27 April 2007

Writing Exercise: Number 216

This is a sort of facetious, yet halfway earnest take on the usual comment cards in restaurants. I mildly regret that the place my work had its "annual" text department outing did not have them.

Server Number: 216.

Menu Selection/Food Quality: Satisfied

Comments: I am glad you have vegetarian offerings, especially considering how bad I usually feel for our one vegetarian co-worker who always seems relegated to his own private half of a pizza whenever we order in while at work. However, I was a bit alarmed at how much of your menu contained things with heavy cream sauces. Granted, I ordered one of those items (and it was quite delicious), but I believe that there are other ways to make food a bit more decadent without filling our hearts and blood vessels with butter. However, I tried a bit of a friend's citrus-glazed salmon and noticed that this restaurant is taking a step in the right direction.

Courtesy: Very Satisfied

Comments: I really wish I had a name to go with your face instead of some nondescript number etched on a plastic tag pinned on a pristine white button-down shirt. It was your smile in particular which caught my attention. The fact you smiled at all was in itself a marvel to me, seeing as how my own brief forays in the food service industry rendered me into an expressionless automaton well after my first week. However, you did not bear the usual overexerted smile which was the usual result of a long stint of waiting tables, knowing that you have to do whatever it takes to make tips, the emotional bending over backwards obvious on the facade of cheerfulness with a cracking veneer of bright smiles. No, your smile was genuine, a slightly-worn, tired upturn of the lips baring no teeth, unthreatening and attempting to whisk by as efficiently and as unobtrusively as possible.

Quality of Service: Very Satisfied

Comments: Yet even though my companions were absorbed in their various conversations, I still kept an eye out for you and acknowledged your presence in between my noncommittal interjections to them. However, I probably went as unnoticed as you intended to be in my awkward attempts at politeness, thanking you each time you walked by with bread, water or our orders. With all the revelry about and with you always keeping our glasses full, you reminded me of Ganymede, cupbearer to the gods. I am not implying that we were by any means members of some elite pantheon, but rather you reminded me of that particular symbol of youth and beauty. I found that the dimmed ambient and candle light complimented the slight shadow along the side of your cheekbones and the darkness of your hair. If you caught me staring at you on occasion, I'm certain you shrugged it off as yet another customer peculiarity.

Additional Comments or Suggestions: You probably get this often and are probably annoyed by such things (especially if you have a wonderful significant other, which I imagine you would), so I don't blame you if I never hear from you, but my phone number is 555-1364. I was the awkward girl in the pink shirt with short hair who tried to hide her eyes beneath her cap as she walked past you on her way out.

21 April 2007

Holy crap! I love The Decemberists!

Granted, I went to the concert at Foellinger Auditorium almost a week ago, but I generally like to let a good show sink in for a bit before I reflect on it.

Before the show, I had dinner with Ben and two of his friends (sadly, I recall neither of their names) at the Thai place in Urbana (the one near my old dorm, not the one near my current apartment). I don't really recall what we talked about, but it was undoubtably the stuff of collegiate sitcoms.

We arrived in time to catch the opening act My Brightest Diamond. I have to admit that I was a bit put off by their name, but it turned out to be a case of "don't judge a book by its cover." Shara's voice (the lead singer) had a sort of eerie ambient sound to it which definitely carried the band's rather minimalist setup (bass, drum, guitar and vocals, three people altogether), sort of a mix between jazz chanteuse and gothic "beauty" (which would usually be paired with a low, growling "beast" male vocalist). I ended up downloading their album. As much as I enjoyed it, I actually preferred their live set, especially their energetic cover of Soft Cell's "Tainted Love."

In between sets, we ran to the undergrad library Espresso Royale location for caffeination, only to have forgotten about Foellinger's "No Food/Drink" policy. Drinking a Charged Chai (basically a chai latte with a shot of espresso) quickly is not a good idea. I stayed energetic for the concert, but was unable to sleep later that night. Still, the slight burn in the chest and the heart palpitations were definitely worth getting back in time.

For the most part, The Decemberists stuck to stuff from their new(er) album "The Crane Wife." They also played some things from "Castaways and Cutouts" ("July, July!") and "Picaresque" ("16 Military Wives" "The Mariner's Revenge Song") maybe one song from "Her Majesty The Decemberists" ("The Chimbley Sweep"). Songs which I didn't have much appreciation for when first hearing on the album became addictions for me this week after hearing them live. For example, I never really paid attention to "Yankee Bayonet" (described by Colin as but now I find myself singing along with it at work while doing my usual shipping things. I read somewhere online, either in a review or a blog, that the writer was reminded of the movie/book "Cold Mountain" when they heard that song. I sort of disagree since I think that song accomplishes more in little more than four minutes what the movie does in two hours. I had multiple moments of thinking "holy crap, this is an amazing band," and not just because my hipster friends think so either.

