shutitdown: livin' for the anecdote

When I lived in New York I used to live above a pizza joint called 'Little Frankie's.' Ever the lazy slob, I'd order delivery from upstairs and sit around playing video games while the poor delivery man walked my pizza up four flights of stairs. I ate a lot of Little Frankie's during this period of my life. I think it's likely that I was also clinically depressed, but the pizza certainly did help temper that.

Little Frankie's pizzas were amazing. Very thin crusts and simple topping were the key. After I left New York and went to California I found a few places that had good pizzas. Dopo on Piedmont Ave in Oakland was one. But the wait for Dopo was ridiculous, and so were the prices. So I started making my own pizza. Not by my own hand, mind you. I bought fresh pizza dough at Trader Joe's and despite it already being made for me, spent a good long time wrestling it into a circular formation and onto a pizza pan. I also ate a lot of pizza during this period of my life.

But then when I moved to Dublin, I gave up on pizza. No one would deliver gorgeous thin pizzas, and no one wanted to sell me ready-made dough. I thought my pizza life had ended. But recently, being inspired by the grocery delivery services available around here, I decided to give it a go. Somehow, having yeast delivered just made the whole thing more manageable and I decided to make pizza from scratch. I'd been hearing and resenting Fran's casual "oh, we have homemade pizza twice a week at least" stories for years, so I figured I might as well make her recipe.

I was remarkably pleased with myself. The crust was thin but not mushy, my guest was delighted and I was full and smug. Pizza? Yeah, I made you.

Fran and Dan's pizza dough recipe, adapted from the Cook's Illustrated Best Recipe bible: Fastest Pizza Dough

1 1/2 c. warm water (about 105 degrees)
1 envelope (2 1/4 tsp. rapid-rise dry yeast
1 tbs. sugar
2 tbs. extra-virgin olive oil
2 c. unbleached all-purpose flour
2 c. whole wheat pastry flour, plus extra for dusting hands and work surfaces
1 1/2 tsp. salt
extra olive oil for oiling bowl
1. Set oven to 200 degrees for 10 minutes, then turn oven off.
2. Meanwhile, pour water into a large bowl. Sprinkle yeast and sugar into water and mix. Add oil, flour, and salt and mix until the dough is cohesive. It should be soft and a little sticky. (If it’s too sticky add a tablespoon or so of extra flour at a time.)
3. Turn out the dough onto a lightly floured work surface and knead by hand with a few strokes to form a smooth, round ball.
4. Place the dough into a deep, lightly oiled bowl and cover with a damp kitchen towel (or plastic wrap). Set the bowl in the oven for 40 minutes or until the dough has doubled in size.
5. Remove from oven, punch the dough down, and turn out onto a lightly floured work surface. Use a chef’s knife or dough scaper to halve, quarter, or cut dough into eighths. Form each piece into a ball and cover with a damp cloth. Let rest for 5 -30 minutes.
6. Set one dough ball aside and wrap the rest tightly in plastic wrap. Store them in the freezer.
7. Place a large cookie sheet in the oven and preheat to 450 degrees.
8. Using your hands, flatten the dough and stretch it outward with your fingertips, rotating the dough to form a circle or oblong rectangle. Use a rolling pin to further flatten it, if you like.
9. Gently transfer the dough to a pizza peel dusted with flour or cornmeal (we use a flexible cutting board — we don’t have a pizza peel) and top as desired.
10. Use a quick jerking action to transfer the pizza from the peel (or cutting board) to the hot pan in the oven. Bake for 5 to 12 minutes, depending on the size of the pizza. Serve immediately.

By Lina on December 5, 2008 3:35 PM

Flathunting and xenophobia in London

I have a book signed by Martin Amis. As I was getting in line to have him sign it, I debated whether I had the courage to request that he sign it "Pussies are bullshit." As it turns out, I didn't, and it just says something like "To Lina Love, Martin." During his talk, though, he discussed what an incredibly racist society Great Britain is. This didn't make much of an impact on me because at the time I was living in California, the land of political correctness and avocados. But now, after flat hunting in London, I'm starting to see what he means.

First, I learned that in my flatshare queries, there were certain things I should leave out of my emails. Like the fact that I'm an American. Like my grossly semetic last name. These are things that my housemates don't need to know until after I move in. Once they cop on to my accent and maztoh balls, they're going to be in for a surprise.

I had a relocation company ostensibly helping me with my home search. They were very eager for me to live in either Clapham or Islington, but not the place that my I had my heart and wallet set on, the East End. They finally agreed to take me on a tour of different neighborhoods to help me better decide where I wanted to live. As part of the deal, I was given an unrepentant racist as a tour guide.

Immediately after we started off on our tour, Stephanie said, "So you've been living in Ireland...how did you find the Irish? Are they as bad as everyone says?"

I wasn't really listening, so just assumed she was asking what everyone always asks "Are the Irish as friendly as everyone says they are?"

I started my usual response, "Yeah, yeah, they're real friendly" and Stephanie interrupted me.

"They're sort like how you feel about Mexicans in the States, aren't they?"

I still couldn't fathom that this woman would be saying something so beyond acceptable to a complete stranger, and assumed she must mean that both the Irish and the Mexicans have had a positive effect on the nearby dominating super power.

But later, when she started complaining about the blacks, muslims and Jews, I started to realize that Martin Amis was right, pussies are bullshit.

I spent four hours with this woman, getting driven around London hearing about how to best avoid anyone with a skintone darker than myself, and how immigrants were ruining the country. Probably not the best person to be doing orientation tours for a relocation company, eh. She complained about how Labour had put housing projects in nice neighborhoods, forcing real English people to live side-by-side with animals. (Her words, not mine.) "You can get a good sense of a neighborhood by seeing who lives there," she said, driving me through Bethnal Green. "Look! Blacks!" she said, pointing.

