A funny story to make up for the sparse and depressing posts of the past few weeks.
You may remember "Dr. A" from this post. He's my friend at work, thanks to both of us being generally cheerful oddballs with weird names. His first name, which he is known by, calls to mind a man of Indian or Middle Eastern persuasion, yet Dr. A is a sixty-something redhead from Chicago. I really don't know. Anyway, a few weeks ago, the following exchange took place when Dr. A wandered in to my work space.
Dr. A: Hello!
ALB: Hello!
Dr. A: *in a strange accent* Hello! *a pause* What accent are we doing?
ALB: What accent are you doing?
Dr. A: I was imitating you.
ALB: Oh. That's just... how I talk.
Dr. A: *longer pause* Where are you from again?
ALB: East Tennessee.
Dr. A: Ah.
Undercover hillbilly status = possibly compromised.
Friday, September 30, 2011
Tuesday, September 27, 2011
September 27
Back in TN this week after burying my grandfather yesterday.
When it rains, it really pours, doesn't it?
When it rains, it really pours, doesn't it?
Thursday, September 22, 2011
September 22: rejection
This past weekend I was at Target picking up some socks (thank God it was just socks) when a really bizarre thing happened. As I was navigating the aisles of the super crowded store and puzzling over the intercom announcements in Spanish, I lock eyes with a dude over a sea of carts and notice he's looking at me as well.
At first I dismiss this as typical D.C. area behavior. People here stare. And not the way I stare, stealthily -- they stare noticeably, at everyone. Walking down the street, people lock eyes with you as they pass you and sometimes hold it until you're gone. It's really unnerving. I've started playing really uncomfortable games of chicken with dudes at the crosswalk, where we make eye contact from a distance, then I look away (like any normal person would), then look back to see them still looking at me, then look away, etc.. You can repeat this up to five times at a wide crosswalk, and I mean really wide -- they give you like an hour to cross. Okay, not really, but a lot of the timers above the 'walk' sign start at 60 seconds.
Anyway, I see this guy, he sees me, our steps slow and then stop as we both do the narrowed-eyes-tilted-head expression of simultaneous recognition and confusion. Who do I know in Arlington? I'm thinking. No one.
Except this dude, 'cause he's my nemesis from the undergrad history thesis program.
Not Al the triple-majoring, girlfriend-proposing Catholic, who once sent me a bullet-pointed page of critiques on a chapter draft that included remarks on my choice of punctuation. No, the other one, whose politically-centered and colorless thesis made peer reviewing even more painful than it already was. Talk about dry reading -- I'm pretty sure that rubbing two pages of his work together briskly enough could start a fire.
He was a ruthless critic as well. Every time my work was up for review, I could always count on this guy to trap me with questions like "Why do you consider Oklahoma part of the South?" and "Why is Woody Guthrie more important than, say, Arlo?" After giving up on trying to explain the historical significance of our favorite Dub-G, I challenged him to name an Arlo song. He named two. I looked like a fool.
Anyway, it was this guy walking down the same aisle as me in a crowded Target in a state neither of us are from.
We stopped for a minute and talked (apparently he moved here to look for work - yeah, good luck.), exchanged happenings since graduation, enjoyed an awkward moment or two with his mother ("Well you two should exchange phone numbers and meet up!"), and then went our separate ways. The phone thing never happened, so I felt obligated to end this interaction with a noncommittal "Okay, I'll facebook you!" Which meant the nightmare continued, because I had to go home and add him two years after it would've been appropriate.
I'm pretty sure this has happened to me multiple times. Hey, I know we met years ago but I've spent the whole time being afraid of you and not wanting you to judge me on my profile on a social media site. But now we're cool, right?
Apparently not: six days and counting, friend request not accepted.
At first I dismiss this as typical D.C. area behavior. People here stare. And not the way I stare, stealthily -- they stare noticeably, at everyone. Walking down the street, people lock eyes with you as they pass you and sometimes hold it until you're gone. It's really unnerving. I've started playing really uncomfortable games of chicken with dudes at the crosswalk, where we make eye contact from a distance, then I look away (like any normal person would), then look back to see them still looking at me, then look away, etc.. You can repeat this up to five times at a wide crosswalk, and I mean really wide -- they give you like an hour to cross. Okay, not really, but a lot of the timers above the 'walk' sign start at 60 seconds.
