Happy Birthday Brother Dude

Happy Birthday to my older (truth) and wiser (questionable) Brother.

Don't worry, Josh, riding a fixed gear totally shaves off a few years and will keep the ladies from realizing you're pushin' thirty.

Love ya.

Good News Comes Little By Little

It's been a long couple of weeks, school is wrapping up, I'm packing up, and the social obligations seem to be piling up. So, that's my excuse for just leaving you with this bit of good news from the ever tedious, frustrating and sodden world of the IDSA:

Attorney General Richard Blumenthal today announced that his antitrust investigation has uncovered serious flaws in the Infectious Diseases Society of America's (IDSA) process for writing its 2006 Lyme disease guidelines and the IDSA has agreed to reassess them with the assistance of an outside arbiter.

The IDSA guidelines have sweeping and significant impacts on Lyme disease medical care. They are commonly applied by insurance companies in restricting coverage for long-term antibiotic treatment or other medical care and also strongly influence physician treatment decisions.

Insurance companies have denied coverage for long-term antibiotic treatment relying on these guidelines as justification. The guidelines are also widely cited for conclusions that chronic Lyme disease is nonexistent.

"This agreement vindicates my investigation -- finding undisclosed financial interests and forcing a reassessment of IDSA guidelines," Blumenthal said. "My office uncovered undisclosed financial interests held by several of the most powerful IDSA panelists. The IDSA's guideline panel improperly ignored or minimized consideration of alternative medical opinion and evidence regarding chronic Lyme disease, potentially raising serious questions about whether the recommendations reflected all relevant science.

"The IDSA's Lyme guideline process lacked important procedural safeguards requiring complete reevaluation of the 2006 Lyme disease guidelines -- in effect a comprehensive reassessment through a new panel. The new panel will accept and analyze all evidence, including divergent opinion. An independent neutral ombudsman -- expert in medical ethics and conflicts of interest, selected by both the IDSA and my office -- will assess the new panel for conflicts of interests and ensure its integrity."

Full article here.

Summer of Roses

For my 15th birthday, maybe my 16th, Jesse gave me a book titled "Go West Young F*cked Up Chick," it wasn't wrapped and he handed it over with the statement he'd purchased it from the 70% off rack at Barns & Nobel. This might have been around the time he was making money by taping rocks, so I forgave the cheapness of the gift. I only read a chapter two as the dirty, sexy and optimistic images of Los Angeles did nothing for me at the time - my blinders were set towards the East Coast not Southern California. Regardless, the title has always stuck with me and seems to run through my head every time I board a westward bound airplane. It came back again, ringing and clear, when a short while ago a far fetched plan was hatched to spend the summer months in Portland. The impetus was, and is, an internship that will hopefully give me a good sense of the publishing industry (the third in the quartet of possible jobs this Master's will help me with. The others being Teaching, Agenting, and Writing enough to sustain a standard of living). The idea started to gain momentum when I came to find that some of my favorite people would also be in the beautiful North West, some of which I hadn't spent any real time with in ages.

It's always been a dream to be able to live bi-coastally. Or with one foot in the city and one in country, or woods, or mountains or beach. I've been in New York for approaching on a year, and I've grown awfully fond of this place - it affords me a lot of the big city luxuries that Boston didn't, and is more accessible than Los Angeles, but over all the pace is more my speed than any other city I've lived in. But I'd be lying if there wasn't something about that Pacific Northwest that always seems to call me back. I watch Ax Men with a powerful sense of deja vu for the color green and that crisp, clean smell that outsiders say smells like mold and I say smells like wonderful.

I think it's going to be an interesting experiment, a bit of a leap of faith, and to be honest it makes me nervous. But without a little compulsive behavior now and then life might just start to be a drag. My expectations for what the whole summer might bring are nebulous and easy going. They swing on a day by day basis with the emphasis on just enjoying the time I will be spending there, the sun, the food, and the good company.

A Decade of Roboticism.

It's been 10 years since I earned my bionic wings.
Happy birthday Robo-Spine.

