn't even know we were facing in the direction of the Capitol. I tried to take this picture of myself as an approximation, although I think we actually may have been a few hundred feet closer. So I continued walking and thinking about how I wish I had one of the cool nametags I saw people wearing during the Inauguration. Immediately following this thought, I saw a nametag stuck to the gravel sidewalk. Something compelled me to bend down and look at it. My jaw dropped when I saw that it said, "Hello my name is: ALYSE" How crazy is that?! By this point, my mind was blown and my feet hated me, so I sat down on the hill for awhile and took in my surroundings. I then had to walk a pretty far distance in search of a bus back to Georgetown and then had to wait, freezing on a bench, for a long time. P.J. got me a copy of the Washington Post, which was great because the rest of D.C. seemed to be sold out of the paper. He and I met my friend, Marion, at Afterwords, a book store that doubles as a restaurant, and indulged in their special Inauguration Menu. It boasted meals, such as, "Obama Family Chili" and "Biden Pot Pie." As soon as P.J. and I arrived back at his apartment, I went right to sleep because my Super Shuttle was scheduled to pick me up at 3:10 in the morning for my 6 a.m. flight.

All in all, I am so glad I took a few days off work to make this round-about journey to D.C. to partake in such a monumental and historical event. And it meant even more that I got to experience such a day standing side by side with some of my favorite people. I think being in Chicago on Election Night was more exciting, since A) no one knew the outcome and B) the Hometown Hero aspect, but it felt great to also be a part of the epilogue. I am excited to see where President Barack Hussein Obama will lead our country. Hopefully in better, more peaceful, and more logical directions than his predecessor.

The following is an edited (and not very good compressed file) version of my video footage, which I originally put together for groundreport.com

And, as always, here is a link to the REST OF THE PHOTOS.

cyst-less...for now

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 17 Dec 2008 05:04:00 +0000

Some people are just cystic. That's what the doctor told me when I went in to have the bump on my face checked and after I informed him that ten years ago I had an egg-sized cyst removed from my knee and that my ovaries are apparently covered in them (I still haven't had that surgery). The best way to describe the thing on my face, which appeared over two years ago, is a small ball you could slightly move around under the skin. Most people said they couldn't even tell it was there. Twice I went to the same dermatologist, who both times shot the middle of the ball with steroids. Both times that solved nothing and pissed me off because why would you do the same thing when it didn't help the first time around?

So I waited. Just over two years. But a few weeks ago I woke up and the little alien pod on my face felt like it tripled in size. Suddenly, my mom, who is always telling me things don't look as bad as I think they do, was saying, "It's definitely noticeable now." Cool, thanks.

I made an appointment with a different dermatologist, without knowing ahead of time that this guy is the same one who removed a small something from my dad's face a few years ago, which turned out to be a small dose of cancer. I prepared myself for the worst and decided I might actually laugh if someone tells me my face is cancerous. The doctor came in, squeezed the area with his thumb and forefinger and said, "It's a cyst." Duh. I explained how it's suddenly grown and he said the only solution would be to operate.
I set up an 8 a.m. appointment the following Tuesday, barely nervous about getting my face cut open. The worst part involved getting ten shots of Novocaine outlining the whole area of the intruder. I involuntarily lost a few tears from the sharp pain, but was totally fine once I was all numbed up. As soon as the doctor made the initial incision he said, "Well it's infected, which means it essentially broke open." Gross. "So I'll have to scoop it out in pieces, as opposed to grabbing it out in one shot." I never got to see the pieces, and yes, I know it's weird, but I kind of wanted to. This probably stems from my dad (as most idiosyncrasies of my life do) keeping my tonsils in a baby food jar filled with formaldehyde when I had them removed 22 years ago. He said he wanted to give them to someone in the family, I forgot who, who was studying medicine or something.

As the nurse attached a giant bandage to the left side of my face, she said, "I hope you took the day off work."
"No I did not," I proudly replied. "I'm a dog walker, so I don't have anyone to impress. They love me bandages, stitches, cysts and all." The funny thing is that I had my office party to attend that night, where I finally got to meet all my dog-walking co-workers for the first time. I felt the need to explain what happened earlier that morning to a few people, who I knew were looking inquisitively but didn't want to say anything. I was fine with it, though, and so were they. Because to be a dog-walker, generally speaking, you can't also be an asshole.

The following are photos either my mom took or I took of myself over the aforementioned days. (Also, I forgot to mention that Stella, my puppy, had her lady parts removed on the same day at the same time, so she's involved in my before&after documentation.)

[Stella and me the night before our various stuff was removed]

[before--i'm pushing the cyst with my tongue, it wasn't that big/protruding]

[the initial bandage]

[band-aid downsize]

[here are my stitches]

[me and Stella 5 days post-op, i have an even smaller band-aid and my mom missed getting Stella's scar in the photo]

dog is my copilot

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 04 Dec 2008 01:24:00 +0000

A dog does not make plans and back out the day of. A dog does not forget your birthday. A dog does not only say it cares about you under the influence of alcohol. A dog does not crawl back into your life every time its on-again/off-again significant other is, yet again, on the outs. A dog does not actively pursue you, charm all your best friends, ask you out, say it's interested in you and then, as soon as you let your guard down and express similar sentiments, completely disappear out of your life. A dog does not call you to make plans once a year coincidentally while its wife happens to be out of town. A dog does not tell you it wishes you were the one having its child instead of the girl he knocked up. Dogs do not get divorced. Dogs do not play mind games. Dogs are not fickle or evasive, that is best left up to cats and men.

I know my love of dogs seems to be a recurring theme in my writing, but I just really can't get enough of them. Abbi's husband, Ben, recommended I become a dog-walker--"because you're introverted and you love animals," he said. He had been working for OutUGo for about a month, when I finally took him up on his offer to interview with the company.
I had been sitting around losing money for three months, so it couldn't hurt, I thought, to at least try this dog-walking thing. My interview went really well; apparently it's a lot easier and more comfortable for me to talk about how much I love animals than how much I like myself, as I've tried and failed to do multiple times at human interviews.
I've been working there for almost a month now and I love it!(actually almost two now...seeing "Marley & Me" with Ben and Abbi tonight--1/3/09--inspired me to finally finish this post)
Basically I have a set of keys to a bunch of apartments/condos/houses in the Lincoln Park, Old Town, Roscoe Village and Wicker Park neighborhoods, and once a day (well twice for the golden doodle puppy that lives across the street) I let myself in and take the dog(s) on walks or play with them inside if the weather's horrendous, like it has been lately. I absolutely love my job and I'm aware that not a lot of people can say that. I even get to see a golden retriever twice a day who HUGS me! I'm not kidding--he stands on his hind legs and wraps his front legs around my waist and gazes up at me with those unconditional eyes. I know what you're thinking, but there is no leg-humping involved.
What is better than getting paid to hang out with dogs, to be outside, to be on the move for several hours a day? Not much. And this summer when most people will be freezing in their air-conditioned offices, I will be soaking in the rays in all of Chicago's glorious green spaces.

