I'm not ready!
I started to go back through my blog to cull the best and most delicious tidbits from this five-year long writing project and got caught up in my own anecdotes. I'm not even done with 2010 yet, so I can't possibly make a post of my best writing of the majority of my adult life so far.
Consider this a place-holder. Yes, numerically this is blog post 200, but it's just a short one to tide you over while I finish reading about my own life. And then, on Sunday, I will post the Post of Posts, a magical tour through the dusty archives of Big Island Rachel.
It will please you.
Wednesday, February 13, 2013
Sunday, February 10, 2013
Snow day in my comfort zone
I've got my mood lighting on, the television and Netflix playing at the same time, and I ate sweet potato pie for breakfast. Sundays are my sloth days, and I'm taking advantage of the snow piled up in mushy heaps outside to catch up on my sitting around time.
Sometimes I feel weird that I get so much enjoyment out of hiding in my den and not partaking of the banquet of life just outside my front door. In Honolulu, I lived three blocks away from the most famous beach in the world but preferred to spend my weekends lying around on the floor, reading whatever library books I'd stashed under the bed. And now, I live in the most exciting city in the world, pay an exorbitant amount of money for the privilege, and I still consider a day I don't leave my tiny apartment to be a rousing success.
My co-worker A and I were discussing the television show "Girls" the other day, the episode where Hannah gets a freelance gig from an editor who tells her to take a bunch of cocaine because it would make a good article.
I'm embarrassed to admit that I've lived a certain portion of my life like that--or at least, I've justified some shitty experiences to myself by saying that they'll make a good story later. I suspect a lot of people do that, and that the "good story" line is often justification for circumstances you can't control rather than motivation for experiences you want to have. It's been easier for me to get through periods of desperation and indignity by convincing myself that this was all going to seem much more impressive later on, when I'd moved on to my real, better life.
My next post is going to be my 200th post. As I comb through the archives looking for the high and low points to showcase for the occasion, thinking about where I've been and what I've been doing since I started this site, I look at that image from "Girls" of the comfort zone and the area outside of it. I look at it very closely. I experienced some interesting things outside of my comfort zone, as we'll all reminisce about in Wednesday's post. And some of those things fell into that little circle of magic. But some of them crashed and died horrible, fiery deaths in the negative space around that shining gold frame.
I think comfort zones are underrated. There's a reason they're called "comfort" zones, after all, and not "discomfort" zones: they make you comfortable. Comfort isn't an easy achievement, nor one to take for granted. A good comfort zone takes time and effort to build up and maintain, to make sure that there's enough money to keep the fridge stocked, and enough time and organization to keep ahead of the library fines before they don't let you check out any more books. Comfort zones allow you to have pets, stable relationships, regularly scheduled blog posts, good sex without injuries you have to lie about on your insurance forms, and clean toilets.
Maybe I've exposed myself as terminally uncool at this point, but I ain't give a damn. It's Sunday, my cartoons are on, I haven't worn a bra for 24 hours, and I think it's time for night cheese.
My life is right where I want it to be.
Sometimes I feel weird that I get so much enjoyment out of hiding in my den and not partaking of the banquet of life just outside my front door. In Honolulu, I lived three blocks away from the most famous beach in the world but preferred to spend my weekends lying around on the floor, reading whatever library books I'd stashed under the bed. And now, I live in the most exciting city in the world, pay an exorbitant amount of money for the privilege, and I still consider a day I don't leave my tiny apartment to be a rousing success.
My co-worker A and I were discussing the television show "Girls" the other day, the episode where Hannah gets a freelance gig from an editor who tells her to take a bunch of cocaine because it would make a good article.
 |
| What? It's a great show. |
My next post is going to be my 200th post. As I comb through the archives looking for the high and low points to showcase for the occasion, thinking about where I've been and what I've been doing since I started this site, I look at that image from "Girls" of the comfort zone and the area outside of it. I look at it very closely. I experienced some interesting things outside of my comfort zone, as we'll all reminisce about in Wednesday's post. And some of those things fell into that little circle of magic. But some of them crashed and died horrible, fiery deaths in the negative space around that shining gold frame.
I think comfort zones are underrated. There's a reason they're called "comfort" zones, after all, and not "discomfort" zones: they make you comfortable. Comfort isn't an easy achievement, nor one to take for granted. A good comfort zone takes time and effort to build up and maintain, to make sure that there's enough money to keep the fridge stocked, and enough time and organization to keep ahead of the library fines before they don't let you check out any more books. Comfort zones allow you to have pets, stable relationships, regularly scheduled blog posts, good sex without injuries you have to lie about on your insurance forms, and clean toilets.