Thoughts on he Month of Lurv, with a dash of omphaloskepsis.

"Flowers flying cross the room
Vases smashed against the floor
Said 'I'd rather be alone
Take your chocolates and go home'"
-DBT

What does getting dumped, falling down a flight of stairs, being in the hospital, and nearly getting arrested all have in common? They all happened on Valentine's day. So, needless to say I've always been a little wary of the holiday above and beyond the usual loneliness that can accompany it.

I usually discourage the Valentine's day presents, from gentlemen callers or otherwise, as I'd rather get a gift of the just-because variety than because the giver feels obligated. The Valentine's Day of my sophomore year of college, however, was one of the more memorable of 'love oriented' gifts I'd ever received. After thoroughly advertising my distaste for the day to anyone in earshot, I came home to find a hunting knife on my bed with a note, written in red paint on a torn piece of cardboard, that read: "V-day can be brutal. Arm yourself." Maybe it's the McCue in me, but that's my kind of romance.

But for those stuck on what to get that certain someone for Valentine's day, and those that end up with a gift that elicits a lack luster response, you've only Chaucer to blame. Although St. Valentine (all eleven of them) date back to over 200 AD, the first association of V-Day as a day for lovers wasn't made until 1382, when our buddy Chaucer made mention of the exchange of love notes in his poem Parlement of Foules. Asshole.

The best story I'd ever heard of St. Valentine was that he was a scorned man who cut out his own heart and then gifted it to his lover. Unfortunately I can't find any evidence of this story, and I think I might have made it up. Regardless, I like it better than the current story of the jailed priest who continued to marry couples in secret. Because what's a better way to say I Love You than with cold cold spite.

But in moderate seriousness, I like to consider myself an a-typical gal with typical sensibilities, and as much as that statement might reek with pomposity to some, it holds true to my innate girly desires for The Ring, The Wedding and the Happy Ever After. One year, probably around the age of six, my mom substituted my birthday cake for a wedding cake, which has staved off any serious premature itchings to get my Big Day, but maybe not so much that innate desire to find that buddy you couple up with on the playground. But despite that want, I have a bit of an allergy to the L word. Never been good at saying it, never been good at receiving it. I know my fear of the L word comes from the anticipated danger that it will be taken back. Takesies Backsies, if you will. But after saying those three little words the last thing I assume most boys want to hear is a puzzled and inquisitive "Fo' Reals?" So perhaps the aversion comes from the knowledge of my own tendency to second guess, and not the implication of the word at all, and what I'm looking for is just someone to answer me back: "Psh. Fo' Reals, girl."

Sleep.

Insomnia is back in full swing round these parts! Help a reformed night owl out.

I've always had moderate trouble with sleeping, especially in the last two years. Lots of bad dreams, burst of energy right before sleep, the inability to fall asleep etc. etc. etc. And recently I've been doing my hardest and what feels like my most regenerative sleeping between 6 and 9 am, which usually means I've over slept and have to scramble to get out the door. I've implemented a new rule to not eat after 8pm, when it's possible, so as not to have Ebenezer Scrooge-esq fits of dreams due to a bad spot of cheese, and I try not to nap, but these don't seem to be helping.

I'm not a fan of sleeping pills or other sedatives, and a few fool proof methods just aren't physically an option, but it's clear I need to start getting more than four hours a night.

I've taken up an old practice I used when I was a kid, which is listening to classical music all night. I streamed some piano music last night that seemed to help, but I was still up and down more than I should be. This practice started when I was thirteen or fourteen, I remember seeing a special on PBS about how certain passive activities stimulated brain growth without strain, one of these was the simple act of listening to classical music. So, when I found out I was going to have back surgery as a freshman in high school I knew that my dreams of attending Juilliard and becoming a famous dancer were probably out and I was going to have to start relying on the brain to be the money maker (I was fourteen, odd logic abounded). So, night after night I'd turn on Eugene's classical station and conk out, hoping to wake up just a little smarter.

I don't know if it actually did anything, but it created a restful sleep that I'm now, ten years later, trying to recapture.

