AI MAMA. i need to change my profile picture on here. it's from last winter when i was so nuts with dorm fever that i went blond. Never. Again. As you can see from the picture, Impending Doom had booty shorts among their merch. And yes, those are men wearing them.


potty humor at music festivals.
You want to know what's amusing? Cram seven people in a Biffy, close the door and don't lock it. Then when someone opens the door, all of you stare at them. This is funniest if you wait outside and observe. Mix it up. Sometimes you can all fall out on top of them. or just file out. Or two of you can pretend to deal drugs.

Of course then the Sonshine security guy opens the door. He thought it was funny once it was explained.
A seventh grade sense of humor? now why would you say that.

There was also this dude in very tight purple pants whom we observed going into the biffy in one place. Nothing out of the ordinary. Then five minutes later, when we had switched potty locations, he was there again, going into the biffy. Bathroom deja-vu.

One evening when we were sitting on the wall in HM, this fellow walks by dressed like a pirate. He looks at us, points, says "you, man, you!" in a squeaky voice and walks on.

ohhkay.

the man wearing the skirt made me homesick for the West Bank, and people-watching there. I did not get a picture of him, unfortunately.
so long.
-Gyp

THE......porchsitters. of edgcumbe and juliet to be precise.

here we sit, Sarah and I, the sun killing our skin cells in a very pleasant manner, while knitting allows us to watch the street parade.

On the corner of Edgcumbe and Juliet, this means observing a world full of baby strollers and shirtless thirteen-year-old skaters, a world where leaving your puppy's poo on the communal grass is a very naughty act.

A man walks by with an ancient German shepherd. how long, i wonder, has he owned that dog? what has the dog seen? He'll never tell.

A girl walks by, twitching and smiling to herself, motioning and muttering. She's maybe twelve. She breaks into a sprint for about ten yards, her stringy, waist-length blond hair spreading behind her. I look askance at first as she circles the block. what the heck? then my conscience reminds me of my own extreme introversion and shyness as a kid. She is wrapped warmly in her own imaginings. Whether they are an escape from some private, unpleasant reality or just the amusements of a solitary girl I'll likely never know.


There is this one fellow who is always swinging. Not the fifteen minute stint of most kids, but hours of rhythmic flying, earbuds snug in his ears, long, straight brown hair dancing with his swinging.

I rather envied him the first time I observed the swinging. I should like to know what he listens to. Many a pleasant hour of my own existence has been spent alone, absorbing soundwaves while knitting, drawing, biking nowhere in particular at night. (Mom hated that.) it can look like the darkly anti-social habits of an unlikeable kid, when really it's just the untangling of knots. Mental twists and turns bleeding out your ears as the music thuds in.

More power to you, swing kid. Listen on.

thus go the long, delicious days of the porchsitters.

-Gyp

i sit here in McNeal Hall.
the computer lab is brightly lit, but in the darkened halls the only illumination comes from that strange light before a big evening storm.
a distinctly summer light. the sky out my window is that glorious blue that only happens in storm cloud, and the distant air is hazy with rain.
when i look at it, finals seems to dwindle
and i want to sit on a front porch, with just tea, and watch the irrevocable weather come.


i go to knit. and watch, from inside, which is cozy in its funny McNeal way.
-Signed, Gyp.

an honest panhandler.

um. i went a hunting of the jobs, and roamed far and wide.
i saw a bird diving for fish in the Mississippi.
i saw people walking on Main taking pictures.
i saw the real possibility of living in the cities this summer.
And a couple days ago i saw a panhandler whose sign read;
"NEED BEER. i luv you"

at least he's honest.

Observation #1: it is gorgeous outside. I am looking out the window of the McNeal computer lab, and the air is gently bluish and the brick-and mortar world underneath it looks like a prime spot for an adventure, as long as it lacks four walls. When weather like this happens after months of dark and knife-like cold, it does not matter whether I am blogging or schooling or knitting or hanging out, I would rather be outside. Doing those things. But since that is impractical and irresponsible at the moment, I'll tell you what I learned today.

