Ragtag grab-bag
I feel your pain, Indie Rock Pete. A variety of things this past year conspired to undermine a lot of my slowly developing personal confidence, so that by the time I turned 39 a few weeks ago I was really, really feeling my age, and feeling adrift and past my prime. Sigh.
On a lighter note, I’m strangely pleased to see the Times do a nice round-up of affordable, exotic dining options on Staten Island. Although I’m not likely to ever get a chance to explore any of these places, it’s nice to take a moment to reflect upon the positive aspects of the place where I grew up for a change.
Trivia: that article quotes a food editor at the Staten Island Advance on whom I had a brief, unrequited, adolescent crush. I note that she apparently never left the Island, at least not for good.
Additional trivia: the Staten Island Advance is Staten Island’s local newspaper, whose offices and plant were just up the street from where I lived until I left for college. Most kids in the neighborhood hung out at some point in the woods around there or in a little spot beneath an overpass in their parking lot, but it was lame.
Oh! And another thing: The Advance seems to have a Gay and Lesbian Life section now. Huh.
I love my job — really, really love my job, to such a degree that I regularly worry that I can’t possibly do well enough to live up to the opportunity of it. But there’s a catch. (Well, there are two catches. The other one is that the pay kinda stinks for now.) You see, a good chunk of the position that I’m in is paid for by a UK government grant that encourages businesses and universities to collaborate on research-and-development projects. That part is great, but a chunk of the money spent on the scheme goes toward giving all of us who participate training in management in accordance with the UK’s Management and Leadership National Occupational Standards, leading toward a Level 5 Diploma in Management and Leadership, granted by the Chartered Management Institute. Does that sound like a clusterfuck of bureaucracy to you? It should. Still, I’ve been giving it a chance, and not just because I didn’t have much of a choice.
More than once lately, I have been making small talk with someone I’ve just met — usually a guy, usually one that’s interesting in some way — and he’ll ask if I have a boyfriend, which is easy enough to answer. (No, in case you think I’ve had a mystery man stashed away somewhere. It’s been a while.) But then there’s a follow-up: “Why not?”
Seriously? What the fuck kind of a question is that to ask someone? I suppose it would be simple enough to answer if I’d made a conscious decision, and I could say something to the effect of “I reject heteronormative coupling because I find it politically and socially oppressive.” Really, though, there’s not an answer. If there were a clear reason, then it would probably one that I could address in some fashion.
Swoon! As much as I adore the actual Teen Titans, these beautiful, fun illustrations of sultry young versions of iconic superheroes by David M. Buisán for Vanity Teen magazine just make me feel like a dirty old man. These would have made my head explode twenty years ago.
[Via Beachcruiser Blackbook.]
Yet another iconic figure of the pop-cultural world has left us, and comics artists Cliff Chiang pays tribute in a subtle and sublime way:
“Dear Batman: We accept the fact that we had to sacrifice a whole Saturday in Bat-detention for whatever it is we did wrong, but we think you’re crazy for making us write an essay telling you who we think we are. You see us as you want to see us: in the simplest terms, in the most convenient definitions. But what we found out is that each one of us is an archer, and a speedster, and a swimmer, a princess, and an acrobat. Does that answer your question? Sincerely yours, The Teen Titans.”
For the record, Sixteen Candles is still my favorite, for a million reasons including:
I’m posting from an airplane, just because I can. Every once in a while, it actually feels like I live in the 21st century. In-flight internet access — even for a fee — is the one bright spot in my domestic flights around the US. The Atlanta and Orlando airports? Dreadful chaos. Mumbly, crabby security guys working the lines at the x-ray machine? Punchable. Children? The less said the better. Food? What food?
Actually, there are peanuts. However, there are also new developments of hysterical overreaction while traveling: They won’t serve peanuts in rows 25–31 on my flight because there’s a person in row 28 with a nut allergy. Apparently aggravated by floating nut particles in the atmosphere.
One other travel observation: flying with my pal Emma makes me glad that I’m not pretty, young, and a girl with a charming foreign accent. People always want to chat! I was barely able to handle the over-attentive waiters in the South. Flirty busybodies on a plane would push me over the edge.
I hear ya, Cap. (Via Post-Modern Barney.)