I also failed to mention, due to my unfortunate lackluster attempt to update this blog regularly, that my sister and I bought our parents a black pug puppy a few months ago as a belated anniversary surprise.

[this is at a gas station in French Lick, IN, right after we did the puppy/cash exchange on county road street corner]

[beanie baby pug vs. real pug, actual size]

[curled up with a toy Scrunch never liked]

[the first week we had her, she lived with me in the city. this is her meeting nola and axel, huge german shepherds]

[we found mini tennis balls, just her size!]
I made them a cryptic card with a picture of our family and Scrunch and wrote, "We didn't want your anniversary to be marked by the death of Scrunchy, so in honor of your 33rd, we got you a 3rd." A third, as in pug. We gave them the card as soon as they landed at OHare, after traveling throughout Rome and Israel for two weeks.

[i almost gave them a bottle of oxyclean as a hint but settled on just the card]
I thought there was a possibility my dad would figure out my puzzle, but neither him nor my mom had any idea what the card meant nor what was hiding in the gift bag we handed them upon exiting the airport (we have excellent video footage of our road trip to French Lick, IN where we picked up the puppy and of two weeks later when we surprised our parents at the airport, but I need a new computer just to find enough memory space to do video work).

[before]

[after]
My mom was thrilled. My dad, not so much. We told them her name, which I had come up with on our drive to get her: Junebug, because she was born in June and looks like a bug, and call her June for short. Neither of them liked that. I also thought of Georgia (the female version of Curious George) and Batman (because she looks like a bat whenever she lays on her back, which is frequently). My sister's contribution was Beyonce (and she wanted to buy the puppy's brother and name him Jay-Z), and my mom started calling her Phoebe for awhile. Ultimately what won, though, was Stella, which my boss at the time thought up based on the children's book, StellaLuna, about a fruit bat who lost her way and thinks she's a bird.

This name suits her well as she has quite the personality. She is absolutely nothing like Scrunchy. She hides bones in the house, plays fetch, makes very weird noises and likes to plop herself down on people's backs, heads, laps whenever she pleases. She also apparently LOVES the snow, another trait unheard of in the pug breed. To further illustrate this, I will end this will a few more captioned photos.
[my little vampire bat]

[i spent three hours trying to make a pumpkin pie on thanksgiving, and it took her three seconds to push her way into the fridge and stick her face in it! and then stuck her tongue out at me!]

[look closely, there's a creature hiding in my dress]

[...and in my hair, which she probably thinks is a nest]

[i have no idea how i caught this, but yes, she's mid-air]

[weirdest picture award...this is her running back and forth between my sister [in red] and me [with camera]...i don't even know what kind of creature she looks like, but she's tearing through the snow so quickly, that it looks like the waves she's making should be water...]

[love at first sight.]

For the growing collection of Stella photos, click here

proud to be an american...finally or YES! WE! DID!

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Wed, 05 Nov 2008 21:00:00 +0000

Somehow people must be free,
I hope the day comes soon.
Won't you please come to Chicago,
To show your face.
From the bottom of the ocean
To the mountains of the Moon.
Won't you please come to Chicago
No one else can take your place.
We can change / yes we can change the World.
Rearrange / rearrange the World.
~excerpt from “Chicago” by Graham Nash

I thought when I woke up this morning that last night may have been a dream. Or that overnight the presidency had been handed over to the undeserving cheater as it has the past two elections. But when I awoke, despite the little amount I slept, everything seemed brighter and calmer. President-elect Barack Hussein Obama graced the cover of every newspaper, as well as the banners on every streetlamp in downtown Chicago. As I drove to Shilpa's in my minivan to return her camera that I convinced her to let me borrow overnight so that I could steal all her videos, I rolled down the windows, smiled at the cloudless sky and blasted "Revolution" by The Beatles on repeat.

My friend Andrew informed me yesterday morning that he was going to the rally as well (after reading my gchat status) and said, "I'm worried about terrorist attacks," to which I replied, "Well I've already lived through two, so I might be immune at this point." Around 2:45 I met Shilpa at the Aon Building, which stands tall on the north side of Millenium Park (a building that makes me involuntarily shiver when I look at it because it eerily mirrors the deceased World Trade Center towers). There are perks to being unemployed, one being that as soon as I received an email last week regarding the proposed rally for Obama in Grant Park, I immediately signed up for a ticket. I passed along the email to friends and family who I knew would want to be there, but most of them, being employed, didn't have as instantaneous of a reaction and therefore were put on a waiting list. Shilpa was the first person to ask if she could be my guest, as each ticketed person was allowed to bring someone. Soon after, I received about five more emails asking to be my "+1" and I noted that I don't seem to have this problem when trying to recruit a date for a wedding, etc.

The weather was unseasonably warm and it seemed like every person I passed on the street was wearing some sort of Obama paraphernalia with confidence.

A station wagon slowly paraded down the city streets decked out in pro-Obama posters and graffiti, with a megaphone attached to the roof, which broadcast Obama’s speeches that stopped people in their tracks.

Shilpa wanted to join in the festivities so we went to a tourist t-shirt shop twice, while in between stopping at a Starbucks to get a free cup of coffee for proving we voted. I actually voted early with my mom at Hoffman Estates' Village Hall on Monday, October 27, where I donned a Wilco shirt, since it was the closest thing to "not campaigning within 100 feet of the polls." I saved my "I Voted" sticker and wore it again on Election Day.