My favorite bit, which I actually recorded with my new snazzy phone, was when she did an impersonation of someone who might shop at Banglatown (crazy accent and all!). I kindly suggested to her that perhaps if Englishwomen were doing their part to keep up the British birthrate, perhaps her country wouldn't have to rely so much on those dirty immigrants, like me.

She wailed, at one point, "Where have all the English people gone?" as we drove down the main thoroughfare of Whitechapel.

"There are loads of them in New York," I kindly suggested.

Later, when I had nearly reached the limit of what I could tolerate and Stephanie was complaining about how dirty Africans are, she admitted to me that her husband is a UK immigration judge. God help this country.

By Lina on October 26, 2008 11:15 AM

Rage against the dying of the light, or, the twighlight of my twenties

Last weekend I was standing in a muddy field with a couple of thousand Irish teenagers having mucky beers passed around me and wondered to myself if this was really how I wanted to spend the twilight of my twenties. Somehow I've gone from being the youngest in my crowd to the oldest, and I'm not sure if this is really how the future was meant to feel.

When I was 14, I was incredibly smug about the fact that all of the friends were seniors in high school and could drive me to Depeche Mode concerts and to off-campus lunch rendezvous at the nearest taqueria. When I was started dating, I daringly went for a man 10 years my senior thus making our relationship a violation of California penal code 261-267. I was so self-satisfied about this declaration of maturity--I couldn't wait to grow up and get on with my life. Now I'm so sick of getting on with my life that I regularly go clubbing on weeknights and have foregone a retirement fund in favor of traveling around Europe in pursuit of bangin' tunes.

I worry that I should be doing more constructive things; I should be at home planning my pension and having babies and focusing on my career trajectory, but the thought just fills me with melancholy. When I was a teenager I signed up for credit cards, took out the entire credit line in cash and then promptly forgot about them. I thought that I'd never live to see 20, so my credit line was something I'd never have to worry about. And now it seems that my credit line is something that I worry about endlessly. That is, when I'm not going to festivals or hanging around with people younger than those I was once paid to babysit. And of course I'm sort of ashamed of myself--this isn't the sort of person that I thought I would turn out to be. But I can't deny that it's pretty much worth it. Doin' it for the craic.

This weekend I'm heading back to Rotterdam to hear some of my favorite italo DJs kick out the tunes, and a week later I'm moving to London. I like to think I'm sort of like those surfers in the Endless Summer, traveling around the world as the seasons turn, chasing the never-ending summer. Chasing the endless buzz.

By Lina on September 17, 2008 9:30 PM

Repressed but remarkably dressed

My commitment and attachment issues aren't content to stay in the arena of male humans and has now extended to cities. After an eighteen month romance with Dublin, I spent this last weekend having a completely unforeseen and vaguely torrid affair with my old flame, London.

I was supposed to be in town just for the day on Friday for a meeting but after missing a flight and making a measured decision to be more spontaneous, decided to stay the weekend and come back Monday night.

I don't know what happened. I've always liked London, I've even loved London before. Over a year ago I secured a visa for myself, which was one of the hardest things I've ever done--it involved compiling over 100 pages of original documents and affidavits--and then never moving. It wasn't an easy breakup for me, but I thought Dublin was a more stable relationship; Dublin would appreciate me more.

But then after seeing London again, so dashing, so handsome, I've started to reconsider. Things haven't been going well with Dublin for the last little while. We don't have any serious problems, but it's those day-to-day issues that are the ones that I can't handle. It's the things that I initially loved that are starting to irk me. It's too small. It's too laid back. There's no Ikea. We're just not as compatible as I once let myself believe.

But then I start to wonder--is this about me or Dublin? Why haven't I lasted anywhere, settled down? Since leaving my parents' house at 17, I've moved to New York, to California, to New York, to California, to Dublin, to California, to Dublin. I've never lasted more than a few years each time. Is my inability to geographically commit an endearing foible or can I just not keep my wanderlust in my pants?

By Lina on May 29, 2008 12:01 AM

I left my heart...

My last two trips to California have left me with a deep sense of homesickness. This homesickness was not inspired by my family, who manage even at this late stage in my development, to irritate me more than ever, but by two key moments.

One was in that bastion of consumerism and the free market economy, Target. I've learned that places like Target don't seem to exist outside of America. That part's not a surprise, I guess. The surprise was when browsing the dollar aisle at Target, I nearly burst into tears. Whether it was due to the sharp decline of the dollar or my own mortality, I don't venture to guess. But needless to say, Target evoked a deep yearning, a hole in my soul that Marks & Sparks cannot and will not fill.

On this trip, it was a day in the People's Park in Berkeley. In general, I sneer at hippies, but on this day, they made me nostalgic. In Dublin, naked men in their sixties with tattoos do not smoke marijuana in public parks. In Berkeley, they do not only this, but at the same time they bend over and do stretches so their old man balls jiggle and they have looks of proud contentment on their faces. When my eyes weren't arrested by the senior testes, they were focused on the stage where a quadriplegic with a stick in his mouth was pointing to letters on a chart and a woman next to him was reading his words aloud.

I A-M am, I am, H-A-P happy, I am happy T-O to B-E, I am happy to be, H-E here, I am happy to be here, I- in T-H the P-E-O-P, I am happy to be here in the People, P-A-R-K, T-O-D-A, I am happy to be here in the People's Park today! Weak applause all around.

The quadriplegic, as it turns out, is running for president of the USA. (Watch his YouTube video here) Between the dogs named after characters in Greek mythology led around by gutterpunks with tattooed faces, the overwhelming smell of patchouli and pot, the mentally ill man screaming randomly and thrusting his middle finger high into the air, the sagging, naked men, the overweight lesbians waving pink flags of solidarity, the dreadlocks, oh so many dreadlocks, the pot brownies and politics that didn't include Hillary, Obama or McCain, I thought to myself, welcome to California.