Anyway, I see this guy, he sees me, our steps slow and then stop as we both do the narrowed-eyes-tilted-head expression of simultaneous recognition and confusion. Who do I know in Arlington? I'm thinking. No one.
Except this dude, 'cause he's my nemesis from the undergrad history thesis program.
Not Al the triple-majoring, girlfriend-proposing Catholic, who once sent me a bullet-pointed page of critiques on a chapter draft that included remarks on my choice of punctuation. No, the other one, whose politically-centered and colorless thesis made peer reviewing even more painful than it already was. Talk about dry reading -- I'm pretty sure that rubbing two pages of his work together briskly enough could start a fire.
He was a ruthless critic as well. Every time my work was up for review, I could always count on this guy to trap me with questions like "Why do you consider Oklahoma part of the South?" and "Why is Woody Guthrie more important than, say, Arlo?" After giving up on trying to explain the historical significance of our favorite Dub-G, I challenged him to name an Arlo song. He named two. I looked like a fool.
Anyway, it was this guy walking down the same aisle as me in a crowded Target in a state neither of us are from.
We stopped for a minute and talked (apparently he moved here to look for work - yeah, good luck.), exchanged happenings since graduation, enjoyed an awkward moment or two with his mother ("Well you two should exchange phone numbers and meet up!"), and then went our separate ways. The phone thing never happened, so I felt obligated to end this interaction with a noncommittal "Okay, I'll facebook you!" Which meant the nightmare continued, because I had to go home and add him two years after it would've been appropriate.
I'm pretty sure this has happened to me multiple times. Hey, I know we met years ago but I've spent the whole time being afraid of you and not wanting you to judge me on my profile on a social media site. But now we're cool, right?
Apparently not: six days and counting, friend request not accepted.
Wednesday, September 21, 2011
September 21
I had in mind a really coherent and funny post about several awkward things that have happened to me recently, but then I got a call from my mom and now I feel terrible. I mean, moving is one thing, but doing it before I can come home (getting out asap, like next month, is the plan) and say goodbye/salvage my stuff is another. No, Mom, I don't know how much you should sell my bed for, because I was planning on putting that in my own house someday. Although now that I realize I will never be able to afford a house, I suppose this is less of an issue.
Does putting this kind of stuff here bother anybody? I mean, since the point of MLILT (ostensibly) is to laugh at my terrible life, not cry at it, do depressing and emotional posts detract from the blog? I'm thinking they may be annoying or off-putting to the dozens of A-list editors whom I know are reading this and just waiting to offer me a lucrative book /screenplay deal. I'm going to put a poll over on the right sidebar so you can weigh in.
In related news, heavily influenced by CB's love of positive psychology and the dollar bin at Michael's, I started a gratitude journal. I'm liking it so far, because it's such a motivating force to look for good things throughout the day and remind yourself of the little positive things that happen. However, even my positive psych journal is somewhat tainted with failure: yesterday's entry included being thankful that it wasn't raining when I rode the bus too far and had to walk back home through a strange neighborhood. Oh, well.
I've felt a little better since starting it, but I think my problem is not that I don't appreciate the little good things in life; it's that the good things are so small, and the bad things are so big.
Does putting this kind of stuff here bother anybody? I mean, since the point of MLILT (ostensibly) is to laugh at my terrible life, not cry at it, do depressing and emotional posts detract from the blog? I'm thinking they may be annoying or off-putting to the dozens of A-list editors whom I know are reading this and just waiting to offer me a lucrative book /screenplay deal. I'm going to put a poll over on the right sidebar so you can weigh in.
