At first I wasn’t sure what I thought of the shift from the harder, more in your face Kelis, but I can’t stop listening to Flesh Tone. The album tributes the birth of her son and departure from her marriage with Nas, and I feel I’m destined to love Kelis until Years from Now, she Reflects on a Milkshake long expired, but how the boys, ah, the boys remain. I love this song and think she’s gorgeous in this video, the hipster headdress notwithstanding.

I completely forgot about Robyn until recently. And then I realized she wasn’t even the person I’d thought I’d forgotten about, a different less talented Robyn who also had a nineties pop hit called Show Me Love.

The All Hearts tour was announced via a cute staged Twitter exchange between Kelis and Robyn:

Robyn: hey mama, I’m bored. U feel like doing something?
Kelis: Love to. Thinking it’d be fun 2 hit the road together?
Robyn: That’s what I’M thinking. I got my strobes ready & some new dancing shoes as well. We could do this!
Kelis: GLORIOUS! I’ll bring the lasers, confetti. Let’s do it!
Robyn: So what are we calling this madness? My <3's tellin me u got an idea?
Kelis: Lets call it "All Hearts." What do you think?
Robyn: #allheartstour in the us. heartbrake on all four on top of a speaker in a shower of star dust and acid rain.

Today I took the teens on our final field trip to Magic Mountain, a family entertainment park surrounded by a teal-green river littered with lost neon golf balls and cigarette butts. This group has been one of my favorites, and when I think about leaving them next week I get that choked up sadness particular to when you realize you’ll never be in this certain context with people you care about ever again. Upon arriving we headed straight for the “bumper boats”, which I came to learn are the terrible maritime counterpart to bumper cars. I spent the next hour drenched and shivering in the ice cold air conditioning, watching the teens play arcade games. C.C. spent all her tokens failing miserably at the claw machine, undeterred by my cold hard logic about how the game operates. R.T. hit the 500 ticket slot on the wheel of fortune game, inciting awe and jealously amongst the rest of the group. For lunch we ate pizza and sugary fruit punch. Overwhelmed by excitement and off kilter from the bumper boats, T.Y. lost his cookies all over the lunchroom. After thanking the unhappy looking teenage employee covering the puke with deodorizing powder, we spent the rest of the afternoon playing mini golf and making a group of small children cry by showing no mercy in laser tag.

In three weeks I’ll have a new job at the family center as an aftercare specialist. My primary responsibility will be meeting with families before they leave the shelter and following up with them 2, 4 and 10 weeks after they leave to make sure they’re not falling through the cracks anywhere. I’ll be going to case review meetings to learn about what is going on with each of the residents, serving on the appeals committee which determines if people who’ve been in the shelter previously can re-enter, and trying to build relationships with case managers at other agencies we work with. Much different job from spending all day with the teens building potato launchers, talking about if Kurt Cobain was murdered by Courtney Love, and playing Spades tournaments.

When I first joined OkCupid I actively fished, but the past few months it’s functioned mostly as a no maintenance fishing net. Maybe the rainbow fish will swim into it, but more often than not it gets clogged up with deflated tires and aluminum cans. Don’t get me wrong – I really like OkCupid. I like the whole “we’re mathematicians not love experts” shtick and I’ve met some cool people on the site. But it’s fallen to the wayside in my life for the time being.

I receive a fairly high volume of messages, but they’re filtered out pretty thoroughly through some key filters. At the end of my profile I write “Unless you wield the English language like Zeus with a lightning bolt, I’m probably not going to respond to a one sentence message”. Despite this, at least 60% of the messages I receive are one sentence. I don’t like messages that look like they could be copied and pasted to any other person, which comprise about 10%. Lol, using U to spell You, and incorrect use of your/you’re take out another 10%. The other 20% are potential suitors. Usually things in the spirit of OkCupid, Kill Me don’t interest me that much, but today I received a message so perplexing I needed to share:

Looking at your profile and pictures I am sure that you won’t have a shortage of possible matches. I like how you explain that your ability to care for plants means you don’t have an alcohol problem or drug addiction. So why am I trying, well someone once told me that never let anyone tell you, what you want is not what you deserve. Having said that, I can assure you that you will not find anyone like me, you will find men who are better than me, and you will find a lot of men who are worse than me, but you will never find anyone like me. That I can guarantee.