But really, it was the weather that got me on this trip. I've been in Ireland for over a year, and I can remember one really nice, sunny day. Sunny enough for a sunburn almost. This isn't saying much as I get pink if I stand too close to a toaster. But there was a sunny day last summer. June 9th, I think. After that, it rained 70 days in a row, and that was my summer. These last two weeks in California have been painfully gorgeous. The weather is the one thing that I think will stop me from staying in Dublin forever. I miss the sun.

Other California moments. I stayed in the Tenderloin which is rather strangely, the home of all of the mentally ill people in the country as well as a large portion of its crack, and most of the nicest hotels in San Francisco. I saw a man walking around in a fur coat, a woman sitting on the sidewalk trying to slyly smoke crack with a coat covering her head, another woman sitting on the curb, stripping wire that trailed seven or eight feet behind her, a man sleeping contentedly in a puddle of his own urine, crack dealers standing on corners five deep, a woman standing in an intersection, eyes rolling crazily all over the place as if they hoped to escape this cracked out, insane body that held them captive as she gyrated her hips wildly, hoping to pick up a date, a few dollars for more rock, completely unaware that her tube top had long since slipped to far below her navel and that her nipples were also wall-eyed.

There's a game they play in the Tenderloin called "That's Not a Crack Rock." When you see someone crawling on the ground, picking up any little scrap of dust, jibs of dirt, rocks stuck under people's shoes and then smoking it, they are a contestant. I once saw an interview with the woman whose life the movie Rush was based on, and she talked about how as a undercover police officer, it was the moment when she found herself crawling on the floor of a hotel room searching for jibs of crack that she realized that she had hit her bottom. In the Tenderloin, they hit their bottoms before lunchtime.

When I was on the BART train a man walked on wearing a sandwich board that said in two-inch high letters "THERE'S POOP IN THE MEAT." He was passing out flyers for a vegan action organization. Next to me, a man popped out his jewel-encrusted gold grill, and meticulously cleaned it with his BART card, nonplussed.

Later that night, as I drove through the 24 hour Taco Bell at 2 am while listening to 2Pac, I thought to myself, now this is California.

By Lina on May 26, 2008 10:17 PM

Joan Aiken, John Bellairs and Edward Gorey

When I was in elementary school, I found my two favorite authors the same way. Both of them had covers drawn by Edward Gorey, a gothic-style illustrator who is best known for his morbid work detailing the gruesome deaths of children. We had an anthology of his work at home, which I would pore over, aghast, and have since stolen from my parents.

John Bellairs and Joan Aiken both had Edward Gorey drawings on their covers, and I bought both of their books initially based on this fact. As a hopeful writer, this sort of frightens me, because I've been told that writers have almost no input on the covers of their books. Especially for youth, the covers are more important than anything else. John Bellairs wrote spooky mysteries about orphaned boys exploring gothic New England and there was a fair amount of magic involved, but spooky magic, not geeky magic. I re-read two of them while I was home, and they weren't as great as I had remembered, but were still pretty wonderful. I remember in around fourth grade that I used to come home from school and make myself a pot of Top Ramen and read John Bellairs. I had some theory about these two things going well with one another. Despite slightly matured taste in both literature and foodstuff, I can't say that I was wrong.

Joan Aiken was my favorite author as a child, hands down. So much so that when I was thinking of moving to London, I had a serious look at real estate in Battersea because of her book titled Black Hearts in Battersea. I'm not kidding. Aiken wrote fiction for children that imagined an alternate history of Britain under the rule of James II. As a California-educated tot, this was my first and practically only exposure to the English monarchy, and was very confused in later life to learn that the Hanoverians had won and that the Romans never invaded the Americas.

In retrospect, Aiken's books were so rich and wonderful that I'm shocked that so few people my age had ever heard of her. Maybe it's an America thing, but I've never met anyone that has read her books. In fifth grade I got a copy of The Stolen Lake and after hurdling through it, wrote on the inside cover, "The Best Book in the World" and my name with a flourish. I even went on our local radio station's book show, on the week that they featured kid's books to review The Stolen Lake. I remember having my mother coach me beforehand on the pronunciation of "Aiken" and "Dido Twite," the main character. In my head, I had been calling her Dee-do.

I've re-read Aiken's books, and I still love them. Just a few years ago she released two more in the same series, The Wolves Chronicles and somehow I found out and got them. I pre-ordered the last one. I didn't even realize that Aiken was still alive, but was delighted that more of these books were coming out. It was only this week, when going through my childhood books and doing some subsequent Googling that I found out that she had passed away before the book I had pre-ordered was released. This made me sad. I loved her books so much that I wish I had written her a letter telling her so, or sent her a recording of my radio plug for the series. Somehow I managed to write to Corey Haim and join his fan club, but not to Joan Aiken.

During my time-wasting, I also found a picture of Aiken, and she looks very different that I think I would have imagined, but absolutely perfect. She looks like a tough-talking, no-nonsense English woman who would write books for children that were absolutely beyond their comprehension and yet completely and utterly absorbing and thrilling. I'm going to read The Stolen Lake again, and then on to my next favorite, Dido and Pa.

I just looked up this series on Amazon and saw that although most are out of print in the US, they are all currently in print in the UK. Which is, of course, great news for nerds like me. Most interestingly, some of theme appear to be really popular on this side of the pond. The Wolves of Willoughby Chase is even taught in schools over here! The sad news? They've given them all new, matching covers and done away with the Edward Gorey drawings that had originally lured me into the series.

Links:
Wikipedia - Edward Gorey
Wikipedia - Joan Aiken
Wikipedia - John Bellairs
Guardian Article about Joan Aiken
Black Hearts in Battersea
The Stolen Lake
The Wolves Chronicles
Dido and Pa
The Wolves of Willoughby Chase

By Lina on May 12, 2008 10:47 AM

How I found my favorite middle grade books

I've been in California for the past two weeks, and no trip to to America is complete without me spending some time rooting around in my parent's garage, looking at all my old stuff. I've been reading a ton of my favorite books from when I was short. My tastes spanned the gamut, much more so then than now.