In related news, heavily influenced by CB's love of positive psychology and the dollar bin at Michael's, I started a gratitude journal. I'm liking it so far, because it's such a motivating force to look for good things throughout the day and remind yourself of the little positive things that happen. However, even my positive psych journal is somewhat tainted with failure: yesterday's entry included being thankful that it wasn't raining when I rode the bus too far and had to walk back home through a strange neighborhood. Oh, well.
I've felt a little better since starting it, but I think my problem is not that I don't appreciate the little good things in life; it's that the good things are so small, and the bad things are so big.
Monday, September 19, 2011
September 19: a good story and a terrible story
Things here continue on as usual: archiving ad nauseum. When I was in NY, I briefly considered the attainment of an MLS as a solid career move. Now, if you offered me the option of getting a library science degree and say, drinking bleach, I'd be hard put to make a choice. Oh, well.
I've been doing more research into school options lately because, let's face it: the high life of living in cars and basements isn't going to last forever. I haven't said anything to anyone, but MTSU has a fairly applicable straw I could grasp at while remaining under the fam's roof in Nash. I know that living on your own, or even the pseudo-independent thing I've been doing, is supposed to totally turn you off from ever living with parents again, but in my case it did pretty much the opposite: I will gratefully put up with any rules or requirements provided that I get a worry-free place to stay. Surely I can't be the only one thinking this. Right now I bet millions of recent grads are having the same conversation: Yeah, what now parents? You said the real world was horrible and you were right -- so I'm moving back in with you forever!
So it looked like there might be a tiny little flicker of light at the end of this tunnel of perpetual unemployment, which was a cheerful thought. But now I can never live back home in Nash, and I'll tell you why. This is the horrible story, and I'll end with a funny one so everyone who reads this doesn't get the urge to go out and just end it all. I know there've been a lot of depressing entries lately.
Long story short, my brother's been house hunting. But isn't your brother, like, 24? Yes. Is this the same one who makes ungodly amounts of money with a degree from an institution that advertises on television? The very same. So when I was briefly back in Nash, I spent a lot of time being dragged around to look at houses all over town that I thought were perfectly nice, but which were never good enough for him. Yawn. But wait... aren't you in the process of losing your home right now? Why yes, we are. So probably you can understand the ragecanoe that erupts whenever I have to listen to this dude's fake problems of finding a house in a neighborhood without kids (yes, he is bothered by even seeing other people's kids -- how is it not abundantly clear to everyone that he has sold his soul to the Devil, I'll never understand), or whether he wants carpet or hard wood floors, and all I can do is remember when he refused to loan my mom a cent to keep the damn lights on. It takes a special kind of evil to show off what you have in front of the people you've wronged (also via FB, so my mom knows all about it), especially when they've swallowed their pride and asked you for help.
My anger at this shmuck could go on for pages and/or years of therapy, so I'll get right to the point. Today I talked to my dad and he told me bro's finally found a place. Hurray! No more looking at houses and trying to figure out how to key his car (or motorcycle!) and make it look like an accident. Then my dad tells me where the place is.
Our neighborhood.
Um, what? My dad lives in a condo development on the outskirts of town, and allegedly found my bro a great deal on a place in the same subdivision. I did not ask for more details of this nightmare, but wherever he lives it will not be more than a tenth of a mile from us. Every day I stay at my dad's I will be have to be reminded that this tool lives around the corner, in a far better situation than anyone his age or character should have. And he's doing it while screwing the rest of us.
So I think living there will be awful from now on, and perhaps not a viable grad school residence once I finally lose it and put a brick through his window. Back to the drawing board.
Let's get to the funny story before I resort to slitting my wrists casually.
One department of the place where I work is the Smithsonian Folkways record label, which specializes in world and historic music. They produce all kinds of recordings, from Amazonian war songs to Appalachian banjo to some dude playing a recorder near a wolf and calling it "interspecies communication." Folkways was the world's most democratic record label, and now that Smithsonian has acquired it, it's even better. You can buy any record that was ever recorded for the label since its inception, and they often acquire labels that are going out of business or just want someone awesome to take care of their catalogues and make sure they reach as many ears as possible.