After Shilpa picked out a child-sized shirt that read "HOPE" we stopped in Cosi to get some sandwiches to hold us over in line. As we walked east on Congress we joined the masses congregated at the top of the hill, where people were separated by ticketed vs. non-ticketed guests. I heard someone call out my name and sure enough it was Max’s aunt, Betsy, and her two sons. I wish we would have taken a picture together to mark this historical event, especially because Max’s mom, who raised major funds for Obama’s campaign isn’t even in the country to experience Election Day.
We parted ways and soon after Shilpa and I found ourselves amidst the group about be let in past the first checkpoint. I got in despite breaking two rules: No bags and No food. The man checking my ID didn’t notice I had a second bag (besides my purse) draped over my opposite shoulder and therefore didn’t discover the partially-eaten sandwich not so well-hidden inside. “How safe does that make you feel?” I said to Shilpa, sarcastically. “At least it’s only a sandwich,” I added, and thought back to December, 2001, two months after September 11, when I snuck two baby turtles in my sweatshirt pocket onto a flight home from school in NYC home to Chicago.

We sat down on the pavement and watched the sun set over our strong city skyline. We scarfed down the remainder of our sandwiches and Shilpa took pictures of my shoes. I purposely wore my pair of Toms, which have Ghandi's quote, "Be the change you wish to see in the world" typed over and over again.

I took out a pen and drew a peace sign on my hand, surrounded by the John Lennon song title, "Power To The People"

and then pulled out my telephoto lens to start experimenting with it. What better time to get up close and personal through a lens than tonight. I also, in my typical traveling A.V. department, brought along my video camera, but I never took it out because it's been acting up lately and I knew Shilpa had video capabilities on her point-n-shoot.

The excitement in the air was contagious, yet no one went crazy when they finally let us advance to the metal detectors. No people getting trampled or impatient words yelled, just arms around shoulders and cheers of, "O-BA-MA!" When we were released from the detectors, Shilpa and I ran onto the field like it was "Obamapalooza" (I can't take credit for that, someone was selling shirts with the phrase). We stood as close as we could to the stage, which we could see on tip-toes, and had a perfect view of the jumbotron, which was broadcasting CNN live to all of Grant Park. It was quite thrilling every time CNN showed growing footage of more and more people celebrating on the same ground where thirty years ago there were mass riots. Now we've come in peace, I thought, and look at that skyline sparkle!

I began receiving "OMG" and "Where are you in this crowd??" text messages from my friends in New York, who I hope are now second-guessing their anti-Chicago-ness. My friend Sharon, a brilliant writer, even referenced our brief text exchange in an article she wrote for "The L Magazine," which you can find here. And Travis, who was lucky enough to celebrate his Sweet 16 on Election Day, texted me that he went streaking through his neighborhood.

But I'm jumping ahead of myself. Again. Leading up to the victory, Shilpa and I made friends with the people around us. We met a nice couple behind us who gave us space to sit down and rest our feet. I only sat down a few times, but every time I did, I thought, I can't believe I considered not coming to this! Every time CNN predicted Obama the winner of another state, the crowd went wild with harmonious cheering. And every time they cut to commercials, they blasted songs like "Higher And Higher" and "Signed Sealed Delivered," always a favorite. Shilpa happily documented these moments, as I tend to sing along to everything, regardless of how I sound.

When it was declared that Barack Obama won the presidency, I cried. I cried because hope and idealistic views are not unachievable. And I remembered what it was like to believe again. I feel like I can be patriotic again. Or for the first time. Because, as an international traveler who's been harassed in several foreign countries, I can finally say I am proud of our country and who will be running it in a mere 11 weeks. To those who told me he didn't have enough experience and made me briefly doubt my support, until I made up my own mind that experience doesn't always mean positive results, the last 8 years case in point..."It's a choice between who's had more time in Washington or who is going to *change* Washington," Obama said on Super Tuesday. (Sarah Palin: Now is no time to begin experimenting with Socialism, Jon Stewart: Now is not the time to experiment. Now is the time to stick with what hasn't been working.)...To those who tried to tell me I was just buying into his eloquence and accused me of being "wrapped around his [Obama's] finger," I don't take shame in that. I take pride. Because I'd rather be wrapped around a revolutionary than a fraud. To all of you, I say, "YES! WE! DID!"

"This will be the last sound check before you hear from the next president of the United States," said the man at the mic, and once again, instead of doing the typical, "testing, testing 1, 2," said, "1,2,3,4, O-ba-ma!" Everyone responded by chanting "YES! WE! CAN!"

And we got to hear the oh-so-appropriate song, "Sweet Home Chicago."

I have to say that McCain's concession speech was pretty great, and I liked that he took the initiative to reprimand those in his crowd who were boo-ing Obama's win. That's the McCain I liked in 2000.
Then came the string of people on our stage. During the Pledge of Allegiance, I couldn't say it without crying even though I haven't recited it since probably elementary school. Next up, a group prayer. These moments always boggle my mind because how do they know we all pray, that we're all praying to the same God, or that we all know the prayer being spoken. I feel the same way in religious ceremonies, such as weddings and at kitchen tables, when people grasp hands and speak words to an idea of a creator. I always find it fascinating to watch people in these moments and truly wonder what they're thinking.
Here are things I thought about while I stood amidst a million people lost in prayer...
Obama is like our generation's Martin Luther King Jr. I forget that the Civil Rights Act was something that happened within my parents' lifetime. I never experienced life with MLK, but I became obsessed with him and the idea of civil disobedience during high school. I visited his home, church, and memorial in Atlanta. I am not a religious person, but, as I've stated already, I find people who are, fascinating. Sitting in his church, on a pew he could have sat on himself 40 years before me, that felt religious. Standing here now, although not immersed in prayer, this could feel religious.
I also thought about another one of my idols, Studs Terkel, an iconic Chicagoan who died at the age of 96 only FOUR days ago. What would he have to say about this day?
And then, following the death theme, I thought about Obama's grandma who died last night. When I heard the news, I felt that heartbreaking pain when timing is just so off you want shriek. What would SHE have to say about this day?

My contemplations were interrupted by the woman who took the stage to sing "The Star-Spangled Banner." For some reason I get choked up whenever anyone sings a national anthem. The same thing happened when I listened to a 1948 recording of people singing "Hatikvah" in Independence Hall in Tel Aviv last year. My tears came to a halt, though, when this woman SANG THE WRONG WORDS! Her mistake threw the crowd for a loop, as everyone looked around seemingly wondering if anyone else heard the slip-up.
Here's video footage of the ending:

Then he, the man of the hour (or 9 if you count how long Shilpa and I had been standing/waiting), took the stage with his beautiful family.

I had asked the tall guy next to me if he'd be willing to snap a few photos once Obama finally started speaking, and he graciously took on the assignment. He ended up taking my favorite photo of the night, which I wish I could take credit for. His name is CJ, and I'll let his photo speak for itself...