Maybe I've exposed myself as terminally uncool at this point, but I ain't give a damn. It's Sunday, my cartoons are on, I haven't worn a bra for 24 hours, and I think it's time for night cheese.
Wednesday, February 6, 2013
New Season of The Rodent Hour
One of the larger issues I've been tossing off--wait, let me start over, that sounds dirty.
One of the larger issues I've been mulling over is whether the Rodent Hour should be "the Rodent Hour" or "The Rodent Hour." When I tweet and tumbl and make the press releases, I mean. Should it be the Rodent Hour like the United States, or should it be The Rodent Hour like The Lord of the Rings? Is the name of my radio show a title, like the title of a book, or a title like King, President, and Dungeon Master?
I presented the dilemma to my co-host and he said, "Capitalize the 'T'." And that was that. We didn't even have a discussion about it. I just don't understand. How does it not keep him up at night, worrying about capitalization? Do you have any idea how long it takes me to write my book reviews when all the words on the book jacket are capitalized and I have to guess what the title should look like in my blog's luxurious Garamond font?! THESE ARE IMPORTANT THINGS!
No, he worries about crap like the music and if the bands are comfortable when they're in the studio. He wants to get good lighting and new microphones, keep things clean in the studio and make chili for our guests. I suspect he doesn't care about indefinite articles. This may become a problem later down the road. Shared values are important for any artistic venture.
I kid, of course, although considering how much I ended up being able to write on the indefinite article in The Rodent Hour, maybe I should get help. Anyway, last night, I began my second year of co-hosting an online college radio show. (The radio show is online, not the college.) Our opening guest was You Bred Raptors? The question mark is compulsory.
You may recognize Peat, Zach and Bryan from the Union Square subway station, their most common venue. I should have asked them more details about it last night, because not just anyone can play music in subway stations. You have to audition and be vetted by the MTA, and get some kind of special permit. To answer the question you're probably asking, yes, they get hassled by bums a lot, but no, the bums don't steal their money. They try, but as it turns out, bums are really bad at stealing. Not to make light of our homeless problem, but the mentally ill and substance-addled aren't the most functioning and efficacious folks in the world, and Zach is more than capable of protecting the guitar case of cash and CDs. Apparently there's some tourist's YouTube video of him wrestling some stolen goods back from a bum, but I've had a hard enough day without dealing with whatever the Internet is going to kick back with those search terms.
As always, if you missed the show when it was on, we put it up on our soundcloud account. Hmm, maybe that should be SoundCloud...
Damn it.
One of the larger issues I've been mulling over is whether the Rodent Hour should be "the Rodent Hour" or "The Rodent Hour." When I tweet and tumbl and make the press releases, I mean. Should it be the Rodent Hour like the United States, or should it be The Rodent Hour like The Lord of the Rings? Is the name of my radio show a title, like the title of a book, or a title like King, President, and Dungeon Master?
I presented the dilemma to my co-host and he said, "Capitalize the 'T'." And that was that. We didn't even have a discussion about it. I just don't understand. How does it not keep him up at night, worrying about capitalization? Do you have any idea how long it takes me to write my book reviews when all the words on the book jacket are capitalized and I have to guess what the title should look like in my blog's luxurious Garamond font?! THESE ARE IMPORTANT THINGS!
No, he worries about crap like the music and if the bands are comfortable when they're in the studio. He wants to get good lighting and new microphones, keep things clean in the studio and make chili for our guests. I suspect he doesn't care about indefinite articles. This may become a problem later down the road. Shared values are important for any artistic venture.
I kid, of course, although considering how much I ended up being able to write on the indefinite article in The Rodent Hour, maybe I should get help. Anyway, last night, I began my second year of co-hosting an online college radio show. (The radio show is online, not the college.) Our opening guest was You Bred Raptors? The question mark is compulsory.
You may recognize Peat, Zach and Bryan from the Union Square subway station, their most common venue. I should have asked them more details about it last night, because not just anyone can play music in subway stations. You have to audition and be vetted by the MTA, and get some kind of special permit. To answer the question you're probably asking, yes, they get hassled by bums a lot, but no, the bums don't steal their money. They try, but as it turns out, bums are really bad at stealing. Not to make light of our homeless problem, but the mentally ill and substance-addled aren't the most functioning and efficacious folks in the world, and Zach is more than capable of protecting the guitar case of cash and CDs. Apparently there's some tourist's YouTube video of him wrestling some stolen goods back from a bum, but I've had a hard enough day without dealing with whatever the Internet is going to kick back with those search terms.
 |
| I told you not to search for it. |
Damn it.
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