Biomimicry. And proxemics. That is what I learned

Proxemics is the culturally varying phenomenon of personal space, bubble, distance, whatever. It is what makes it ok for an old friend to sit on your lap, and not a stranger. It is what makes loud phone conversations on the bus annoying, such that they end up in all their embarrassing detail on Overheard at the U of M. There's more to it, but that's the gist.

Biomimicry. ok. That kingfisher up there? he can dive into water WITHOUT A SPLASH. so as not to scare the fishies upon which he snacks. The folk who designed the Japanese bullet trains used the same strategy to keep the trains quiet coming out of tunnels, and to use less energy.

and sharks. I loved sharks as a small child, because they are cool. A particular kind of shark keeps its skin clean of bacteria because it has a certain sort of pattern on its body that bacteria cannot attach to. People are putting the same sort of patterns on hospital surfaces to reduce infections.

Namibian beetles have no access to fresh water, so they have grooves on their backs to collect dew, which they drink. Some skyscrapers use the same idea to collect water.

And there are a million more. It's quite cool.
I must run. I have no color class today, and it's free cone day at Ben and Jerry's.
And the thought of waltzing down the busy washboard of Washington Ave in the springish light with some buds and getting ice cream is rather intoxicating.
keep thy nose clean.
-Signed, Gyp.

What's Irish and stays out all night? Patty O'Furniture. ha.

WElll now.

break is tasty.

I paid a very pleasant visit to Hipsterville (the varsity theater with Copeland on the stage) the other day. I played spot-the-jeans-that-aren't-skinny, (only got to two), and thought about why I am ok with fitting in here.

we're born conforming, and hipsters are no exception, but I like how there seems to be more room for individuality here. and there are posers in every crowd. Get over it.

Indie music = Grood. nuff said. disagree if you wish, more for me.

I like art. So do they. Thereforth, we often get along.

They also tend to appreciate clothes more for their aesthetic appearance than where you bought them. Or, put differently, accept "thrift store" as a legit answer for where you got something.

some days hipsters drive me nuts, yes. some days i drive myself nuts. We're even.


ST PATTYS DAY.......

My family went to Cossetta's on Wednesday. This delightful, vintage, tasty Italian place is right in the middle of the St. Paul St. Patty's Day festivities. I thought we should be mobbed for not wearing green shirts. It all smelled and looked thoroughly like summer in the city; loud, happy, lazy, eating, drinking, yapping, busy, crowded, conducive to wandering slowly in no particular direction with some buddies, sprawling in a park and people-watching......twas positively intoxicating. (pun not intended.)

One does, however, encounter things that make the inner fashion sense feel nauseated.

Horizontally-striped green-and-white tights. As pants. On someone who had eaten their fair share of donuts.

that is all i have to say on the subject.

Tipsy people are funny. As in:
"I....I just talked to BOB. He,....StIll has to WORK. but...HES COMING AFTER...?"
and:
intoxicated dude dancing about on the stairwell, saying hi to folk as they pass by.

Signed, Gyp.

P.S. drunk people are also disgusting, and i do not like drunkenness, but if i didn't laugh at it sometimes, i'd have to cry.

mreeb.(s) also squee.

Thursday, March 11, 2010

mreeb.(s) also squee.

I was tired and annoyed in the brain the other day, and realized how long it had been since i had blogged. possibly a factor, since writing lets out all the crabby juices.

GUESS WHAT. ITS SPRING. heather says it isn't till the twentieth, but heather is shorter than me, so she can't be right.