I have to be honest. My emotions had already reached their peak by the time Obama started speaking and my brain became more concerned with taking pictures than actually taking in every word he was saying, like I had the other four times I've seen him speak, which have all given me chills--in May of '06 when I was in the audience when Conan taped in Chicago, in Washington Square Park September of '07 when I happened to be in NYC for a wedding, in December of '07 at the Riv, and at Park West this past July in celebration of his primary victory, where I got to sit in the V.I.P. section thanks to my boss.
This was my favorite quote of the night,
"And all those watching tonight from beyond our shores, from parliaments and palaces, to those who are huddled around radios in the forgotten corners of the world, our stories are singular but our destiny is shared. A new dawn of American leadership is at hand. To those--to those--who would tear the world down, we will defeat you. To those who seek peace and security, we support you. And to all those who have wondered if America's beacon still burns as bright, tonight we've proved once more that the true strength of our nation comes not from the might of our arms or the scale of our wealth, but from the enduring power of our ideals: democracy, liberty, opportunity and unyielding hope."

Also, like most of America, I found it pretty charming that he addressed his two daughters by saying, "You have earned the new puppy who's coming with us to the White House." I smiled to myself because when I was in kindergarten I found out that President Bush's (Sr.) dog had puppies and told my mom I wanted one. She, in turn, said, "So write a letter." I took her response literally and composed a handwritten letter to the President and some time later received an official typewriter-written response, which I found in my nightstand drawer, scanned and posted below (p.s. I wonder if Obama also has a Special Assistant to the President for Presidential Messages and Correspondence position available because that could qualify as a dream job of mine)

Believe it or not, it didn't take me long to find my sister and her friend Molly immediately following Obama's speech.

I desperately wanted to locate my best friend Shawna, who was there with her boyfriend, Brendan, so we could document being there together and because I knew we'd be wearing the same shirt (which I found out later, we had been), but alas, they had already gotten in a cab to go home. So the four of us slowly meandered out of the park. I made my sister take a victorious photo of myself.

I think the city was expecting post-election chaos, but everyone stayed cool, calm and collected and took to the streets like we were all in a musical.

Even the cops and EMTs looked bored.

Obama already helped boost the economy through t-shirt/button/poster/sticker street sales! There were even Obama and Biden cardboard cut-outs to pose with in the middle of Michigan Avenue.

We took the blue line home to Wicker Park, but the excitement didn't stop there. As we came up to street-level at the Division stop, there were two exuberant young people holding a sign that said, "HONK FOR OBAMA!" and getting a whole lot of followers.

You can read about why Chicago's the best city HERE but this quote exemplifies why.
“There is a really strong sense of self in Chicago: People aren’t defined by wealth or by work or accomplishments, but rather who they are,” said Alex Kotlowitz, an author who makes his home in Chicago because he believes it is a place to peer into America’s heart. “Obama seems so comfortable in his skin and with who he is. That’s so Chicago.”

All in all, this was a night I'll never forget, another historical moment I've witnessed first-hand, this time full of relief instead of dread.
You can click here for the album of photos, in collaboration with Sheri and Shilpa and here for the remaining videos Shilpa shot

I leave you with Will.I.Am's pre-election and post-election videos worth watching.

the holiest day of the year

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 09 Oct 2008 21:48:00 +0000

In the past 24 hours I've learned of infidelity, cancer and surgery, which made me recall a short poem I wrote during college. It goes something like this:

stars drown in the east river
hearts sink into stomachs
indigestibly
on this september evening
i cheated on the fast
chewed a stick of gum
ripped in half
till sundown
yom kippur blues
infect me

uncles die
men break hearts
my sins may be erased
but with them went
what mattered

During services this morning I drifted in and out of being present and reading responsively and daydreaming about who I could apologize for "wronging" over the past year. I noticed something new this time around. While reciting the sins, I noticed the rabbi lightly put a fist to his heart after mentioning each one. My sister pointed out that my dad was doing it too. How did I miss this detail after all these years? Maybe I should apologize to the Jewish people. For not being observant. For being unsure in my beliefs.

Right now I'm starving. To be honest, I started getting hungry after last night's service, only two hours after dinner. My dad said, "Well that's the point of today."
To starve? I think the point is that every time my stomach growls I'm supposed to think of God or anything bad I've done since last October. But all I can think about is what my cousin will be serving at her break-the-fast dinner tonight. And salivating about it. So maybe I've already committed my first sin of the new year: gluttony.

Do other religions have a Day of Atonement? Maybe everyone, Jew and Gentile, should put aside some time today to say I'm Sorry.

seven years later

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Fri, 12 Sep 2008 03:03:00 +0000

I set my alarm for 7 a.m. and dragged a TV into my bedroom, a place where I barely have room to breathe, much less add another piece of furniture that doesn't even belong to me. The past six years I've watched widows and orphans, firemen and policewomen, read the names of people they lost in the towers.
I observe that day as one might observe the anniversary of someone's death. I didn't know anyone who died, but I felt like a part of me did. Someone who I used to be close to in high school said my idealism was contagious. He said he hoped I'd never lose that quality but that I had to be extra-careful to watch my back because shit happens. Every year I observe the moments of silence they dedicate to the times each plane hit. It's a reminder to me of how the night of September 10 I was with two new-found college friends jumping in puddles and anxiously awaiting a love letter from home and how on September 12 I couldn't breathe without covering my mouth and my mailbox still was empty.

But this time there was hardly a mention of it. I flipped through channels and newscasters were talking about the weather and a man who attempted flying and got saved by a tree when his flight suit went awry. "It's been 7 years since..." was mentioned for about 3 minutes on CBS, a channel I never even watch. And no one was mourning. Instead a man stood proudly in front of the ruins talking about the progress (or lack there of) of the Freedom Tower. People deal with grief in different ways and I am not going to tell this man he's not allowed to be proud, but I still can't wrap my mind around this solution.

I turned off the TV and went back to sleep for two hours, expecting to have dreams filled with explosions. I don't remember what I dreamed, but I woke up to sirens. I half-expected to see the Sears Tower aflame. That is just how my mind works now. My phone rang. It was Jenny calling and I let it go to voicemail. She's the only one of my friends I talked to at length on the phone that morning. I listened to her message as soon as she left it and her thoughtfulness made me tear up a little. "I just wanted to make sure you're okay. I know this isn't a great day for you." So I wasn't dreaming. Someone finally mentioned it.