So, you ask what is so special about you. To find the answer to that question, why don’t you write me back and find that out for yourself?

You don’t want to regret not reading the best selling book because you didn’t like the cover of that book.

Thanks
Jim

Recently I decided it’s time to bite the bullet and get a second job. Student loans and aspirations to leave Ohio are looming, and since my current job doesn’t exactly bring home the veggie faken bacon something has to give. Starting this week, I’ll be starting not one, but two new jobs. The first is as a continental breakfast hostess at an extended stay hotel in Hilliard. I’ll get there at 6 a.m. Saturday & Sunday, prepare the breakfast, stock the assorted jams and whatnot, chit chat with people while they eat, then clean everything up. The second is as a server at a fine dining restaurant inside a hotel near the Columbus airport. During my interview I was asked if I felt comfortable opening a bottle of wine. I said yes of course, but it was a bald-faced lie. Every time I open a bottle of wine something or someone gets hurt. My only question for him was if this was the type of restaurant where the servers sang Happy Birthday to the patrons. Thankfully the answer was no.

I’ll probably be changing my tune a few weeks in but right now I’m feeling optimistic about reentering the customer service sector for awhile. Even though I’m quiet and reserved most of the time, I always was good at being a server. When I worked at Bob Evans I sold three times as much dessert as the hyper type-A extroverts I worked with. I only cried twice and only told a customer to go fuck themselves once. I’m pretty sure there’s a zero tolerance policy for tears and expletives in fine dining, but I think I’ll handle things better this time around. Even if they make the smallest violin in the world motion at me:

Working with the teens has been particular emotionally wrenching of late. A part of me is looking forward to distracting myself with the inevitable absurd customer complaints and requests that will come my way. I’ve been inventorying my favorites from past jobs. At Bob Evans a woman told my manager I was completely brain dead, stiffed me, but left me her Mary Kay business card so I could give her a call about having a facial consultation. At IHOP someone left me 8 quarters on a plate, covered completely in pancake syrup. At Mrs. Fields, a young man burst into tears when I showed him the cookie cake I decorated for his wedding reception, then proceeded to tell me he how he was making a terrible mistake. At Culver’s I dropped an ice cream sundae in a customer’s lap while handing it through the drive-thru, prompting the customer to throw the maraschino cherry at my face. At Dollar Tree, I was held up at gunpoint by someone mentally unstable. That last one is kind of the sore thumb amongst the others.

The Blurb #14: The Land of Underwater Birds - Eric Puchner on terrible titles:

I’ve seen some jaw-droppingly awful titles, often from very gifted writers. And I’m not just talking about my students: The Great Gatsby is an inspired title, one for the ages, but it wasn’t Fitzgerald’s idea. He wanted to call the novel Trimalchio in West Egg, which sounds like something Dr. Seuss might have dreamed up for The Playboy Channel. An early version of Portnoy’s Complaint was called A Jewish Patient Begins His Analysis. At various times, Catch-22 was called Catch-18, Catch-11, Catch-14, and Catch-17. And some classic novels have stood the test of time, despite having terrible titles. (The Heart Is a Lonely Hunter, for example, never fails to make me giggle.)

John Mayer is a douchebag. Jay Smooth, who I am in love with, explains why fixating on racist celebrity soundbites distract us from institutional/systemic race issues that impact our lives.

Cupcakes for Men – I am fascinated by baked good/candy items marketed towards men. Probably stems from when my indignation the first time I saw a Yorkie bar. Six styles: Woodland Camo, Wood Grain, Houndstooth, Plaid, Checkerboard or Marble. (found via Sociological Images)

The Boy Who Grew Up to Be Charles Manson’s Son - Bizarre.