So last week we get the word that a tiny label in VA that specializes in historic local recordings is donating their catalogue to us (that means we get the master tapes and right to reproduce the albums under the S-F name forever). And since the owners are buds of the CFCH team, they're coming up to deliver it personally. Interns are invited to lurk in the back and observe the momentous occasion.
In walks the label owner, a man I can only describe as a cowbilly. Graying hair past the collar, long curled moustache, granny glasses, cowboy boots... he looked like either a young Wildford Brimley or an old George Custer. He swapped folk song fieldwork tales with the staff and invited us all down to the annual Blue Ridge Folklife Festival, which features such events as a tractor competition and coon dog racing. Seeing the puzzled expressions on the faces of some of our more citified employees, he explained that a pack of coon dogs are raced across a pond by hauling the carcass of a raccoon on a zip line overhead. The first dog to swim across the pond, plant four feet on dry land, and bark is the winner. That is all I needed to hear - sign me up.
But wait, there's more. As the meeting adjourned and everyone was filing out of the room, there was a point where only me, Wilford Custer, Jr., and a CFCH director ("Dr. A") were left. I went back to my desk, out of sight but not out of earshot. The man from the mountains approaches Dr. A with a grin and a conspiratorial air:
"If you get everyone together later, you can all have a little celebration on us."
There was the rustle of a package being opened and some quiet chuckling from WCJ. Dr. A politely thanks him and I poke my head around to see what I anticipate being the presentation of a bottle of champagne.
Dr. A is stuttering. "Um... is this... spring water?"
"Not quite."
Another long pause. And then, "How did you get this past security?"
As WCJ and Dr. A leave the room, I get a look at what's just been exchanged. It's a quart Mason jar full of clear liquid.
...
Yes, WCJ congratulated us on the label acquisition by bringing us a gift from his homeland: moonshine.
After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I told the other intern, but she seemed skeptical. Un-be-lievable.
I've been doing more research into school options lately because, let's face it: the high life of living in cars and basements isn't going to last forever. I haven't said anything to anyone, but MTSU has a fairly applicable straw I could grasp at while remaining under the fam's roof in Nash. I know that living on your own, or even the pseudo-independent thing I've been doing, is supposed to totally turn you off from ever living with parents again, but in my case it did pretty much the opposite: I will gratefully put up with any rules or requirements provided that I get a worry-free place to stay. Surely I can't be the only one thinking this. Right now I bet millions of recent grads are having the same conversation: Yeah, what now parents? You said the real world was horrible and you were right -- so I'm moving back in with you forever!
So it looked like there might be a tiny little flicker of light at the end of this tunnel of perpetual unemployment, which was a cheerful thought. But now I can never live back home in Nash, and I'll tell you why. This is the horrible story, and I'll end with a funny one so everyone who reads this doesn't get the urge to go out and just end it all. I know there've been a lot of depressing entries lately.
Long story short, my brother's been house hunting. But isn't your brother, like, 24? Yes. Is this the same one who makes ungodly amounts of money with a degree from an institution that advertises on television? The very same. So when I was briefly back in Nash, I spent a lot of time being dragged around to look at houses all over town that I thought were perfectly nice, but which were never good enough for him. Yawn. But wait... aren't you in the process of losing your home right now? Why yes, we are. So probably you can understand the ragecanoe that erupts whenever I have to listen to this dude's fake problems of finding a house in a neighborhood without kids (yes, he is bothered by even seeing other people's kids -- how is it not abundantly clear to everyone that he has sold his soul to the Devil, I'll never understand), or whether he wants carpet or hard wood floors, and all I can do is remember when he refused to loan my mom a cent to keep the damn lights on. It takes a special kind of evil to show off what you have in front of the people you've wronged (also via FB, so my mom knows all about it), especially when they've swallowed their pride and asked you for help.
My anger at this shmuck could go on for pages and/or years of therapy, so I'll get right to the point. Today I talked to my dad and he told me bro's finally found a place. Hurray! No more looking at houses and trying to figure out how to key his car (or motorcycle!) and make it look like an accident. Then my dad tells me where the place is.
Our neighborhood.