I remember browsing a book store in college shortly after that day and seeing a coffee table book about the wire-walker, Philippe Petit. I remember flipping through the pages of black&white photos and staring in awe at this man suspended in the sky between the towers. I was breathless just looking at his act two-dimensionally, 25+ years later. So when I first heard about the documentary "Man On Wire" I couldn't wait for its release.

Before today, I had asked people on more than one occasion to go see it with me. But seeing as there were no takers and I'm unemployed with nothing else to do during the day, I planned ahead of time to see the movie alone on this seven-year marker.
I purposely put on an NYU shirt and headed out to the bus stop. As I waited there, I realized I forgot my phone, which I rarely do. I reflected on how that mirrored the actual day, a day before everyone and their toddlers had cell phones. I could have gone back for it, but I kind of like not being able to be reached. When the bus came to the last stop on North Avenue, I got off intending on taking the Clark Street bus all the way North to the movie theater, the only one showing the film within city limits. Then I remembered that I had paid cash for the first leg of the trip and therefore didn't have the capability to transfer for only 25 cents. Bogus. There was no way I was paying $8 round trip just to see a movie. So I walked, New York style.

I was one of four people at the screening and sat in the middle of my private row. From reading reviews I knew ahead of time that the documentarians purposefully did not mention September 11, that the film solely focused on Philippe Petit and what he accomplished. What the review did not reveal, though, (spoiler alert) is that there is actual video footage of the towers being constructed. And that is when I finally shed some tears. I cried because it was like 9/11 in reverse...to see the buildings built from scratch, huge sheets of metal going up instead of crashing down...an identical "ground zero" that would become "Windows to the World" instead of a mass graveyard...people happily hammering away instead of gasping in horror.
[taken on 5th avenue after the first plane hit]
At the World Trade Center dedication ceremony on April 4, 1973, a speaker says that the twin towers stand for "harmony and communication throughout the nations of the world...The World Trade Center is a living symbol of man’s dedication to world peace." Later, one of Petit's accomplices, in his interview, justified their act as "against the law-but not wicked or mean." And one of the photos of Petit made me involuntarily shiver. It was taken from the ground of a plane just above one of the towers while he stood on a tight rope between them. All of these sights and sound clips are so strange to hear, knowing what happens in the future.

I left the Landmark feeling uplifted. I walked slowly all the way back to the bus stop, not skipping upbeat songs that came on shuffle in my earphones, and found a glimmer of that long-lost wanting-to-change-the-world attitude.
[taken at Chicago's Park West on 7.11.08]
The election on November 4 is SO important. I've started wearing my Obama button whenever I leave the house. This world needs to change. More specifically, our country needs to change. We need to stop spending TRILLIONS of dollars on a war that should have never been waged in the first place. I don't even know how many zeros make a TRILLION, but I know they're enough to do some good in the world instead of destroying the lives and lands of more innocent people.
If you haven't already, register to vote. Now.

r.i.p. scrunchy, best.dog.ever.

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 03 Jul 2008 02:26:00 +0000

[I will preface this by saying that I've decided not to share the gory details of Scrunchy's last hours that I unfortunately witnessed in the middle of the night of June 15, which incidentally happened to be both Father's Day and my parents' 33rd wedding anniversary. Instead I'm going to focus on what an awesome dog she was.]

I've pretty much always believed I was a dog in some past life. My first word, as the story goes, was: Dog-gie, as my mom pushed me down the pet food aisle in a grocery cart. At the time, my parents had a pug, who they rescued as an adult dog (age 4) from an abusive home. Her name was Bridget, and although she was pretty skittish around most people, she loved me and let me jump all over her.

Unfortunately, after getting hit by a car once and getting burned by a tailpipe a different time, going blind, and bleeding all over the house, she had to be put to sleep when she was 12.

Before pugs were trendy, our family got a pug. I still vividly remember the day Scrunchy entered our lives. It was November of 1993, a few weeks before my 11th birthday. I was in fifth grade and just starting to need help with my math homework. My dad diligently worked with me every night, but this night, instead of sitting in our usual seats at the kitchen table, he suggested we move into the living room and work on solving algebra on the couch. When a pair of headlights turned into our cul-de-sac, I didn't think anything of it. Then the doorbell rang. I ran behind my dad to the door, and I'm not sure I've ever been so successfully and awesomely surprised as I was in that moment. Staring back at me was a tiny pug puppy in the arms of a man. For awhile we chased her around calling her "Puppy" because no one could think of a good name. Then one day my dad suggested Scrunchy. He still to this day claims that had he known a scrunchie was an actual object, he would have never named her that. But she lived up to her name and "scrunched" her way into everyone's hearts.

For a brief moment in time, I shot up the popularity scale because Nick's family, who lived in the neighborhood, wanted to get a pug. And they did the following summer. He brought Tessa over on his skateboard with Blake, who had always been one of the most popular boys. It was the only time I hung out with Blake in my life (both before and after), even though I'd known him since kindergarten (he never forgave me for missing a day of kindergarten to go to the Bozo Show and forever had a blimp-sized ego).

Nick and I didn't really talk again until senior year of high school when we had a creative writing class together. I asked him to the turn-about dance and he brought over Tessa. Both she and Scrunch ended up in our pictures.

I texted Nick, who now lives in Hawaii, to give him the bad news about Scrunch and he responded, "So did Tessa a few weeks back." I hope the saying's true that All Dogs Go To Heaven and that the two of them have been reunited in the afterlife.

Scrunchy represented a time when everyone got along and the world was a simple place. The only thing that's remained constant is that Scrunch remained everyone's favorite, everyone's go-to "person." Dogs are so much better than people, "man's" best friend. They are loyal and trusting and never stab you in the back or stop loving you.
So in honor of the best dog ever, here are some favorite memories and favorite photographs from the past 15 years...
*She had nicer things than me: a Liz Claiborne collar with a Jewish star charm
*Every three years since I was born, my dad insisted we take a professional family portrait, so that my sister, who is three years younger than me, is the same age as I was in the one before. In the first photo, it's my mom, dad, me and Bridget. Ever since Scrunch came into our lives, she's been in every photo since (i think 5 total). Here's the most recent taken last December.

*We taught her Yiddish. For instance, instead of teaching her "paw," we taught her "Good Shabbas"
*Most people would describe a docile creature as he/she "wouldn't hurt a fly." Well, in Scrunchy's case that's the only thing she ever did hurt. Whenever there was a fly buzzing against the back glass sliding door, it'd drive her crazy and she'd stand on her hind legs and smash the flying bug with her paw. Then she'd eat it. She was more tolerant of other insects, though, as can be seen by one of my all-time favorite pictures. I took in an injured monarch butterfly, who I named Grace. Even Scrunchy was captivated by her beauty.