There has been a lot of Hard Times lately. meaning the place. we saw a fellow walking in with a beautiful bouquet of flowers, no apparent reason.

you know how i know its spring? Number one, it is rainy. Rain after months of snow tells my brain to run the slide show of squishy grass and camp shetek and lazy excursions with the windows down and a distinct lack of school. Also, when I walked out of Middlebrook today, by the door was a patch of all the cigarette butts people had smoked, buried in the snow, and forgotten. Since that substance melted,they are all living in a big commune on the sidewalk now. I laughed.
hey, did you know there's this girl who recycled cigarette butts into clothing? www.coolhunting.com/style/mantis-recycled. too lazy to fix that link.

song of day. an old old old oldie. the shadow proves the sunshine, switchfoot. or as my pater calls them, twitchfoot.

so long. there might be more coherent writing later. when there are cats in my lap.
-Gyp

P.S. my personal ipod is temporarily out of joint, so on getting home for spring break, I am listening to the one i used to share with my family. It is strange. There is no "heather music" (that kid is responsible for a lot of my current favorites), and there is no hardcore. It dates my life. Other observation: My sister Hannah kicks butt at knitting. someday I will photograph the things she makes and post them.
one last thing: i have discovered that whenever I get discontent, thanking the good Lord for what i've got kills it mighty quick. captain obvious with your cliche truths for the day.
Song of the day: Dream within a dream, Oren Lavie.

Vous êtes étrange. Et vous. Et vous.

Do you ever have those days where you happen to glance to the side and realize that the strangest form of humanity is sitting very close you? That happened to me the other day. A very amusing looking person was eating dinner about 7 feet away from me, and I had to stifle my laughter from my surprise.

I realize that isn't a very nice thing to say, but if you can say it has never happened to you, you are are a complete liar.

Humanity is funny. That's about it.

And I am going to tell you about my current observations.

I saw a guy with hair yesterday that I swear you could hide 60 bulldozers in. It was huge.

And a person lacking hand-to-mouth coordination trying to eat something. This was amusing.

And people who should not wear leggings as pants wearing leggings as pants. That can only be funny to a certain point. Then it gets downright gross.

Oh, look. Another college tour. I don't like those. They clog up hallways like nobody's business. This group has moms eating lollipops in it. Aaaand down the escalator they go.

The escalator was temporarily stairs again today.

I think I will think about thinking about eating these Mike and Ike's now.

Have a rambly day.

Up, up, and Away: Old-School Style.

Mitch Hedburg, one of my favorite comedians, is now very dead.

But I came upon some of his quotes a couple weeks back, and was just reminded of one:

"An escalator can never break: it can only become stairs. You should never see an Escalator Temporarily Out Of Order sign, just Escalator Temporarily Stairs. Sorry for the convenience."

I am in Coffman Student Union right about now, and just a little bit ago, experienced this phenomenon. It's a strange thing, walking up a dead escalator. The steps sound all metallic and hollow, and you're not as relaxed as you are using to being when on one. I felt like a fool, since I couldn't stop smiling the whole way up, when the others around me grumbled at the inconvenience.

Lighten up, world. Escalators will never completely betray you.

››Capt'n.

Capt'n Returns from Voyage

Ahoy! Tis yon valiant Capt'n.

I have arrived back here from some some far away, distant hiatus, and am here to remind you that humanity is funny.

And I'll begin to inform you of this myself soon enough. For now, scroll down and enjoy the even more informative postings of my cohorts, as they have been supporting this operation dual-handedly for a goodly amount of time.

Thanksbye.

Hi. this is a summary of a day in the life. of an insignificant child, who likes to write.

go to bed intoxicated with a cloud cult album, advice from the happy hippopotamus. go. listen. now.

go to church and knit and listen, realize the rhythms of Piper's voice.

eat things with family. play them songs. listen to brother tell of friend drama.

go to bell museum. Observe. observe an exhibit. Sit happy in corner with notebook. Watch small children scream in delight, older people give off quieter pleasure and wonder. Enjoy peace and knowledge-feel of museum. this be for school. see other person from class there. Be amazed at animals and critters and plants and things. How great Thou art.

sit in dorm. have serious, ruffling conversation. Decide to read Heather devotional i didn't read today. It is uncannily timely, a wise answer to the question we struggled with mere minutes ago.