Um, what? My dad lives in a condo development on the outskirts of town, and allegedly found my bro a great deal on a place in the same subdivision. I did not ask for more details of this nightmare, but wherever he lives it will not be more than a tenth of a mile from us. Every day I stay at my dad's I will be have to be reminded that this tool lives around the corner, in a far better situation than anyone his age or character should have. And he's doing it while screwing the rest of us.
So I think living there will be awful from now on, and perhaps not a viable grad school residence once I finally lose it and put a brick through his window. Back to the drawing board.
Let's get to the funny story before I resort to slitting my wrists casually.
One department of the place where I work is the Smithsonian Folkways record label, which specializes in world and historic music. They produce all kinds of recordings, from Amazonian war songs to Appalachian banjo to some dude playing a recorder near a wolf and calling it "interspecies communication." Folkways was the world's most democratic record label, and now that Smithsonian has acquired it, it's even better. You can buy any record that was ever recorded for the label since its inception, and they often acquire labels that are going out of business or just want someone awesome to take care of their catalogues and make sure they reach as many ears as possible.
So last week we get the word that a tiny label in VA that specializes in historic local recordings is donating their catalogue to us (that means we get the master tapes and right to reproduce the albums under the S-F name forever). And since the owners are buds of the CFCH team, they're coming up to deliver it personally. Interns are invited to lurk in the back and observe the momentous occasion.
In walks the label owner, a man I can only describe as a cowbilly. Graying hair past the collar, long curled moustache, granny glasses, cowboy boots... he looked like either a young Wildford Brimley or an old George Custer. He swapped folk song fieldwork tales with the staff and invited us all down to the annual Blue Ridge Folklife Festival, which features such events as a tractor competition and coon dog racing. Seeing the puzzled expressions on the faces of some of our more citified employees, he explained that a pack of coon dogs are raced across a pond by hauling the carcass of a raccoon on a zip line overhead. The first dog to swim across the pond, plant four feet on dry land, and bark is the winner. That is all I needed to hear - sign me up.
But wait, there's more. As the meeting adjourned and everyone was filing out of the room, there was a point where only me, Wilford Custer, Jr., and a CFCH director ("Dr. A") were left. I went back to my desk, out of sight but not out of earshot. The man from the mountains approaches Dr. A with a grin and a conspiratorial air:
"If you get everyone together later, you can all have a little celebration on us."
There was the rustle of a package being opened and some quiet chuckling from WCJ. Dr. A politely thanks him and I poke my head around to see what I anticipate being the presentation of a bottle of champagne.
Dr. A is stuttering. "Um... is this... spring water?"
"Not quite."
Another long pause. And then, "How did you get this past security?"
As WCJ and Dr. A leave the room, I get a look at what's just been exchanged. It's a quart Mason jar full of clear liquid.
...
Yes, WCJ congratulated us on the label acquisition by bringing us a gift from his homeland: moonshine.
After I picked my jaw up off the floor, I told the other intern, but she seemed skeptical. Un-be-lievable.
Wednesday, September 14, 2011
September 14
So the plot thickens vis-a-vis the last post, in which it was revealed that we are pulling up stakes in OK and getting the hell out of Dodge. There's a 'for sale' sign in the front yard and the contents of our house can be found on Ebay at increasingly sad prices.
For awhile I was pretty upset about leaving our house -- I mean, yeah, the dining room flooded when the drains got blocked up and more often than not you could only get out the back door with a screwdriver and a knowledge of locksmithery -- but it was ours, the only thing we ever had together and totally to ourselves. Everywhere else we were living on borrowed time, waiting for the money to run out or relatives to get tired of us or something else that would necessitate a move. But here we could finally chill out and happy times (well, marginally less miserable times, were here again.
