This morning at the local cafe, a middle-aged man asked me to verbally guide him as he put a round band-aid on a sore on his cheek. This was my first time taking part in such an activity, and the band-aid wound up just above the wound, with the sticky edge covering the edge of his ouch.
This may be the most extreme example of random gentlemen talking to me in public spaces since I've returned to Minneapolis. I should also point out that the frequency of such events increases significantly when I wear a skirt, and every single time I go out alone wearing one particular skirt, at least one strange man speaks to me. Same skirt, different strange man.
About three weeks ago, while wearing the skirt, I was locking up my bicycle at the public library, when a gentleman came up to me and said hello. His main point of discussion, as far as I understood it, was that he appreciates that women exist. For future reference, is "thank you" an appropriate response to such a conversation? He then pointed out how similar we were, since we had both ridden our bicycles to the library that day.
Last week, walking up my street (wearing the skirt) to drop off a piece of mail, I passed two men going the other direction. When I made eye contact, one said to me: "Hey! I like your hair!"
Is there something reflective in the skirt that stimulates one's vocal cords? Does it have a Y-chromosome magnet? It's true that I never wore this skirt in Bristol, so perhaps it would have attracted the same response. But to be fair, random men hardly ever spoke to me in the UK, so I think perhaps it is a cultural thing. I have somehow tapped into a surefire way to attract unwanted, though not yet offensive, male attention.
But I'm not giving up the skirt. It's comfy. It's black and stretchy and goes with anything and I can ride my bike in it without flashing anyone. So there.
Friday, 18 September 2009
Wednesday, 12 August 2009
12 August, Hennepin Avenue and South 4th Street
As I sit eating my homemade peanut butter and jam sandwich on a metal bench along the Hennepin Avenue side of the Minneapolis Central Library, I notice some locals. One distinctive group contains a dog. The dog is very small, small enough to be wearing a pink dress probably made for a doll. I should point out that the expected high temperature for the day is 90 degrees Fahrenheit. But the dog does look pretty, perhaps prettier than its holder, a woman wearing long red trousers and red Crocs.
She's quite stylish in her patterned top and carries a leopard-print handbag and a black handbag in addition to the dog in the pink dress. She's waiting for the 14 bus to Robbinsdale, along with an angry gent slightly less focused on the matchy-matchy. He carries a small pet carrier, and I cannot tell whether another pet is riding in the carrier or the pink-outfitted dog uses it on occasion. The man wears a black baseball cap with red and gold flames stitched on it, but his most noticeable asset is a very round belly under his blue T-shirt, which looks even rounder when one takes his thin legs and arms into account. I'm not sure if he was yelling at the red-trousered woman because he didn't know what bus they needed or if he blamed her for the 61 bus coming before the 14, but I hope they resolved the conflict before they shared it with the rest of the bus riders.
As buses and other traffic pass my bench, they stir up gravel and dust covering the street during a phase of construction that has left the street with no lane markings. Cyclists are braving Hennepin Avenue anyway, in their normal lane location between a lane of buses and taxis and three lanes of general traffic heading the opposite direction.
A block to my left, a flashing neon sign advertises The Gay 90s dance club. On this 90-degree sunny August day, the neon suggests cooler evenings of decadent dancing and drinking. This club is rumored to have a secret sex room off of the men's loos, and go-go dancers populate the tiny stage next to the downstairs bar.
This is what things are like at this spot on this day, and the most profound thing I can say in summary is that this spot on this day is not quite like anywhere I ate lunch in the UK.
She's quite stylish in her patterned top and carries a leopard-print handbag and a black handbag in addition to the dog in the pink dress. She's waiting for the 14 bus to Robbinsdale, along with an angry gent slightly less focused on the matchy-matchy. He carries a small pet carrier, and I cannot tell whether another pet is riding in the carrier or the pink-outfitted dog uses it on occasion. The man wears a black baseball cap with red and gold flames stitched on it, but his most noticeable asset is a very round belly under his blue T-shirt, which looks even rounder when one takes his thin legs and arms into account. I'm not sure if he was yelling at the red-trousered woman because he didn't know what bus they needed or if he blamed her for the 61 bus coming before the 14, but I hope they resolved the conflict before they shared it with the rest of the bus riders.
As buses and other traffic pass my bench, they stir up gravel and dust covering the street during a phase of construction that has left the street with no lane markings. Cyclists are braving Hennepin Avenue anyway, in their normal lane location between a lane of buses and taxis and three lanes of general traffic heading the opposite direction.
A block to my left, a flashing neon sign advertises The Gay 90s dance club. On this 90-degree sunny August day, the neon suggests cooler evenings of decadent dancing and drinking. This club is rumored to have a secret sex room off of the men's loos, and go-go dancers populate the tiny stage next to the downstairs bar.
This is what things are like at this spot on this day, and the most profound thing I can say in summary is that this spot on this day is not quite like anywhere I ate lunch in the UK.
Sunday, 5 July 2009
Seeing what blogspot can do...
I am uploading one or two jpgs of articles I've had published recently. This is happening because I'm trying to build an online portfolio and I don't know what the fuck I am doing. So this is kind of just to see if Blogspot can do more than Wordpress...of course it cannot, but I must accomplish something in this quest. If you actually want to read the articles, you can double click on the image and get a closeup view.
Thursday, 14 May 2009
On getting a cool job when one has a sordid past
So there's this Nobel laureate who was trying to become Oxford University's professor of poetry. http://mhpbooks.com/mobylives/?p=6330
During Derek Walcott's job application process or campaign or whatever you'd like to call it, some unsavory news became public. It seems the gent was accused of sexual harassment at Harvard in 1982. A student alleged that he made inappropriate suggestions to her, and when she refused his advances, she received a C grade in his class.