The more obvious ones, like Harriet the Spy and Encyclopedia Brown I got from R.I.F., Reading is Fundamental. Once a semester or so this program in school would give everyone a free book. I still have some of these. I read recently that they're ending this program, which is sad. For a lot of the kids in my school, this was probably the only time anyone ever bought them a book. Luckily, my mom used to take me to the local bookstore and let me run around and pick out books all the time. Luckily, I was part of the petit bourgeois and was semi-literate.

When I was in third grade or so, I read Cheaper by the Dozen. I remember that I picked it because the reading level was fifth or six grade, so I thought it would make me look smart. Even at eight, I was an asshole.

I loved that book so much. I remember when I read the follow-up, Belles on Their Toes, there's a post script that says that one of the dozen children, Mary, died of diphtheria at the age of six and how horrified I was. The descriptions of the bobs and 20s fashions fascinated me. At the, I hated my brother and loved the idea of having a bunch of older brothers who wanted to help make me incredibly popular.

I read all of the Nancy Drew series at the library, and there were dozens and dozens. I read the originals and even started into the new series that made Nancy a little too modern for my taste. I remember her hair being described as "titian," a word I've never heard before or since.

I think I probably read read every middle grade book in the library. When I think about how much I read then, as compared to now, my head spins (not literally). Now, I read a book every six months or so. This is mainly because Google Reader has taken over all of my free time, filling it with tales of nipple slips and other salacious celebrity gossip.

Other books that I read during that time were delivered to my house in big brown grocery bags from the daughter of my parents' friends. Vida was older, cooler, and had new wave haircuts. I read every book she gave me. This was the path to coolness. One was The War Between the Pitiful Teachers and the Splendid Kids by Stanley Kiesel. This was the most unbelievable book ever, and there isn't even a listing for this guy on Wikipedia. I'm bringing this back to Dublin to re-read, because I suspect that much of it was beyond me. It was the darkest, most ridiculous piece of children's literature, ever.

(Big Alice is a girl who was raised in the wild by wolves or dogs or something, but has come back to help the kids win the war against the adults. Mr. Bullotad is the muscled, bullying gym teacher. Here, they are in an epic battle that Big Alice is winning.)

excerpt:

At some period in the past, during the times that Big Alice was given the privilege of participating in human, cultural affairs, she had been exposed to an Appreciation course. That experience had left an indelible mark on her mind.
"Na-chin-skee! Na-chin-skee!" she abruptly began to yell.
Mr. Bullotad was red as a beet and gulping great breaths of air. "What? What?" Mr. B. gasped. He was ready to collapse. "Na-chin-skee what?
"Na-chin-skee! Do Na-chin-skee!"
"Oh my God!" cried Mr. Bullotad. I never saw Nijinsky!"
"Na-chin-skee! Do Na-chin-skee!" continued Big Alice, moving closer.
"I never saw him, I tell you!" screamed Mr. Bullotad, tears in his eyes.
Big Alice opened her mouth and displayed her canines.
Mr. Bullotad executed a beautiful entrechat.

endexcerpt

* Didn't know what an entrechat is? It's a jump in ballet during which the dancer crosses the legs a number of times, alternately back and forth. I remember looking this up in the dictionary and giggling wildly when I read this book.

Absolutely effing hilarious. And as usual, I didn't actually get to the two authors that I had started this post intending to write about, but I'm too sleepy right now. To be continued.

By Lina on May 6, 2008 2:26 AM

Crossing the Atlantic

I am far too highly strung. I know this. I seem unable, though, to stop this. I'm writing this on a 777 airplane that is on its way from London to New York. Next to me, is a hirsute and turbaned Indian man whose hirsuteness and turnbandness have not yet impacted me in any meaningful way. The brown corduroy jacket that he is wearing, however, is keeping me in such a state of tension that I'm nearly unable to breathe. It started out just covering the arm rest that we share, and is now actually partially draped on my leg. It's bumping against my pillow which brings up questions of sanitation, and the fact that this fellow keeps asking me advice on how to fill out his Department of Homeland Security forms isn't calming me down.

I tried to be wily--I opened the tray table that is stored in the arm rest and feigned an inspection of it. This forced him to move the fabric he's so intent on draping over me for a moment. Once it was safely tucked on his side, I ended the inspection and closed the arm rest up again. He looked at me quizzically and asked if I needed the tray table out. "No, just you know, checking it out," I said weakly. Within minutes he had managed to again assault my boundaries and cover me with brown corduroy. All joking aside, I'm actually about to freak out. I have a very low tolerance for these sorts of thing. I've been violently scrunching my toes and making tearful faces as a way to try to calm myself down, and it's not working. I took out my laptop entirely for an excuse to open the arm rest up again as a way to push him back into his designated area.

He started talking to me before the plane even took off, which is a really bad sign. Worse still, he appears to have brought no forms of entertainment. Nary a magazine, ipod or sudoku was to be seen, and thus far he's spent the entire journey infringing on my personal space, shodding and unshodding himself and releasing well timed blasts of foot odor, twiddling his thumbs at amazing speeds and strained his eyes trying to read this as I write. I can't begin to understand how someone could get on a trans-Atlantic flight without a book. Or something. This may be why he's spent the first hour of this journey quizzing me on whether Ireland was part of the UK and if they spoke English there. He should be watching Bridget Jones inflight. I don't like the possibility that I may be the only form of entertainment he has. After his first attempt at conversation, I imagined what would happen if the flight started to go down.

He would try and embrace me, so we could clutch each other in terror and confess out secrets and comfort each other in our dying minutes. Perhaps even talk each other into believing that we would be okay, that we weren't going to plunge into the Atlantic. But, no, I decided, I wouldn't allow it, I decided. "I'm sorry," I'd say. "I have boundary issues. Please don't touch me." This is actually a line I have used more than once at parties. I'd then plug in my ipod, in order to block out his terrified chatter and blankly look at the window until he turned to someone else for solace. Which is what he's appeared to do now. A moment ago, he jumped up and went to the woman in the aisle who has a middle seat next to her open. Words were exchanged, and now mysteriously, he's seated and chatting away with her.