Teachin'

Some unseasonably warm weather is blowing through New York, moving the beautiful and jobless of Williamsburg to lay around McCarren park like lizards sucking up the sun all afternoon. Yesterday was my last real day without any scheduled events (although pre-school work is already piling up) as classes start in a week and a half, and I took advantage of the beautiful weather with a long walk around town and some contemplative time in the park. At 65 degrees it felt like the first day of spring, minus the color green I've been painfully missing, and has cruelly reminded me how much more winter there is left. It can be rough, this cold thing. And I have a tendency to hibernate, which can be lonely and probably not all that healthy if done for too long, but is something I've gotten quite used to.

Today Ana and I taught our last class at Wadleigh High. It's been an interesting four months, this whole high school teaching endeavor, and not a job I would rule out in the penniless post grad school days. The class is always filled with crazy energy that, even when I feel like I am not in the mood to talk (loudly) about dialogue tags, verbiage and writer's intention for 48 minutes, I always leave the class in a better mood. I'm glad for the fact that I've been able to jump into a high school class at my age, seeing as it hasn't been all that many years since I was in same situation as the students, relatively. Six years isn't all that much in the grand scheme of things, and I can still remember what motivated me to be a total pain in the ass to my high school teachers, which I can use now to try and side step those pitfalls. I've also come to find that the simple fact I'm not terribly older than them, but have enough distance in age to still be seen as a mentor, means I've got a real leg up.

Today's class was small, seven kids as opposed to the usual 20 to 25, due to a field trip that took most of the class away to see The Great Debaters. But, despite missing some of my favorite characters, it was a solid class. At the end everyone seemed to linger despite the bell, I got hassled a little for not have the know how to work one of the kids Sidekicks when giving her my email, and I was pulled aside by a few of the kids for hugs and thanks yous. It's left the rest of the day ripe with The Good Feeling.

It's left me with a lot of thoughts about the teacher vs. writer conundrum. Can you teach and still be invested in your writing, and all that. We'll see. We'll see.

2008: Year of the Urban Cowgirl

Happy New Year!

Despite my red eye flight that landed the morning of New Years Eve, and my general reluctance to leave Oregon, New Years was very enjoyable.

It began when one of my nearest and dearest friends, Meghan, who had come to visit from Los Angeles, and I went to dinner at Gitane, this lovely little SoHo Moroccan place. I'd eaten there once before when my mom and brother visited during the summer, but for New Years this little gem went all out covering the entire ceiling in red helium balloons equipped with string that hung about eye level when sitting down to eat. The tiny restaurant was just as delicious as the last time I visited, hitting the spot with a salmon tartar sandwich with wasabi mayo.

After dinner we headed in the, dreaded, general direction of Central Park via the vague directions of a friend of a friend's party, and ended up at a terribly touristy bar while we waited for the exact address. At about 11pm we were notified from the friend of the friend's friend that all the blocks surrounding the party were barricaded by cops directing the wide eyed foot traffic craning to see a glimpse of the ball drop. We were told that they were given the hassle and only allowed through when they could produce their e-vite on their iPhone (hey Apple, commercial much?) We'd entered into the evening with no expectations on where we would be when the clock rolled over to 12:00am, so we debated whether or not fighting the residual Time Square crowds would be worth it. After a brief discussion it dawned on us we were smack dab in the middle of a Yankee themed bar, and agreed that despite go-with-the-flow attitude we'd adopted for the evening, this was most definitely not an acceptable place to spend our count down.