Like the Ben Folds concert I went to with Honk a couple of years before, the audience was encouraged to participate in the songs "16 Military Wives" and the encore "Mariner's Revenge Song." At first, I was a bit concerned since I've never really been one for memorizing lyrics and singing along, but it was surprisingly easy, even in the rarely-repetitive "Mariner's Revenge Song." Then again, all that was asked of us in that one was to "scream, and not just scream, lament" in the bit where the whale swallows everyone. Nonetheless, I found myself following the narrative rather faithfully. Yes. The song really is that damn catchy for something that violent.

BTW, I love the Wes Anderson-ness of the music video for "16 Military Wives"



The onstage banter was fun as well, considering Colin announced that the recent engagement of their pianist/organist/accordionist (although I'm not sure to whom she is engaged). I was particularly amused by the comment "Don't worry, she said yes." He also commented on the trap door in the stage that in my four years of living here, I have completely failed to notice (even while walking across that same stage for my graduation). I was also amused that he avoided it while dancing around in "The Culling of the Fold" (the song deemed so violent by their producer at Capitol that it was left off the album...what with lyrics like "bring your sweetheart to the river/bash her head upon the stones/it may break your heart to break her bones/but someone's got to lose in the culling of the fold") and then proceded to "borrow" an audience member's cell phone, make a random call and then continue dancing around the stage while singing into the phone.

As I explained to my co-workers, the concert overall was like a fun camp sing-along, but with more violence and insanity.

Since I have weekends off and this weekend, the usual chores of laundry and grocery shopping are put on hold due to Jenna's conference, I took a nice walk through downtown Urbana. Granted, it's smaller and a bit emptier (lots of "for sale/lease" signs in dusty windows), but nice all the same. I fought the temptation to pick up a pastry or baked good at Mirabelle only to splurge on a nice lunch of noodles and tofu at Strawberry Fields. I went into the used bookstore Priceless Books (yes, even on my days off, I can't seem to get away from books) and picked up a few books (The Unbearable Lightness of Being by Milan Kundera, Coming of Age in the Milky Way by Timothy Ferris, In the Heart of the Valley of Love by Cynthia Kadohata, and Songbook by Nick Hornby).

As I was sharing my lunch of soba noodles and tofu with a group of sparrows who flitted by my table on the sidewalk, I read a bit of Hornby's Songbook. I figured it would be good for me since I never really thought of myself as a good music reviewer despite doing it for about two years now. He makes some interesting points in his introduction about how sometimes a song can be tied to a particular place and time (like the example of hearing "Thunder Road" in some girl's bedroom in 1975 and then afterward being reminded of the smell of her underarm deodorant every time he heard the song afterward). However, he points out that if you truly love a song, you should love it enough to accompany you throughout your life.

I can't help but wonder if while standing in line at the Espresso Royale at the undergrad (or any other coffeeshop, really), I'll randomly hear "O Valencia" or "July, July" (in my head, not necessarily on the radio there) and remember running back with our caffeinated beverages only to be halted at the front door, forced to chug some very hot drinks in time for The Decemberists to start their set. Or perhaps while walking past Krannert Center for the Performing Arts, I'll still hear Ben softly singing "Leslie Anne Levine" to himself. Maybe it'll be the other way around where I'll listen to "Leslie Anne Levine" and think about walking from the Thai place, past Krannert to the quad with Ben and his friends.

Earlier today, I had "Los Angeles, I'm Yours" in my head as I strolled down Main/Springfield in Urbana (despite my not being in Los Angeles or ever having gone there), perhaps because it was the last song I heard before setting out that morning. The English/Creative Writing major in me would prefer to think of the song as speaking to my ambivalence towards still being in Urbana. Consider lyrics like "oceans gargle vomit on the shore/Los Angeles, I'm yours" and "this sweet and bitter taste has left me wretched, retching on all fours/Los Angeles, I'm yours," and tell me that isn't applicable to how I feel about Chambana. I love catching shows with my friends, drinking/shooting pool with my co-workers, and taking walks when the weather is nice. However, my feelings of isolation and stagnation only seem to grow the longer I stay here. After May and June, my two closest friends will be gone. I haven't finished any projects at all this year even though I said I was "taking a year off" to work on my writing. I'm still no closer to Portland than I'd like to be. However, I've heard back from the Portland Mercury about either interning or doing freelance work for them. I figure I could just move out there, get a "in the meantime" job while going to shows and doing entertainment writing.