The travel today has not been nice. I arrived at the airport at 8:30 am for a 10:30 am flight. I had stayed up all night as a means to combat jetlag; it would allow me to sleep for the entire flight When I finally checked in after ducking a 90 minute line due to my elite "gold" status, I was told that the flight would be delayed by 4 hours, I would miss my connecting flight and although I could make it into New York only 7 or 8 hours late, if I wanted to get to the airport I needed to go to, it would take at least until tomorrow. I stood there, dumbfounded. "I'm meeting my parents at JFK seven, though. They are flying in from California." She looked at me stonily.

We stared at each other for a while, and finally she said, "So do you want to arrive at Newark at 11pm or LaGuardia at midnight?"

And so, I wept.

I was hustled to customer service where I continued to weep. "I've been getting complaints from everyone who was on this fight. This flight is not my fault. I didn't do it," the agent explained.

I wept.

I was supposed to go to New York last week, but my friend Mark was stabbed to death a few days before my departure. I changed my flight to attend his funeral.

I continued to weep, and when it became clear that there was no abatement in sight, nor would my body mass be condusive to physically removing me, they decided to change my flight something a bit more reasonable. To an amateur, this seems like negative reinforcement. I've just, once again, proven that wailing is more likely to help me get my way than not. After taking psych 101, though, I know that this is actually positive reinforcement, and I'm feeling rather chipper about it, brown corduroy and all.

By Lina on August 17, 2007 12:26 PM

Poesy from California

Sadly, I still don't have internet at home. This is my current excuse for not updating my site--I feel vaguely guilty when I do it from work. Be assured, though, that I am alive and well, and got my first Irish haircut this weekend. It's July and pouring rain, and I am seriously looking for one of those happy lamps to stave off depression. Anyone have any experience with them?

Since I don't have time to update my page myself, I will just post copies of emails sent to me from abroad.

Here's one from my father, the poet, entitled 'The Marin County Fair":

the corn dogs actually advertised that they contained no trans fat obama was the only candidate with a booth
all the art was photographs of sea otters and bonsai
there was a group of mexicans dancing in native costumes with beer bottles balanced on their heads
the only big competition in the baked good were scones
there were about 600 people watching while a guy milked one cow

By Lina on July 2, 2007 1:29 PM

American girls

On corpulence:

As I stepped onto the elevator the other day, I was pleased to see a grossly obese young woman already squeezed into the metal compartment. The girl couldn't have been more than 25, and was tucking her fleshy folds into her elastic-waisted jeans--this was, I had been told, a feature exclusive to Yanks, and I was quietly jubilant to see that the Irish, on their diets of potatoes and creamed everything, were finally catching up. I grinned openly as we rose from one floor to the next.

As we got to the sixth floor and the girl got off, she squealed to the woman next to her in a distinctive American patois, "Dude, did you see Project Runway last night? It was, like, awesome!" Sigh.

On accents:

In Dublin, one gets used to hearing all sorts of accents. The city feels truly international sometimes, sometimes more so than New York ever did. So many countries are basing their European operations in Dublin now, that there are people from all over Europe and beyond crawling the cobbled streets.

This, of course, means that there are a lot of funny accents around.

When I was a youth (but not young enough that writing this doesn't humiliate me), I asked my mother why everyone else in the world had accents but Americans didn't.

I had learned about the pilgrims, and was trying to understand why the Americans wouldn't have the same accent as the English. Clearly they did to begin with, but then, somehow, we managed to throw off any sort of defining accent and emerged like blank slates, unable to be tied to any geographic area by our well-modulated voices.

My mother looked at me and and in horrified disgust said "you moron." This was when I learned, however harshly, that Americans have accents too.

I was reminded of this lesson when I was on the patio of the local pub, enjoying the last dying rays of the Irish sunshine. One might say that a good craic was being had. I was surrounded by locals and few friends from Northern Ireland, who sound more Scottish than the average Irishman. We had been there for a length of time that is too embarrassing to admit here, when a girl from California sat down at our table.

Her voice was jarring. I'm not even going to pretend that her voice was expecially annoying or that she said anything particularly idiotic, but after not hearing an American accent for so long, I finally had a sense of what we sound like to others. The answer is, simply, fucking stupid.

By Lina on May 6, 2007 6:20 PM

The first 90 days

My taxes have become complicated. This means that I now have to keep detailed records by orders of a major international accounting firm of how and where I spend each of my days.

After documenting my first 90 days of 2007, I realize why I've been in such a good mood.

Here's the breakdown:
Workdays: 51
Non-Workdays: 25
Holidays: 14

This means I've spent a solid 46% of my time NOT AT WORK.

In addition, here's where I've been:
Czech Republic: 3 days
France: 3 days
Mississippi: 2 days
Germany: 2 days
New York: 7 days
Ireland: 20 days
California: 53 days

And now, for tax reasons, I'm not going to be able to spend more than five weeks a year inside the US. How weird is that?

By Lina on March 31, 2007 1:48 AM

A visit to the Bible Belt

Right now I am in an airport that has seats that are approximately two and a half feet wide. This is, I think, meant to accommodate fat people. This is, I think, because I am in Mississippi.

In a 48 time period, I'm getting to vist 4 more airports. My favorite so far is Dallas and my least favorite is Jackson. Jackson doesn't have wireless, which is why I am writing this instead of working. There's a Business Center at one end of the terminal; I went to it hopefully, praying for an internet connection. Instead I was confronted with two desks, on top of which sat two cream-colored rotary phones. The only business I could think to conduct was low-level drug deals, so I decided instead to go sulk on a very roomy seat. My first flight is now delayed 2 hours, meaning I will again be traveling for a minimum of 12 hours. I did the same thing yesterday.