After Meghan paid for our "business meeting" Jameson's on the company card, we headed out to give a go at reasoning with the NYPD. The first officer we met told us to lie to his co-workers and just tell them we lived mid block and needed to get home, but at the second barricade we came to fessed up we were headed to a social engagement. Meghan tossed out the born and raised on the east coast card, which was promptly followed by the promise of an arranged marriage to one of the younger officers by the older, squad leader we were talking too. After a polite decline, we were escorted through the subsequent three or four barricades by a very nice officer (I believe his name was Joe) and to the door step of the apartment we'd been looking for with 15 minutes to spare before New Years. Ironically, once we'd walked freely past the throngs of caged tourists, we were denied entry into the party. Fair enough, but when you throw a party on New Years Eve, and use the internet to advertise, trying to supervise your guest list will obviously ruin your night, as it clearly seemed to on this occasion. Anyway, we wondered out to the west side of Central Park South at about 11:55 and were promptly welcomed by another group of police officers, headed by an the excitable young officer Estives. They asked if we'd like to ring in 2008 with them, we obliged, Estives counted down for us and my first few minutes of 2008 were spent getting joyus hugs by the NYPD. Soon after duty called and they had to begin their sweep down the street towards Times Square, and Meghan and I strolled up the street to watch the fireworks in the park before catching a train back to Brooklyn.

Back in Brooklyn we settled in for the rest of the evening at a friend's bar, took control of the music, which ended in a few rousing Queen songs, and had a great time in what Meghan and I call "holding court." At Gitane we'd picked up what we'd mistakenly assumed were match books, but instead turned out to be match book shaped note pads. With one of these we began to make a list of Rules for the evening, which began with the tried and true "No Sugary Drinks," and "No Stupid hats/glasses, we can act retarded, we just can't look it." Eventually the book started to make its rounds and was filled with a slew of hilarious and confusing rules others thought were apropos of the evening. Unfortunately, the book was left at the bar but among the rules that stuck in my head a few were: "No rap music," "Don't bogart the 'J' broseph," "Must show all taco meat," and "By and large, Smithies are bi and large." Funny stuff.

I hope that the tone set by the evening carries over into the new year and it proves to be more organized and filled with forward momentum than the last. I hope to keep doing all the things that have made me pretty stoked about life over the past few months, and add to that list as well. I hope to wallow less and, in one of the better pieces of advice I've gotten this year: "Embrace your shit, Brie."

Back To New York

(December 30th)
In the airport, waiting for my red eye back to New York, and I'm tired. For the most part I couldn't have asked for a more enjoyable vacation and for the first time in, I believe, the entirety of times I have been flying to and leaving Oregon, I don't want to leave. The first week of vacation was spent in Portland enjoying the clean air and good smells. Exploring a city I know, but have always been regrettably unfamiliar with. Shutting down P.F. Chang's (you know, like ya do). Cooking a lot, eating a lot of wonderful food. Working on the remainder of school work I've been waiting to get at now that the semester is over, and generally taking a little break. For Christmas I went down to The Euge to see the family and had one of those Christmas's we've always seemed to be famous for for their eccentric, counter traditional, nature. I remember as a kid when, after presents were opened Christmas Eve, we'd round up by the tree and watch Army of Darkness, and in an equally odd vein this year our tree was made of a light stand, wooden spoons, string lights and a lot of scotch tape. For dinner Mom killed it with a 3 lbs tenderloin and some spot on bernaise sauce, and for four days it just felt really good to be there. Of course time was too short to ever feel like I got in enough time with everyone I wanted to see, but the few nights it did happen were solid and helped fuel the wacky, growing idea of spending the summer in Oregon instead of New York.

Time to board.

Airport Notes

At JFK waiting for my flight to Portland and it's a bad scene. There is a man sitting a yard away from me who seems to be arguing with his wife, telling her that he was forced to hang up on his mother in law because he was about to go through the metal detector. The wife doesn't seem to find this a viable excuse. A group of kids in front of me from Walla Walla, or at least that's what their sweat shirts say, keep saying "hella" and stuffing their fat little faces with four dollar slices of Famiglia pizza. One of them in screaming at her cell phone, presumably speaking with her mother, that she wants her bed made with crispy sheets when she gets home. And babies. Babies everywhere. And they're all crying.

On the bright side I attended a holiday party for work last night and, after a company sponsored round of gift raffling, walked away the new owner of a Blue Ray disk player and a 32" flat screen TV.

Perhaps the screaming babies are making up for my outstanding luck.

Time to board, and off to Oregon. Fresh air here I come.