Rare Photos of Famous People

Right now I’m watching Freaks and Geeks for the first time. It would be incredibly cliche to say that I really relate to the lead character Lindsay, but well, I really relate to the lead character Lindsay. I remember in high school always going with the flow, not really knowing what was normal behavior amongst people I wanted to hang out with, always being worried about my little brother getting beat up, and having two groups of friends I never wanted to interact with at the same time.

This morning I saw danah boyd speak at the 2010 Symposium on Youth and Social Media at the Moritz College of Law at OSU. Her keynote focused on how adults shouldn’t blame the internet and social media technologies for behaviors they see teenagers engaging in online they don’t like; those technologies just make those behaviors visible. In her ethnographies conducted with teenagers about their Internet use, she’s found being present on social networking sites is a critical part of their social world. It’s preferable to hang out face to face, but when that’s precluded by overprotective parents or not having public spaces they feel comfortable, teens hang out online. Their online world is a reproduction on their offline world but altered by certain aspects in the digital realm: what you say online is archived and persistent, searchable, able to be duplicated and taken out of context, and seen by invisible audiences.

The most interesting part of the talk for me was when she brought up how just because something is visible online doesn’t mean people are listening. danah gave the example of an extreme case where a girl named Tess in Colorado killed her mom with the help of a few friends. When danah looked at the girl’s MySpace there was over a year and a half of detailed physical, verbal, and emotional abuse. Her friends left supportive comments but felt powerless to help her; there were no adults present in the comments.

Privacy is a complex topic. We used to argue for a right to privacy to justify what happens in the domestic sphere, including domestic violence. The idea that domestic violence was once acceptable is hard to imagine today, in this world, but not that long ago, the logic used to go: “she’s my wife, it’s my home, I can do whatever I want to her.” We cannot use privacy to justify the right to abuse people in private. But we also can’t use privacy to justify not looking when people are hurting or when they’re crying out for help. We need to find a balance that allow us to have control over our information, but also be heard when we are in need of help and support.

So I want to twist this around for a moment. When should we be looking? Not looking to judge or manipulate, but looking to learn, support, or evolve? Shouldn’t we be looking for the at-risk kids who are in trouble? Shouldn’t we be willing to see their stories, their pain, their hurt? So that we can help them? Shouldn’t we be looking to see the world more broadly? Shouldn’t we be willing to see in order to learn and transform the society we live in? This is the essence of what Jane Jacobs called “eyes on the street”.

It breaks my heart that there are youth out there, crying out for help. And no one is listening. – danah boyd: Do You See What I See: Visibility Practices through Social Media”

During the questions, someone asked about what type of social media presence teachers should have. danah’s take was that teachers should have public profiles on social media sites separate from their private personal profiles. Principals should have the password to their public profiles so their interactions with students are transparent. Teachers should not seek out interacting with their students on these sites but let students come to them instead; similar to having an open door policy at school. This made me think about the way I interact with the teens in my after-school program online. Many of them have added me on Facebook/MySpace soon before or right after they leave. I put them on limited profile restrictions (even though there’s nothing I deem scandalous about my online presence, there’s something that just seems too personal about letting them see all my pictures and wall posts). None of them have put restrictions on what I can see. I’ve never seen anything concerning on their profiles, but they do post a lot of personal things, and danah’s talk made me think about what role I have in looking and interpreting what I see (if any).

Digital Nation: Life on the Virtual Frontier

This morning I walked out to my car to find the rear passenger window smashed in and glass smithereens all over the back seat. I called the police who redirected me to make the report on their website, where I also accessed their helpful information about preventing car break-ins. Over the past year my 1993 Ford Taurus has run the gamut of auto maladies: broken water pump, broken engine cap, ghosts, flat tire, radiator/hose leaks, and some other things the mechanic told me I didn’t understand. On the exterior there are cigarette burns, mysterious stains, dents, scrapes, and a portion of the bumper missing from a hit and run. When I called my dad to tell him about the break-in he said he wished I’d left it unlocked with the keys in the ignition.