*She's appeared in two page-a-day calendars dedicated to dogs. Here's one of the photos. The other showed her wearing a hot pink feather boa.

*When my uncle died in October of 2000 it was like she knew what happened and kept me company while I sat at home alone, crying. She curled up with me and licked my tears.
*Some of my friends nicknamed her "Bojangles" and tried to get her drunk on New Years Eve of '00/'01 when I threw a party while my parents were out of town...that is until I found out and banned them from being near her the rest of the evening.
*She would always try and run away every time the door opened, causing us to run all over the neighborhood yelling her name. One time when we spent New Years Eve at a family friends' house in Glenview, we thought we lost her for good.
*She loved chewing playing cards, make-up, pens, hair...
*When the dog named Brandy, who lived in the house whose backyard backed up to ours with a fence between, died, Scrunch cried every time someone said her name. It's like she knew she would never run back and forth along the fence with her again. Luckily she went deaf by the time Holly (my best friend's dog who was Scrunchy's best friend) died last December, otherwise she may have gone into a depression.
*She was so stubborn when I'd try and take her on walks and I'd usually get jerked backwards when she'd give up and sit down in the middle of a crosswalk. More times than not, I ended up carrying her the remainder of our "walk."
*Every time someone opened the dishwasher and the dishes were dirty, she'd jump onto the door and lick as much as she could before someone closed it again. Also, she loved to try and get whatever food was closest to the edge of the table when we'd eat meals because she could just reach the table top with the nails of her front paws. Although, we'd try and tell her "No!" she never stopped and eventually it became adorable to see her smushed face peeping over.

*She loved sitting on my mom's lap every morning while she drank her coffee and licking my dad's sweaty legs whenever he finished exercising on his stationary bike.

[the above picture was taken on Scrunchy's last night]
*She had a security "blanket" we called her powder puff, which she would run and retrieve any time anyone entered the house. She was such a good little greeter. Over the years the toy lost its puff, but she still carried it wherever she went, and on her final night I got it for her since she didn't have enough strength to get it herself, which is when the below picture was taken.

Here are some more of my favorite photos...

[scrunching her way into Jenny's text book]

[one of my favorite pictures-and it wasn't even posed]

[cracking up with her sisters at the annual pug party]

[the above two pictures are two pictures from my first-ever black&white roll of film...my Bubby is in the background of the first one]

[my dad took this a few years ago when we fell asleep together on my bed]

[a picture i took in my first darkroom photo class senior year of high school. my friend, pat, did all the stuff around the photo]

[one of my favorite hilarious photos...this was taken after Carrie and I came back to my house at 4 a.m. after prom and immediately hit up the ice cream and cheesecake. Clearly, Scrunch thought she was going to join in the food fest.]

[my favorite self-portrait]

We went out for dinner the night of the 15th to celebrate Father's Day and their anniversary. My dad insisted we all get an alcoholic beverage and then proceeded to toast the dog--To our pet, our friend, our sister, our daughter, you were a great dog. We all clinked glasses and said, "Cheers."

For more pictures of Scrunch since I got a digital camera two years ago, click HERE

E.B.G.=Eccentric Bike Gang

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Mon, 02 Jun 2008 06:17:00 +0000

It is 1:17 in the morning after a long Sunday of activities. Where did I just come from you ask? I successfully rode my bike home all the way from the Planetarium! Why was I at the Planetarium? Just acting as part of a bike gang for a student film. Pretty much how I conclude every weekend.

Honestly, after quitting Bike the Drive after only doing 10 of the 30 miles a few weeks ago, I thought my biking career had ended and Caliente, my 15-year-old rusting Schwinn would have to retire.

My knees hurt so badly that instead of completing the south route with my mom (who hadn't ridden a bicycle in 30 years) and her friend, Rob, I stood front and center for American English's (a Beatles cover band) entire two-hour set. By myself. And I have a nasty one-shoulder sunburn to prove it. It was the closest I'll ever get to seeing the actual Beatles, so I sang my heart out to every word and even went a little dance-crazy when they performed "Twist and Shout"

BTD '08 Photos
BTD '07 Photos

So, as I stated, I thought I would never be able to bike again. Instead I agreed to being part of a bad-ass bike gang named the Argonauts (based off some Vonnegut novel...a writer I've embarrassingly never read before) for a Depaul student film. Our first shoot was last Wednesday night and we shot underneath Lake Shore Drive just south of Navy Pier.
Unplanned fireworks burst into the sky over Lake Michigan and we all pedaled our bikes down the pier, whooping with excitement like a bunch of caffeinated ten-year-olds. "This is kind of magical," I said to one of my gang members, who I had previously been talking to about yoga and hair salons (obviously we're very gang-like). Who knew one could access such view-friendly locales during after-hours. I sure didn't.

I thought biking to Navy Pier from Ukranian Village Wednesday night was quite a feat, but tonight takes the cake--University Village to Navy Pier to Planetarium to Wicker Park.
During tonight's shoot as we slowly made our way down the lakeside path, Kalyn told anyone we passed, "We're an eccentric bike gang." I thought it was hilarious and eventually deemed ourselves no longer the Argonauts, but the E.B.G. She got a few great reactions from people; one man even broke into giggles.
Here's something I learned being an extra. The director doesn't actually have any idea how long a shoot will last, so any time given is irrelevant. Lying on the concrete with the Field Museum in front, the Shedd Aquarium to the left, the lake behind and the Big Dipper above, I decided to chill out and not worry about time (Does anybody really know what time it is/Does anybody really care/About time..."). Police on bikes were arresting three men just a few feet away from us. I'm still not sure why.

When we finally made it to the Planetarium beach to film the conclusion of the feuding gang race, we made it just in time to get kicked off the beach by a slow-moving cop car who announced through a megaphone that the beach was closed for the night. None of us had eaten, and we all retreated onto the museum boulevard, pining after our promised sandwiches and PBRs. Chessa held us over by generously dispensing slices of her homemade sandwiches, though, which I devoured like I hadn't eaten in weeks.