But I guess your problems always catch up to you, even if it takes ten years. I sat down and cried for about thirty seconds before I realized it wouldn't do any good -- there's nothing else we can do, and my feeling bad about it won't make it any different. It was always pretty much understood that we would eventually leave OK. When I was looking for grad schools, my mom even suggested that she would move where I was and we could share an apartment. So that was about 10x the pressure on that particular venture, which didn't pan out anyway. The town I won't miss unduly and my remaining friends there are few, if important. I only came home once a year in college anyway to save money, so it's not like it's been my home since then. As things have continued to roll downhill, it's become an increasingly inhospitable environment anyway -- no internet, cable, or phone, and unless our bills are magically mixed up with someone else's, by next month no water or electricity.
I guess the only thing I'll really miss is my house, where I know where everything is and where everything came from. This probably sounds pretty weird; I guess I mean to say my house is the only place where I ever felt like myself. I felt like I belonged there, I didn't have to try and act normal for anyone, and if I needed something, I didn't have to ask anyone. My life since then has been a story of perpetual guesthood, where my existence is transitory, easily displaced, and totally ignorant of where anyone keeps the light bulbs. It's not really your house if you have to ask where everything is and if you can use it, or if your area is routinely altered without your knowledge or consent, is my thinking.
I suppose that's what I'll miss: feeling at home, in my home. Where I'm qualified to conquer the problems that come up (provided they do so within the boundaries of the bus lines) and can take care of myself with minimal invasion into the lives of others. But how long will I have to wait for another place to call home?
I think maybe growing up is a process of steadily weaning yourself off of things you used to think were permanent, or at least stable.
For awhile I was pretty upset about leaving our house -- I mean, yeah, the dining room flooded when the drains got blocked up and more often than not you could only get out the back door with a screwdriver and a knowledge of locksmithery -- but it was ours, the only thing we ever had together and totally to ourselves. Everywhere else we were living on borrowed time, waiting for the money to run out or relatives to get tired of us or something else that would necessitate a move. But here we could finally chill out and happy times (well, marginally less miserable times, were here again.
But I guess your problems always catch up to you, even if it takes ten years. I sat down and cried for about thirty seconds before I realized it wouldn't do any good -- there's nothing else we can do, and my feeling bad about it won't make it any different. It was always pretty much understood that we would eventually leave OK. When I was looking for grad schools, my mom even suggested that she would move where I was and we could share an apartment. So that was about 10x the pressure on that particular venture, which didn't pan out anyway. The town I won't miss unduly and my remaining friends there are few, if important. I only came home once a year in college anyway to save money, so it's not like it's been my home since then. As things have continued to roll downhill, it's become an increasingly inhospitable environment anyway -- no internet, cable, or phone, and unless our bills are magically mixed up with someone else's, by next month no water or electricity.
I guess the only thing I'll really miss is my house, where I know where everything is and where everything came from. This probably sounds pretty weird; I guess I mean to say my house is the only place where I ever felt like myself. I felt like I belonged there, I didn't have to try and act normal for anyone, and if I needed something, I didn't have to ask anyone. My life since then has been a story of perpetual guesthood, where my existence is transitory, easily displaced, and totally ignorant of where anyone keeps the light bulbs. It's not really your house if you have to ask where everything is and if you can use it, or if your area is routinely altered without your knowledge or consent, is my thinking.
I suppose that's what I'll miss: feeling at home, in my home. Where I'm qualified to conquer the problems that come up (provided they do so within the boundaries of the bus lines) and can take care of myself with minimal invasion into the lives of others. But how long will I have to wait for another place to call home?
I think maybe growing up is a process of steadily weaning yourself off of things you used to think were permanent, or at least stable.
Thursday, September 8, 2011
D.C. Update
Well, while we all wait for the motivation to write What I Learned: Part 2 to present itself, I think an update on the new city and internship will tide us over.
I'm living in Arlington, VA, a nice suburb very close to D.C. I work in the city, very close to the National Mall and all kinds of fun sights (although everything's been obscured by fog and rain of biblical proportions since the day I arrived -- an omen?), and carpool to and from work every day with the woman I live with. There are two daughters at home and a dog. For what is looking like an ever more reasonable price for rent, I get my own giant bedroom, bathroom, use of everything in the house, and a ziploc bag with my name on it and a PB&J inside every morning. As in, they feed me. I honestly don't think anyone has packed my lunch since the early '90s, so this is truly the high life.