My only consolation in Mississippi has been the food. (Clearly, based on the size of my ass, this is my consolation for most things.) I've had fried chicken drenched in a honey glaze, fried green tomatoes with crawfish, blackened green beans, red skin mashed potatoes, biscuits and gravy, crawfish eggrolls and a bananas foster bread pudding. My bag is filled with praline pecans, of both the standard and whiskey drenched variety. My lunch today was with a few locals that I was meeting for work-related reasons. As our food was arriving, one asked, "Do you mind if I bless our food?" I was struck dumb, and one of my co-workers quickly replied "we don't mind at all." I was forced to bow my head and give thanks for my lunch. Luckily, it was a lunch to be thankful for, as it consisted of a blue plate special with chicken, mashed potatoes and gravy, butter beans and cornbread. Blessing things is kind of what Mississippi is like.

This was the Bible Belt. Churches dotted the landscape: Baptist, Methodist, Presbyterian. Along the side of the road people dressed in loudly striped pants and wearing shirts that proclaimed "CONVICT" picked up bits of garbage. For some reason, it's only in very religious locals that chain gangs seem like a good idea. Large signs proclaiming statements about 'The Lord' hung proudly in places of business and quickly began to make me uncomfortable.

One of my co-workers who was with me said "half-Jew? You've got it easy. At least you aren't brown." I realized he had a point as I watched him get searched at the security checkpoint at each leg of our trip.

When they finally told us that our flight out of Jackson to Dallas might be cancelled, we scrambled for flights out of Mississippi. We ran to the ticket counter, trying to beat the rush of people that were sure to follow once they heard the news. We asked to go anywhere--any major city that might allow us to get back to California. The only response we got was "Lafayette? Want to go to Lafayette?" We finally realized we weren't going anywhere unless through Dallas and worried that we'd have to spend another night there.

As we sat dejectedly at the (one) airport bar, I remembered the source of entertainment and and fried delicacies that I had seen at each major intersection in Mississippi. Finally, as my co-worker tapped furiously on his Blackberry and finished another Jack Daniels and Coke, I suggested "let's just call it a wash and go to Hooter's." And so closed my first trip to the Deep South.

By Lina on March 13, 2007 2:33 PM

Airports and my life

Airports are funny places--the normal rules that apply to one's life seem to be discarded the moment one enters the airport. 10 days ago, I found myself eating tempura udon at 8 am at SFO. I wasn't the only one, though. I was surrounded by seemingly normal looking people eating triple-decker burgers and refrigerated sushi platters at a time that most of us would be warily eyeing a coffee. A full meal before a flight, no matter what the length, seems perfectly justified. At any other time fast food tempura udon would not be acceptable, but in the airport, it's breakfast.

I've been spending a lot of time in airports lately. I know which ones I hate (Charles De Galle makes me want to tear my eyes out, Heathrow's 2 mile walks between terminals, shopping mall and depressing food choices have added it to the list) and which I like, (Zurich has got to have the cleanest airport I've ever seem in my life, and both Munich and Hamburg were so orderly! so effecient!).

I was looking through my passport today while filling out another customs form, and started to finally realize that I'm getting the life I had wanted for so long. In my early twenties, my inability to travel had me sobbing in fetal position more times than I could count. I resented my parents for getting to travel and live abroad without having to actually work to get there. I resented them for their refusal to give me the same opportunities that were handed to them on a silver platter. I'm not going to lie, I still resent the hell out of them for this. But I'm really freaking proud of myself for creating these opportunities for myself, without anyone's help. In the last two-and-a-half years, I've gotten 27 stamps in my passport.

In the last year or so, I've been to Spain, Italy, Mexico, Ireland, Scotland, Germany, Turkey and the Czech Republic. And save for the trip to Rome that nearly destroyed my life and psyche, I did all of it on my own. I got to live in Ireland for nearly four months with an expense account, and my teeth are like gleaming Chickets lodged in my gums. I've been granted a work permit to the UK, and I have one for Ireland pending. If all goes well, I hope to move to Dublin permanently in March.

The Polack and I have titled, and I am now officially be introduced as "the girlfriend." This is terrifying, but at the same time I feel optimistic (the self-help books must be working!). At least, it gives me hope that I can successfully date men that are freaking hot even if this one doesn't work out. My last run-in with a real hottie was approximately six years ago--a male model who shouted "I'm married" during an intimate moment that quickly became a me-running-out-the-door moment.

I was at a party with the Polack on Friday night and two separate girls pulled me aside to tell me how hot he is, how lucky I am. One of them used the term 'gorgeous' which in Irish-speak can mean either incredibly attractive or just generally wonderful. Another also tried to physically molest him in my presence, which I was less thrilled about. The whole thing is just so weird, still. I'm so happy about it, about him, but that's usually how I feel just before some emotionally manipulative egomaniac stomps on my heart. So I'm trying to relax and think about all of the horrible things that may happen to me in the future as little as possible.

As part of my attempt to chill out, I'm currently flying from Dublin to New York where I will spend a week (and my birthday!) before going back to California. I plan to engage in any number of decadent activities, most of them food-related and all bound to be incredibly gratifying.

By Lina on February 26, 2007 11:52 AM

Back to Cali, or 8 Weeks of Self-Improvement

So I wrote this on January 17th, but apparently never posted it. My next post will be an update on how my self-improvement plan is going. Instant gratification!

---

The last three-and-a-half months in Dublin have destroyed me physically. I'm not sure if it's the damp weather, socializing every night, or the proximity to attractive men, but my body has begun to deteriorate at an unheard of rate. Said deterioration includes the yearly bout with bronchitis, but also at least two broken toes.

I'm on the plane back to California right now, where I have to stay for approximately 8 weeks while I wait for my visa/work permit. I already have four doctors appointments lined up for tomorrow, all of which I suspect will help turn me into a better person.