I rode home with Shelly, Kalyn, and Angelia, dreaming about and salivating at the thought of downing a fountain Coke. I know, I know, a normal person would dream of h2o, but not this gangster. Usually I quench my thirst with chocolate milk or cranberry juice, but every now and then a fountain Coke really hits the spot. Something about the carbonation. Realizing that nothing nothing stays open past 10 in this damn city, Shelly and I in unison brainstormed: WENDY'S!
Kayln, a few bike lengths ahead of us, stopped at a red light alongside 3 motorcyclists. As Shelly and Angelia pulled up alongside her, she delivered her, "We're an eccentric bike gang" line and I vowed (yet again) to never leave home without a camera. Could there be more hilarious of a site than seeing 3 meatheads with no sense of humor waiting to peel away from 3 corresponding crazies claiming to be in a vintage Schwinn gang?
A few blocks further on our adventure to hipsterville the air grew much warmer away from the lakefront, and I took off my jacket and my dad's button down plaid long-sleeved shirt (hot, i know) and tied them both around my waist. "Your shirt fell off," a guy with his friend outside a bar called out to me. At first I thought they were saying something derogatory until i looked down and realized my hoodie had in fact fallen onto Grand Avenue back about fifty yards. Oops. I planted my bike on its kickstand and shuffled over to pick up my discarded clothes. "Thanks!" I said to the man as I walked back, embarrassed.

At Wendy's we dutifully waited in line behind a car in the drive-thru. When we approached the order here speaker, we said what we wanted, but instead of the voice thanking us and instructing us to proceed to the first window, he said, "Are you on bikes?" Yeah, so? "You have to be in a car, we can't serve you." The adolescent angst crept up from my junior high storage unit as I defiantly complained about bike-prejudiced people. Logical solution: Call Chessa to come drive us through the drive-thru. She jumped at the chance to be part of the prank and showed up a few minutes later in her station wagon. As we waited for her we discussed opening a healthy fast food joint that would only serve cyclists and that would turn away anyone in a vehicle. When Chessa arrived, one by one we rode alongside her open passenger window and shouted our orders through the two windows into the speaker. The man accused us of already trying to order, but Chessa insisted she had just gotten there and we were all her roommates. At last! We finally got our french fries and fountain Cokes. We had to split the fries, though, because they forgot to give us one. At that point I didn't care anymore. I rode the rest of the way by myself down Milwaukee with my insanely biggie Coke, every now and then throwing a fry into my mouth.

My two-year gig as a driver ends in August, and I'm already worried about not having the funds to ever own/fuel a vehicle again once I have to hand over the keys to "my" beloved Volvo. But I have to say, after tonight, I'm pretty psyched about reintroducing Caliente into my daily routine.

[Ordinarily I have Sundays and Mondays off, but I worked today and was asked yesterday if I could work Monday...so I should probably get to sleep so that I can safely transport the kid to school in five hours. Maybe I'll tell him to ride his bike there...]

This post is outdated now, but where one door closes another opens...I, believe it or not, didn't take any pictures during the filming, but the talented Francesca (Chessa) Gagliano just posted Polaroids she took. So I'll just pretend that that's why it took so long to press "Publish Post." Enjoy.

spring ignites the crazies

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 24 Apr 2008 03:57:00 +0000

While I was walking the dogs to pick up Max from guitar yesterday, I was talking to my sister on the phone, while trying to walk Axel and Nola (two huge, lovable, well-trained German Shepherds...who also try and kill every dog in their path). My sister was talking very loudly, denying that she was drunk, despite participating in an outdoor, campus-wide MayFest party. "You wouldn't even believe it! It's crazy here!" "I don't know," I replied. "I've seen a lot of crazy things."
And sure enough, up ahead a few yards a man stood on the sidewalk holding a leash attached to a cat. "And now people walk cats. How's that for crazy," I said to her. Call me crazy, but to me that's crazier than college kids drinking, which is about as common as, say, a dog on a leash.

I arrived at Avenue N Guitars and waited outside with the dogs, propping myself up onto the window ledge. Nola dutifully sat on the stoop staring into the shop, not letting anyone enter or exit unless she saw it was Max. Axel stood on the sidewalk, his tongue hanging out, staring at people with his big head and crooked face (permanent damage from a bad middle ear infection last summer). Oh and he wears booties on his back feet now to prevent the nails, which have worn all the way down to his paw, from bleeding. People walking by laughed at his shoes or whispered about the size of his head. Then. A small, old man rode by on a bike in the street and yelled, "TAKE YOUR PANTS OFF!" Not even in a suggestive, perverse manner either. He seemed to be quite angry that I was wearing pants.

Max came out from his lesson (20 minutes late) and I said, "I feel like I'm in the Twilight Zone right now," and recounted the cat and cyclist. And as if the universe wanted to prove my point even further, just then two woman jogged around us, wearing matching gear and voicing the rhythms of their runs-"BUM BUM. BUM BUM." Training for a synchronized running team? Max and I looked at each other and laughed with questioning eyebrows.

When we got home I went up to my apartment to read on the couch, which nestles between three (almost) floor-to-ceiling windows. As I desperately tried to catch up on my New Yorkers, I heard an amplified bicycle honk from outside followed by some chanting. I looked out and saw 6 (or 7?) people on some kind of boat-sized bicycle contraption slowly pedaling up and down Leavitt. Every few feet one of the guys chanted something into a megaphone. I thought I heard "Obama" mentioned, but I could have been hearing things.

Then, while in the backyard (which is actually a side yard) throwing a Frisbee with Max, we saw three girls in the new adorable corner park that just opened across the street from our house, who looked like witches. And I'm not being influenced by my reading material, as I have not yet started The Golden Compass, due to never having time to stay on top of the weekly New Yorkers (of which I received TWO this week!?)

So i decided to join in the craziness and run around like a madwoman today getting supplies for my upcoming art show and managed to blow through my entire paycheck. I am now subsequently broke, as I have been before every art show. I also bought new aviator sunglasses, proving once again that I was born in the wrong generation, seeing as the only sunglasses that didn't look horrible on me incidentally make me look like a 70s porn star (or Jim Morrison?).

Oh, and I chopped off my hair. Well, I didn't, but my brilliant stylist, Vanessa (seriously--she'll change your life--Salon Lorrene in Palatine) did. And as you can see I am now sporting somewhat of a funky "Jew fro," just in time for the Passover season, which p.s.--speaking of crazy--is driving me insane! It's my own fault because I went a month without grocery shopping (I do 4 other people's grocery shopping, yet can't find time to do my own. Figure that one out.) and decided the best time to remedy the empty-fridge syndrome was the same day that Passover began at sunset. So I filled an entire basket of yummy things from around the world at Trader Joe's--Mexican, Indian, Italian, etc.--and can't eat ANY of it until Sunday at sundown! This made me question my belief system because I realized that the only two Jewish traditions I participate in (besides lighting the menorah) involve starving myself (no flour for 8 days of Passover and no food/drink for 24 hours of Yom Kippur). This doesn't really make any sense because I don't believe in God and I very strongly believe in eating.