It seems like 27 years is a long time...but when Walcott was under consideration for this new professorship position, Oxford staff received 100 photocopies of a book page detailing the 1982 accusation.
The news reports are calling this a "smear campaign." On first glance, I assumed that it couldn't possibly be a smear campaign, because the guy sexually harassed someone. If he actually did it, making the news public isn't a smear campaign; it's telling the truth. But if one accusation 27 years ago was the only time he was accused of sexual harassment, and he didn't officially get into trouble for it, is he still a sexual harasser?
I'm inclined to think that someone accused of sexual harassment probably did it. Maybe that's unfair. I suppose it's possible that the accuser was angry about a bad grade and found a way to punish the man. But I'm also inclined to think that if he were a chronic sexual harasser, and this news was coming out as he was trying to get one of the most prestigious academic jobs in this country, someone else would have stepped up to say she had also been harassed.
Final conclusion: I obviously don't know if this guy sexually harassed someone. I also don't know if he's the right person for the job of Oxford's professor or poetry. But I don't think this was a smear campaign, if it's just bringing up actual evidence of previous events. I think a smear campaign has to be based on exaggerated or invented events. What do you think?
During Derek Walcott's job application process or campaign or whatever you'd like to call it, some unsavory news became public. It seems the gent was accused of sexual harassment at Harvard in 1982. A student alleged that he made inappropriate suggestions to her, and when she refused his advances, she received a C grade in his class.
It seems like 27 years is a long time...but when Walcott was under consideration for this new professorship position, Oxford staff received 100 photocopies of a book page detailing the 1982 accusation.
The news reports are calling this a "smear campaign." On first glance, I assumed that it couldn't possibly be a smear campaign, because the guy sexually harassed someone. If he actually did it, making the news public isn't a smear campaign; it's telling the truth. But if one accusation 27 years ago was the only time he was accused of sexual harassment, and he didn't officially get into trouble for it, is he still a sexual harasser?
I'm inclined to think that someone accused of sexual harassment probably did it. Maybe that's unfair. I suppose it's possible that the accuser was angry about a bad grade and found a way to punish the man. But I'm also inclined to think that if he were a chronic sexual harasser, and this news was coming out as he was trying to get one of the most prestigious academic jobs in this country, someone else would have stepped up to say she had also been harassed.
Final conclusion: I obviously don't know if this guy sexually harassed someone. I also don't know if he's the right person for the job of Oxford's professor or poetry. But I don't think this was a smear campaign, if it's just bringing up actual evidence of previous events. I think a smear campaign has to be based on exaggerated or invented events. What do you think?
Monday, 11 May 2009
Dear Granola
Dear Granola,
I like it when I try to eat you and you go into my mouth and I chew you up and swallow you and you transfer your nutrients to my bloodstream and I have the energy to do things like write features or ride my bicycle to Bath.
I like it less when I try to eat you and I accidentally tilt my spoon or don't open my mouth all the way and you splatter all over my beautiful laptop and make a smeary, crunchy granola mess. That's not so cool.
I like it when I try to eat you and you go into my mouth and I chew you up and swallow you and you transfer your nutrients to my bloodstream and I have the energy to do things like write features or ride my bicycle to Bath.
I like it less when I try to eat you and I accidentally tilt my spoon or don't open my mouth all the way and you splatter all over my beautiful laptop and make a smeary, crunchy granola mess. That's not so cool.
Sunday, 18 January 2009
bookish
"Having been so little loved by his parents, [Honoré de Balzac] overflowed with love for his own issue, specifically the issue of his pen, but, needless to add, the issue of his loins also."
--Marcel Girard, Introduction to Old Goriot
Since I have lived in Bristol for three months and still have only gone out to one non-work social event, I decided this weekend to find some fun, an activity, and possibly a friend.
The first task set up to meet this goal has been to join the Bristol book club meetup group, which I found online. They meet about once a month at a pub to discuss a book. Sounds perfect for me, no? I found the current book today at the library, and signed myself up for the group. The book is the one mentioned above, which has been translated to English from the original 19th-century French.
Another friend-making fun scheme is the upcoming Bristol Cider Festival, which happens in two weeks. I'm hoping we can convince the only non-work people we know in Bristol--one of Dan's high school classmates and her husband--to join us. The cider will be made locally and, for anyone who might not know, cider in the UK is alcoholic. I expect that will be a boozy good time.
Oh, and in other book-related news, I read Harold and Maude last week. The film closely follows the book, and I think if I had read the book first, it might have done more for me, but as it is, the film kicks the book's ass. Though I will say that the book includes a little bit of helpful back story not shown in the film, and it is by no means a bad book.
--Marcel Girard, Introduction to Old Goriot
Since I have lived in Bristol for three months and still have only gone out to one non-work social event, I decided this weekend to find some fun, an activity, and possibly a friend.
The first task set up to meet this goal has been to join the Bristol book club meetup group, which I found online. They meet about once a month at a pub to discuss a book. Sounds perfect for me, no? I found the current book today at the library, and signed myself up for the group. The book is the one mentioned above, which has been translated to English from the original 19th-century French.
Another friend-making fun scheme is the upcoming Bristol Cider Festival, which happens in two weeks. I'm hoping we can convince the only non-work people we know in Bristol--one of Dan's high school classmates and her husband--to join us. The cider will be made locally and, for anyone who might not know, cider in the UK is alcoholic. I expect that will be a boozy good time.
Oh, and in other book-related news, I read Harold and Maude last week. The film closely follows the book, and I think if I had read the book first, it might have done more for me, but as it is, the film kicks the book's ass. Though I will say that the book includes a little bit of helpful back story not shown in the film, and it is by no means a bad book.
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)