write story while supposed to do school. Enjoy thoroughly.

study. finish project well. lovely satisfied feeling.

buddy comes home, unsettled. Heatherpants has briliant idea, sneakily makes fake campfire out of paper cut into flames, fake candles, and Tupperware. Turn out lights, sit around campfire. Cozy, happy, content. college, i think, makes you appreciate things like the warmth of a bus and the goodness of food, and the company of inquiring minds. Sing I'll Fly Away, You Are My Sunshine, His Eye is on the Sparrow, and How Great Thou Art. heart is quieted, mind forgets school for awhile. eat popcorn around "fire". Heather puts popcorn on Tupperware. I eat it. She yells. "THAT WAS ROASTING." i laugh.

right. it is now officially not that day anymore. it was good. The picture at the beginning is of Jønsi, the singer from Sigur Ros. His guitar has birds in the fretboard. if that's what you call it. He has solo music almost out. It be on Playlist. I want to eat it, it is tasty.

keep your noses clean
-Gyp

SveN and oLe.....(and their pizza)

There was traveling done this weekend, and things were observed about Minnesota. More specifically, about the neverending, beautiful, creepylittletownwithkitschygiftshop, skier-covered, snowy, freaking freezing, Really Northern Bits of it. But first, since the destination was Grand Marais, home of the famed, bumper-stickered Sven and Ole's Pizza, let us begin with some jokes about those gentlemen. (and lena too)

Ole and Lena have just gotten married. They are taking a honeymoon to Minneapolis. Ole is feeling a little frisky, and puts his hand on Lena's knee. She says "Oh Ole, you can go a leetle furder now if ya vant to."

So they drove to Duluth.

Sven and Ole are on a train. They have brought bananas as a snack. Just as Sven takes a bite, the train enters a tunnel. Sven yells to Ole "DON'T EAT IT OLE! I TOOK ONE BITE AND WENT BLIND!"

dumbness expressed. very good. Now, since this is an observational blog, observations be in order.

Driving. Driving. Driving. then you sense this odd change in the landscape, and come over this hill, and see a town built on iron ore and a hill, called Duluth. It is deserving of its own post, so we won't go into details. Behind it stretches Ze Very Beeg Water, a.k.a. Lake Superior. It outstrips the horizon, stormy and ancient and huge. It rarely freezes, except around the edges, where there are unearthly chunks of icicles. You realize that this place has not significantly changed for thousands of years. The bigness of it takes your illusions of significance and civilization and pulls them out your ears. It's a good feeling. One day, I should like to see a winter storm roll off of it. Don't know when that will happen, since being there for longer than a weekend make this little city kid go bonkers.
We roll on, till Canada is within reach. Here we stop. For a weekend, I wake up to the sun's glory on the water, weird, cold-loving buddies, no internet whatsoever, and the barest traces of phone service. The temperature lives happily below zero. We go swimming one night (Not in the lake, we ain't that dumb.) Leaving, the car will not go up the hill. Silas tries three times, running starts. No luck. It is so cold our hair froze in the thirty-second dash to the car. We are not wearing coats. Get out, dash to top of hill, pray he makes it, he does, get in, unable to feel fingers.


Just allow me two sentences about Grand Marais. It feels like the end of the world, like if you sailed far enough out you'd get to Aslan's country. We see grungy little Sven and Ole's, and a bait shop with a terrifying bass model the size of our car leaping out of the sign, and The World's Best Donuts with cutouts of fat Vikings in the front yard, the sort you put your head in while Mum takes a picture.

Driving back, pooped out. Stop in tiny town called Barnum. There is a picture of a dog with painted nails in the women's bathroom. It freaked me out. We then encounter mini-marts with raunchy restrooms and Scandinavian employees, and finally the names on the signs and highways are familiar to our tired eyes, and then the dancing skyline appears, friendly Minneapolis beckoning with buses and hippie-punk corners and snotty suburbs and home.