Also, I was thinking today after marveling at the cloudless sky and 75-degree sun--Do people in "paradise climates" (such as southern California) appreciate nice weather? Because, my thought process continued, today explains why I love living in Chicago. I enjoy a challenging/spontaneous climate. It Keeps life interesting and doesn't allow taking for granted beautiful days like this one. Thank you, Mother Nature.

in memory of julie carpenter (1932-2008)

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Thu, 20 Mar 2008 02:29:00 +0000

I tried but I honestly can’t remember what I did on Christmas Day any of the years prior to the first time I joined Carrie's family in 1994. My only memories of Christmas involve long car rides with the Lullos playing carols on the radio and Grandma scurrying to welcome us into her home, always a hug leftover for Carrie’s little Jewish friend. I had just turned 12 and Carrie and I had become inseparable best friends over the past year. Being the token Jew of the school, she and her parents graciously invited me to join her mom’s side of the family up in Wisconsin on her parents’ farm.
I don't remember much from that first Christmas except a lot people radiating a lot of positive energy, a lot of food and a lot of kids. Carrie’s cousin, Mary, was only a month old and Carrie kept insisting I hold her. Babies have always made me uncomfortable, so I just as insistently refused the responsibility of holding such a tiny human life.

Over the years Carrie’s grandparents became my surrogate grandparents. My first grandpa didn’t even get to see me pass first grade. Both of grandmas missed my high school graduation by less than a year, and my other grandpa passed away three months before I graduated college. Every year they’d give me gifts like I was just another one of their many grandchildren and made me feel like I wasn't just there because I had nowhere else to go but that I was there because I was part of the family.

Grandma declared Christmas '06 the last one she planned to host. I made sure Carrie and I took a picture with her grandparents before we left to document the end of an era.

Eerily soon after, Grandma was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer and spent all of 2007 battling the disease with all her strength and devotion. Carrie's parents hosted Christmas '07. Grandma looked thinner and seemed a little less energetic, but she was nevertheless still her sassy, lovable self.

On February 17 of this year I drove Carrie up to Burlington to visit her Grandma (her grandparents moved to a lake house about 8 years ago), who was lying on a hospital bed in the middle of the living room. I contemplated the word as I entered the space, standing on the floor where I’ve spent so many Christmases. Living Room. Is this one of life’s ironies? I thought.
Carrie motioned for me to hold Grandma’s hand. Unlike so many years before when I refused to hold Mary, afraid of dropping her and ruining my chances of ever returning, this time I knew I had to offer my hand. It was the least I could do. Instead of fearing holding on, I feared letting go. I stroked Grandma’s fingers. Remarkably soft and bony. She could barely open her eyes, but she nodded when someone asked if she recognized me.
I excused myself to use the bathroom and almost started crying. All these memories of Grandma flooded back to me, starting with the time Carrie and I, as pre-teens, had returned from exploring their many acres of land and I went to the bathroom, only to have a tick fall out of my underwear. Subsequently Grandma carefully checked my hair for any more lingering blood-sucking insects.

--Grandma having serious conversations with me about my photography career path, giving me advice to join a newspaper. “They’re the best photographers,” she always reminded me. She was always the artist, though. I have a collection of “reject” paintings that she let Carrie and I keep that I will treasure forever.

--Grandma playing our annual game of Charades and having to act out “The Thong Song.”

--Grandma giving extra love and attention to her autistic granddaughter, Hannah.

--When my own mom was diagnosed with cancer back in the June of 2002, I spent my whole first summer break from college driving her to doctor appointments and spending hours visiting the hospital after she had a lung removed. Grandma Carpenter made it clear that she was looking out for me, and before I went back to school in the fall invited me up to Burlington for a little R&R. Not just me, though. She extended the invitation to my younger sister, Sheri, as well. Sheri and I spent the afternoon with Carrie and Grandma on the lake riding waverunners, enjoying the final days of summer. For those few hours I allowed myself to live in the present and fully appreciate the weather and the company of my best friend, my only sister and my surrogate grandmother.

[me and Carrie on the waverunner, her cousins Erin and Mary on the pier]

[me and Sheri]
When I came out of the bathroom I sat on the floor of what I decided should more appropriately be called the Family Room, a room that lived up to its name. The sounds of the Daytona 500 filled the room and replaced the gunshots of the old Westerns, which had previously been on TV, serving as a distraction for Grandpa.
Across the room Clyde, their chocolate lab, started chewing a paper towel. Grandpa scolded him from his position on the couch. Not wanting to make Grandpa get up, I crawled over to the dog and reached to grab the shredded mess. Clyde responded by biting my hand with three sharp teeth. I didn’t get mad at him, despite the throbbing pain. It was proof of reality. This is happening and this is happening now.
Grandma called for her husband in a stunted whisper, "Neal, Neal..." He dutifully walked over and sat beside his childhood love and took her hand in his. What killed me was then hearing Grandma saying something no one else could hear and Grandpa responding in a normal voice, "You want a hug? Ok." And he stood up and pressed his body against her frail frame.
It was hard to leave because deep down I knew that was probably the last time I'd see her.

On March 2, while waiting for a flight back to Chicago from Kansas City, I received a message from Carrie saying her grandma passed away that morning.

I am so grateful for all your compassion and generosity, Grandma. Thank you for being an unforgettable presence in my life. I'll miss you.

funniest snl in a long time

noreply@blogger.com (alyse) — Fri, 29 Feb 2008 18:10:00 +0000

Last Saturday night SNL returned after a 2+-month-long writers' strike hiatus. Due to my feverish state, I stayed in and watched the new episode. Despite how miserable I felt, I still couldn't help laughing out loud at times. They were the kind of skits that made me wish I still worked there

(yep, that's a polaroid of me, standing in for Lorne Michaels towards the end of the '04/'05 season)

...and I'll tell you one other thing that makes me wish I still worked there--Ellen Page and WILCO are hosting tomorrow night's show!! I could be holding a light meter under Jeff Tweedy's chin as I type this...

Here are my two favorites from the 2/23/08 show:

(for the full-length skit, click HERE)