The douche canoe who broke into my car is now the proud owner of a used car stereo, half a pack of Mentos and the Black Kids CD I checked out from the library. Thankfully they passed over the most valuable items in the car: a portion of my magazine collection, including the 1992 issue of Sassy with Kurt Cobain and Courtney Love on the cover:

If they’d known anything about Sassy-fandom they could’ve made a pretty penny selling this on Ebay. Sucka.

Finding my magazines intact makes the missing stereo and broken window easier to deal with. Though it is weird to imagine a shadowy figure breaking into my car and going through my stuff. I’m sure the car thief didn’t take the time to read it while disconnecting wires and searching for a wad of bills, there was a list made on cupcake stationary titled “what I like about myself” on the passenger seat that I made at a work training. And a Violet Beauregarde-size collection of chewed gum in the ashtray they opened up. But I suppose it doesn’t make much sense to self-consciously ponder the assumptions someone who robbed you made about you while they were doing it.

Marine Biologist: At five years old, marine biologist = playing with dolphins. Before I viewed Florida as a humid hellhole overrun with pythons I imagined myself living by the beach and being a sort of Dr. Doolittle for sea creatures. One day I got a really bad stomachache because I didn’t wait long enough to get in the pool after eating a peanut butter & marshmallow sandwich. For some reason that experience convinced me I wasn’t cut out to be a marine biologist.

Harlem Globetrotter: My dad took my brother and I to go see the Harlem Globetrotters when I was in 2nd grade. I was utterly mesmerized by their comedic basketball routine and was undeterred by the nearly endless list of reasons why it would not be possible for me to one day make the team. I tried to juggle basketballs in the house and inadvertently knocked over a crystal vase. To lessen my mom’s anger I appealed to her sympathy by explaining what I was practicing for. She told me I could be anything I wanted to be, even president, but not a Harlem globetrotter.

Professional Flutist: In fourth grade I started taking private flute lessons from a woman named Jenny who had giant parrot in her house that made me slightly uncomfortable. She told my parents I was “gifted”, which is one of the worst things you can say to the parent of a child who is not a bona fide prodigy. In sixth grade I performed “A Whole New World” from Aladdin for my class which I can’t say won me many friends. After two years in band I dropped out because I didn’t want to commit to high school marching band. This broke my dad’s heart, and to this day he makes reference to how I could have been a great flutist had I not thrown in the towel.

Special FX Make-up Artist: A lot of my Friday nights in high school consisted of making demonic masks out of homemade play-doh. After working at Bob Evans I would put a portion of my tips to save up to buy Dick Smith’s Advanced Professional Make-up course.  I watched the Exorcist over and over again because I was fascinated by the way he was able to legit make Linda Blair look like she was possessed by the devil. I made my mom cry when I told her I wanted to skip college and move to LA.

Journalist: I majored in journalism. Today I got a letter in the mail from the University of Georgia wanting to know if I had found employment in the communications field post receiving my degree (no) and if I would like to fill out a survey with the incentive of possibly winning an iPod touch (yes). We’ll see what the future holds.

Today in teen center, as testament to my commitment to science education, I had the kids do the Mentos and Diet Coke experiment. Except we didn’t have Diet Coke, but rather a bottle of Diet Pepsi, a bottle of Save a Lot Cola, and a bottle of Giant Eagle Citrus…something. It was cool but not nearly as amazing as the Eepy Bird video below. You really do need Diet Coke and Mint Mentos specifically for the best result. And probably a white lab coat and glasses. There’s currently a world record for 1,911 simultaneous Diet Coke/Mentos geysers.