Speaking of entertainment writing and the Portland Mercury (and The Decemberists), there was this amusing blog post from a staff member's harrowing experience with one-upmanship in trying to get in good with the band as a member of the press. I was particularly amused by the fake cover and the "Buy Your Own God Damn Drinks!" tag. I think I could be happy doing some random crap day-job as long as I still covered shows and had bizarre band/bar stories at night. Hell, I'd be willing to buy the band a round of drinks as long as I got to chill with them after the show.

One last Decemberists-related note, I've also developed a curious addiction to the song "The Legionnaire's Lament." It's not really that I can relate to being shipped off to foreign shores for foreign wars. The song is bright and bouncy and as catchy as anything else they've come out with, not to mention the imagery is melancholy, yet romantic (what with all the rain and rambling around town in the past combined with wasting away in the desert in the present). I just sort of have this general feeling of homesickness, not for Springfield of course, especially since I never considered Springfield to be home. No matter how long or how far I've been away from Springfield, I've never felt homesickness. Even as a second-generation Filipina, I'm not really homesick for the mountains or coast where my parents grew up since I only went there once at a really young age. Maybe I'm homesick for someplace I've never even been yet.

Well, as usual, I'm rambling like there's no tomorrow, and I have a pile of new (used) books to read. So, as it were. Between Kurt Vonnegut dying and the massacre at Virginia Tech (and the potential backlash against the Korean/Korean American/Asian-American community which may come to a head), it's been a pretty awful week. At least it started well, said the optimist.

18 April 2007

Taking a few nods from Nerve Magazine...

Ok, for no other reasons outside of boredom (and possibly horniness), I've come up with a (very) short list of guys to cast in my rather stereotypical "inappropriate student/instructor relations" fantasy. (Can anyone tell that I miss being a student?)

1) Neil Gaiman. He's a damn good writer, has the nerdy chic of doing the comic book/graphic novel thing, and not to mention the hot accent and the penchant for wearing black leather jackets.
2) Clive Owen. Granted, he's an actor and not a Literature/Writing instructor, but I would gladly sit through hours of lecture just to hear that rough, five o'clock shadow voice of his (especially if he got around to the erotic bits of Spenser and Shakespeare). I wouldn't mind coming in during office hours either, if you know what I mean.

Honorable mention: Jake. It wouldn't count since we're about the same age, education and experience level. Nonetheless, I'd play hooky from class with him any day of the week.


Alas, to bed I shall go, and dream of sloppy and hurried classroom makeouts.

13 April 2007

Writing Exercise Prompt: Shoes

Complaining with each wet squeak against mud-speckled linoleum tile, my shoes trudge through the line at the Altgeld Post Office. For whatever reason, no matter what season it is, there is always a line. The two ladies behind the counter are always patient and polite in inverse proportion to some of the people standing in line who complain about how "nothing in this university runs properly."

"We could be running or hiking one of the trails at Hoyt Arboretum right now. You probably just missed the magnolias blooming."

This has been their constant complaint with little variation other than "strolling in the Pearl District," "wandering through the rose garden," or other various pedestrian-related activities in the various locations of Portland, Oregon. Perhaps they have a thing for trees and rainy weather or big cities of steel and concrete due to the green trim on grey. Sometimes they chuff along the pavement and grumble at me while walking to or from work down Green Street. Other times, they catch me a bit closer to home.

"Don't get me wrong, it can be pretty here, but I honestly think I could do better."

I think I agree. This particular pair of shoes has grown fond of the uneven brick walks and roads which meander into the main artery of Green Street from my neighborhood in Urbana. They particularly relish the tickle of pine needles in the pythagorean path beneath the trees and between the perpendicular sidewalks. However, I understand how taking the same routes to the same places every day can take its toll.

"You know, I could have gone to a high school cross country runner in Kentucky, but I just had to end up with you, didn't I?"

At first, I thought that my shoes' lament stemmed from the fact that I didn't really use them as intended, for just plain running, not necessarily in Portland, but on some track, trail, or pavement. I could understand how staying still for so long could take its toll, but eventually, I got the idea that there was much more to it than that. They should know me better by now when I say "I should go running," what I really mean is "I should go running, but I probably won't."

"Let's get out of here. What have you got to lose anyway?"

I think I will go to Portland, OR. After all, how can I resist the direction my shoes seem to be pointing in, especially since they've been the most comfortable pair I've had to wear for work.