That's what I've decided. I'm going to use the eight weeks I'm back home to become a better, more attractive person. I've purchased the books 'Learned Optimism' and '10 Days to Self-Esteem,' and am hoping to start a self-help book group with my morbidly depressed (and self-help accepting) American friends.

Other things I'm hoping to do during these 8 weeks:

Perfect my Korean cooking skills so I can bring my expertise back to Dublin, where the Korean food is sub-standard

Take a pole-dancing class. As I'm dating a Pole, the reasons behind this should be self-explanatory

Write regularly

Follow a daily schedule

Improve flexibility so I can get my mitts within six inches of my toes

Lose the 6 pounds I gained in Dublin

Play tennis

Go to spas and get massages

Learn all of the moves in Pat Benetar's 'Love is a Battlefield' video

Eat massive amounts of vegetables to make up for the last 3.5 months

These are just a few of the things that I am going to do to make sure that when I return to Dublin, I will be both hot and yuppified.

I'm glad to being going back home, though, I have to admit, I love Dublin. It's an amazing city and I'm having a fantastic time. But I miss knowing where to go to get my shoes cobbled, my polka dot sheets, being able to dry my clothes in the dryer rather than on a "drying horse," Korean food, Japanese food, wet, California burritos, the hyphy movement and all Bay Area hip hop, malls, sunshine, ghost riding the whip, high-quality denim, my HMO, medicating my problems, seeing minorities, buying things at reasonable prices, those shoes I got at A.P.C. that I very nearly forgot about, Netflix and Law and Order: SUV. I miss these things. I'm glad for the time at home so I can go back to hating it again.

By Lina on February 6, 2007 10:48 AM

Strangely happy

I'm happy in Dublin. It's weird.

In response to a complaint from a Dubliner that I only write about things that I am dissatisfied with, here's a list of things I like in Dublin:

The accents. So cute.

Hilarious, dry Irish boys who say to me, "It took me 6 hours at the pub with you, but I've finally realized that you are the most sarcastic person I've ever met in my life."

Hot foreign boys.

Riding bicycles with handsome Dutch boys with prominent cheekbones.

Cab drivers always talk to me, whether I want them to or not. Generally they are interesting or funny or both, and always ask me where I am from and tell me stories about that time they went to California.

That cab drivers here can afford to go to California.

Boys here dance!

I don't need a car. I walk.

The term "taking the piss."

Nightlife on weekdays.

Day trips all over Ireland.

Weekend trips all over Europe.

Food being described as "lovely, gorgeous, grand and brilliant." None of these words are ones I would think of to describe food. They've revolutionized language over here.

Speaking of language, the Irish vernacular includes many words and expressions that we phased out over a hundred years ago in America. When they have a buzz, they call it "merry." I love it.

The international feel--because of the low tax rates companies are basing their main operations in Dublin and bringing employees from all over Europe. Doing wonders for my project.

My job here is great.

People are funny, fun and like to socialize. Nuts.

There's history here. We don't have that in the States.

It's beautiful.

The streets where all the doors are painted primary colors.

In general, my peers are not obsessed with wearing clothes only because they are expensive. For once, I'm the most shallow one. I think this will be a good influence on me.

Today I found a store called "Asian Market." It has amazing products covering a range of cuisines: Japanese, Chinese, Thai, Indian. Most importantly though, Korean.

Chat log of the day:

Lina: I have kimchi now
Lina: I'm so fucking happy
Pamela: that's all you need
Pamela: and I do not need cigarettes or boyfriends
Pamela: I'm happy with my creativity
Lina: I do not need cigarettes or boyfriends
Lina: I'm happy with my kimchi

I think maybe I could stay here for a while.

By Lina on November 12, 2006 9:45 AM

On smuggling and anxiety

All of my Spain food talk made me fondly remember my meat smuggling history in August of '04. This just whet my appetite for importing and exporting contraband. Only two months later, I smuggled my sugar glider, Cookie, back to New York and into the hands of the man that loved her best. Sugar gliders are not only illegal in both California and New York City, as well as on airplanes. However, with a note from my therapist, I managed to get her into flight. I found the letter while packing, and have faithfully typed it below.

Oct 18, 2004

To Whom it May Concern: This letter is regarding my psychotherapy patient, Ms. Lina [Redacted]. Due to Ms. [Redacted]'s psychological issues of depression and anxiety, I believe it would be important and helpful for her if she can fly with her pet "Cookie" on her flight back east. This would make her more comfortable and psychologically secure. Thank you for being sensitive to my client's needs and I'm certain this will make her trip much more enjoyable.

Sincerely,

[Name Redacted], LCSW

By Lina on September 24, 2006 8:59 PM

Tolerance, and lack thereof

This week I went on another business trip, or 'getting my grown woman on,' as I like to think of it. I find myself laughing hysterically at inappropriate times, thinking, "What am I doing here?" My business card holder is an empty pack of Orbit gum; it fits them perfectly. My grown woman routine isn't perfect, however. This trip I managed to lose the only black blazer that I liked and later, my car in the car park at the airport.

Aimlessly wandering around the miles long parking lot in business attire and heels while being pounded by the blazing California sun makes one, even a grown woman, reflect. Being Lina, my mind drifts to the ghosts of boyfriends past. I'm not sure what it was about the situation, perhaps the large amounts of dust I was inhaling had some sort of psychotropic effect or maybe I was just so enraged with myself for losing the car that I had to take it out on someone, if only the men of the world.

So many of the boys I go out with read this site--I've often speculated that my only readers are family members and dating victims that aren't on speaking terms with me--that I often don't include what should, and would, be my best material. Of course this leaves me feeling oppressed and with a deep sense of frustration. Why shouldn't I write about the painfully awkward things these boys do? What, really, do I owe them?