Covering Haiti: When the Media Is the Disaster: Great article on how the media frames victims of disasters as criminals, primarily through labeling their attempts to get much needed supplies as “looting”. (via Gin and Tacos)

Media outlets often call everything looting and thereby incite hostility toward the sufferers as well as a hysterical overreaction on the part of the armed authorities. Or sometimes the journalists on the ground do a good job and the editors back in their safe offices cook up the crazy photo captions and the wrongheaded interpretations and emphases. They also deploy the word panic wrongly. Panic among ordinary people in crisis is profoundly uncommon. The media will call a crowd of people running from certain death a panicking mob, even though running is the only sensible thing to do. In Haiti, they continue to report that food is being withheld from distribution for fear of “stampedes.” Do they think Haitians are cattle? – Rebecca Solnit

Bunch of Phonies Mourn J.D. Salinger - Har har. There were two times this week where I found myself telling someone I read A Catcher in the Rye “not because it was required for school but because I wanted to”. Tool-ish.

I Can’t Believe It’s Not Not Vegan – I made these oatmeal chocolate chip banana cookies with ginger sugar stuff on top today. They were delicious but have the consistency of mush.

Oh, Look! A Shiny Thing! – Ainsley Drew on not letting online time vampires suck out all your productivity juice when you’re a freelancer who spends most of your day on the web. Favorite line: “Email is also a fucking Molotov cocktail thrown at the window of my ambition.” If you have an hour or ten you should comb through the Jerk Ethic archives.

Dik-Dik-Dik-Dik-Dik!!! - SQUEEE!!!

LA Gang Tours: Somewhere Between Brilliant and the Worst Idea Ever - “The New York Times reports: ‘…after careful consideration, it was decided not to have residents shoot water guns at the bus and sell “I Got Shot in South Central” T-shirts.’  If these tours are striving to be legitimate educational experiences, that was probably a wise choice.”

I’ve been listening to this Spiritualized song all weekend:

For the bulk of my time as a student I worked at a domestic violence shelter in Athens County. Once while I was working a woman staying there climbed out her window, went down the fire escape and jumped the fence so that she could go out drinking. I was oblivious to the fact that she was gone until I heard a thud in her room around midnight. When I went in her room I found her lying on the ground with a huge gash on her forehead from where she fell on the fire escape. As I helped her get up I noticed she had put a stuffed moose under her bed covers as a decoy. “Seriously?” I said as I held it up to her, which prompted us to both start laughing. I told her I would have to report what happened. She said she completely understood, that I shouldn’t try to go out on a limb for her, and that it was her fault, not mine. I knew she would be kicked out.

When women returned to a violent partner, or anything else perceived as self-destructive, they are often described as being caught up in a cycle of violence, or cycle of abuse, or cycle of poverty. The problem with “cycles” is their implication that people simply keep falling into the same trap, and if only they could just see what the trap is they would stop. News stories on domestic violence always seem to convey the feeling that the causes and effects are obvious; they could be easily interrupted if only the victims and perpetrators had the patience. Deborah R. Connolly, a researcher and cultural anthropologist, talked about this while reflecting on her work as a social service provider in a small nonprofit community center:

It is often not feasible to talk about or respond to “domestic violence” or “drug addiction” or “mothering” or “abuse” or “childhood”. These events are enmeshed in the details and fortuities of living. They often engender one another, with some screaming in the foreground now, while others whisper in the background. If we try to impose neat categories and formulas, we misrepresent those we want to portray, and we shortchange people we might otherwise support.” Deborah R. Connolly, Homeless Mothers: Face to Face With Women and Poverty

Someone I worked with told me “you can’t help people who won’t help themselves.” That wasn’t really comforting. It would have been easier to pretend the system treated her fairly but this one bad choice on her part was the tipping point. The other women there at the time were furious this woman was being so reckless and told me they were afraid she had let her husband know where the shelter is located. The next day the woman moved out and returned to her husband. “Hopefully he doesn’t kill me this time,” was the last thing she said to me.

It’s hard for me to talk or write about that job without feeling self-conscious about oozing an attitude that I see and understand things in social services that other people just don’t get. I have no idea what to conclude about my experience with that woman, but I think about it all the time when someone exits the shelter I work at now and I get a flippant explanation of why they’re gone.