The job is awesome if a bit disorganized (luckily the downtime/time when none of the supervisors are available can be filled by listening to one of the thousands of records that line the walls of the office -- the complete catalogue of Folkways Records and then some). Well, awesome like the last one was awesome: I don't think anyone really aspires to spend their life alphabetizing a huge file box of folders containing business records for a defunct record company, but if you like who you're working for and feel like what you're doing is important and making a difference for the archives, it's no trouble at all. So yeah. More on the work later.
The other interns seem like good people. There are 5 other people in my area, 4 of whom are girls. 2 are still in college, 1 already has a Master's, and 1 is floating around like me caught between rounds one and two. I actually don't know where the guy is in his education, but I will say this for him: he knows his folk music and is a dead ringer for someone initialed JS. So much it's almost alarming. We're set to work on the same projects, so at some point I will probably address him as J when he inevitably starts praising Bob Dylan's later work or lets that beard get out of control.
So basically things here are good, and I'm not worried about riding it out til December. Which is just as well, because apparently life in the outside world is terrible and occasionally calls in. Two internships procured, successfully living away from home, and unexpectedly living the high life in D.C. on the cheap: of course it was only a matter of time before Life snuck up behind me and kicked me in the back of the knees. I'm currently selling the contents of our house on Ebay and apparently we are abandoning the S.S. Oklahoma as soon as we can strip the sails. I would say FTS, but that's just life.
I'm living in Arlington, VA, a nice suburb very close to D.C. I work in the city, very close to the National Mall and all kinds of fun sights (although everything's been obscured by fog and rain of biblical proportions since the day I arrived -- an omen?), and carpool to and from work every day with the woman I live with. There are two daughters at home and a dog. For what is looking like an ever more reasonable price for rent, I get my own giant bedroom, bathroom, use of everything in the house, and a ziploc bag with my name on it and a PB&J inside every morning. As in, they feed me. I honestly don't think anyone has packed my lunch since the early '90s, so this is truly the high life.
The job is awesome if a bit disorganized (luckily the downtime/time when none of the supervisors are available can be filled by listening to one of the thousands of records that line the walls of the office -- the complete catalogue of Folkways Records and then some). Well, awesome like the last one was awesome: I don't think anyone really aspires to spend their life alphabetizing a huge file box of folders containing business records for a defunct record company, but if you like who you're working for and feel like what you're doing is important and making a difference for the archives, it's no trouble at all. So yeah. More on the work later.
The other interns seem like good people. There are 5 other people in my area, 4 of whom are girls. 2 are still in college, 1 already has a Master's, and 1 is floating around like me caught between rounds one and two. I actually don't know where the guy is in his education, but I will say this for him: he knows his folk music and is a dead ringer for someone initialed JS. So much it's almost alarming. We're set to work on the same projects, so at some point I will probably address him as J when he inevitably starts praising Bob Dylan's later work or lets that beard get out of control.
So basically things here are good, and I'm not worried about riding it out til December. Which is just as well, because apparently life in the outside world is terrible and occasionally calls in. Two internships procured, successfully living away from home, and unexpectedly living the high life in D.C. on the cheap: of course it was only a matter of time before Life snuck up behind me and kicked me in the back of the knees. I'm currently selling the contents of our house on Ebay and apparently we are abandoning the S.S. Oklahoma as soon as we can strip the sails. I would say FTS, but that's just life.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
September (what?) 6
This blog is looking like a hot mess. I'd make it a little easier on the eyes, but hey! if I had those skills I'd be selling them.
Anyway.
Anyway.
Am now housed and interned in the D.C. area, and as usual, am comically unprepared for the weather. The autumn and winter clothes stayed at home so I am traipsing around this cold and sodden city in shorts and river shoes.
I started the internship today, which was kinda like the first day of school in that there were loads of introductions and a couple of videos. I earned some street cred with the other interns because the boss knew about my time at WG and kept bringing it up -- they thought I was a full on MLS degree holder! Sorry kids, I am about as unqualified as they come.
More about the job later...
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