I'm not talking about anything big. The things that bother me most about the men that I date are the tiny, painful instances of awkwardness that make me release a grimace of a smile, like a dog baring its teeth, in my attempts not to openly cringe. I usually close my eye for a second and try to compose myself. I open them again, stare blankly ahead, and adopt a fake smile as quickly as possible. I can't say anything, after all; I'm too critical. Seriously stupid behavior doesn't bother me as much as these small acts of pretension gone awry that make my skin prickle and my fists clench.

Recently, I went on a date to see the newest Lindsey Lohan movie. The movie is about how this girl has good luck and some dude has bad luck and when they make out, they trade and their luck switches. Typical teen fare. I hadn't yet formed any strong feelings about the fellow sitting next to me until he started making grunts of derision at the film. "That would so never happen," he declared in a loud whisper more than one. "That's not realistic," he claimed while Lindsay frantically tried to reclaim her good luck. It was so painful as to be unbearable. Of course it was unrealistic, it was an effing Lindsay Lohan movie for gods sake. Finally, I leaned over and hissed, "Suspend your fucking disbelief, could you?"

My tolerance for pretension of any kind is shockingly low. Art is often a catalyst. I've never been so embarrassed as to hear these boys that I generally (or at least sometimes) respect talk about art, especially their own. I used to have a boyfriend who was as pretentious as he was low-class. He bought an expensive camera and began taking pictures, mainly of his friends, which I approved of, and of his shoes, artfully formed rocks, and people's eyelashes, which I did not. He bought an expensive journal cum photo album and began pasting his more creative works in it. He then cut letters out of the metrosexual magazines he subscribed to and embossed the cover of his album, in the style of a ransom note, with the words, 'Fuck you it's art!'

My reaction was visceral. I vomited a small amount into my mouth, swallowed it again, and closed my eyes. A moment later I opened them, flashed some teeth and artificial smile and said, "Good idea. Can we go out to dinner now?"

By Lina on June 23, 2006 10:54 AM

The generation gap

Last weekend my ex-boyfriend came to town, touring with his latest band. Micah turned 37 this month, but his devotion to punk rock has not faded, despite his graying hair and the deaths of most of his peers. Seeing Micah is always strange. As I've mentioned on this site before, he married a stripper while we were dating (and didn't tell me). Having been raised in a reasonably middle-class household, I was unaccustomed to interacting with strippers and was unaware of the potential for matrimony with them. I was seventeen, and shamefully unaware of the ways of the world.

Micah and I stayed together after I left California to go to college in New York. We talked to each other on the phone every night, and I cried and carried on as if my heart would never heal from the separation. Micah had promised to move to New York to be with me, he was just taking a little bit of time to save some money before he came. Like the dutiful teenage girlfriend that I was, I had a large framed picture of him on my desk, and looked at it mournfully many times a day. Finally though, the lesbian influence at Sarah Lawrence affected me, and I allowed myself to be convinced that Micah would never, indeed, save the money he needed to move to New York, and therefore the relationship was doomed. I broke up with him, in a tearful long-distance call. It was only later that I discovered he had married a stripper three weeks earlier and neglected to mention it to me. A year later they had the marriage annulled, on the grounds that they had been under the influence of nitrous (in the form of whipped cream canister refills) at the time of the marriage.

Our relationship officially ended when I was still 17, but I've remained friends with him for the last decade of my life. The only thing more absurd than Micah is his awareness of his own absurdity--a rare trait. When you hear him tell the story of the time he was arrested for loitering with the intent to prostitute, you can't help but think he's got a great imagination. When I was a private investigator, though, I looked up his criminal record in San Francisco and there it was in black and white. The ridiculousness of him is overwhelming. Sometimes though, it's hard for me not to wonder what my life would be like if I had never gone to so many Fang shows and just kept shopping at J. Crew as I was meant to do. You can never really quantify how a relationship affects you, but I do know that my relationship with Micah shaped who I am, both in my teen years and to the present day, more than any I've had since.

And although I love him to this day, I can't help but think that perhaps he would be better served--not to mention the girls that he dates--if he dated women closer to his own age. When I walked in and saw him last weekend, he was with his band. A couple of eighteen year olds sitting around drinking cheap beer with spiked hair and sullen expressions. One of them was named Spaz. Seriously. Micah's new girlfriend was also there, and claimed to be 18. After a few beers though, it came out that she was not quite 18 yet, and I couldn't contain my horror. "I dated him when I was 17, and that was 10 years ago!" I squawked. He gets older and they stay the same age, as the joke goes. "Age is meaningless," the girl replied, snottily. "Yeah, call me in ten years and tell me how it works out," I said, sneering. Even while wearing pearl earrings, I can still make teenagers flinch with a well-aimed look.

Later, we all went to the show together. Mary and I stood and attempted to make conversation with the girl, who was clearly incapable of it. When she saw my new Converse, she said "Lucky!" unable to contain the wistfulness in her voice. I hadn't pined over a pair of $30 sneakers like that since I was, well, 17. Micah had only formed his band eight weeks ago, and had gotten a tattoo to commemorate each month of their survival. Onstage, they were better than I had anticipated, but still slightly horrifying. Besides Micah, I might have been the oldest person in the club, which was covered in graffiti and littered in Pabst Blue Ribbon cans. Underage drinking abounded. When Micah sang, he looked as if ha was going into convulsions and turned scarlet. I whooped when he started singing a Fang song and then caught myself. "Who am I?" I wondered. And then, watching the tattooed middle-aged man on stage screaming the word "fuck" over and over, I thought, "I can't believe I lost my virginity to this guy." I looked around at the crowd of 15-year-olds that had gathered to see the show, and snickered disdainfully. "I was going to punk shows when you were still in Pampers," I thought. And sadly, if any of them had some sort of delayed development--which, judging by the audience, seemed a distinct possibility--that might actually be true.

Mary told me that Micah said to her, "Sometimes Lina looks at me like I ruined her life." I can't help it though, I look at everyone that way.

By Lina on March 26, 2006 9:23 PM

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