Reading Things Without English Teachers

I always do my pleasure reading during the summer. It just works out. I have long stretches of time to dedicate to finishing a book, and Borders is air conditioned. I have yet to find a quaint, local bookstore in Northern Westchester County. Also, people seem to get me Borders gift cards for every gift-giving occasion. The point is, my indie cred is dying here for a reason.

Anyways, while I was on Maui I blitzed through "Love is a Mixtape" by Rob Sheffield. You might have seen him doing commentary about 80s new wave videos on VH1, or read his work in Rolling Stone. Rob Sheffield might have the coolest job ever. He also has quite a story to tell. You see, he met the girl of his dreams because they both liked Big Star (I'd never heard of them before I read this book, they're a folky, 70s group. Kind of Bob Dylan-esque.) He married her, and they loved the heck out of each other until she died five years into it from a pulmonary embolism. I've never been a widower, but I think he describes what it would be like perfectly: a lot of peanut butter sandwiches and songs he'll never be able to listen to again because they remind him too much of her.

Rob Sheffield's whole life is music. Every chapter he writes begins with a mixtape playlist that's related to what he's about to recount. As I read this book, I started thinking about those songs that are forever tied to those moments in my life. I thought about those songs that got shelved because listening to them made me too sad or made me cringe because they reminded me of those types of moments. I couldn't listen to The Decemberists for months because I had gotten into a fight with the friend who got me into them. But on the flip side, I feel giddy and happy whenever I hear "The United States of Pop 2009" because it reminds me of blasting it on New Year's Eve in a hotel room with my best friends, and keeping it on repeat while going to Ireland 3 days later. Basically my entire iTunes library is full of random vignettes and feelings and stories with every little file.

When I finished this book, I had somewhat of an epiphany. Not this whole spiel I've been typing out instead of cleaning my room, but another one. I was thinking about how much this book affected me and touched me as a music lover and a hopeless romantic, and how so many other books I've read haven't. I'm talking about those classics we all have to read in high school while the teacher puts more thought into the words than the actual author did, and then we write an essay on something they tell us. I hated "1984." I hated "Lord of the Flies." I didn't like "To Kill a Mockingbird" either. I dragged my feet through those pages and I'm sure my essays showed it.

But the book that really made me believe we're not meant to read books in school, where someone tells us how to read them, was "The Great Gatsby." I really did love this book. But not for the same reason everyone else seems to. Yeah, I get how it's a commentary on The American Dream and materialism. I get the Green Light metaphor. But I didn't want to talk about those things in my 11th grade English class. I wanted to talk about Gatsby as a romantic character; as someone who pined for someone his whole adult life and then had her right there but didn't know what to do about it. That's what stayed with me throughout the whole thing. But every attempt to bring this up in discussions was futile.

So I sucked it up and talked about that Green Light, but in senior year my English class called for me to write a story re-imagining something we'd read in school. I wrote a modernized version of "The Great Gatsby" and focused on this romantic aspect, of Gatsby pining for Daisy and hoping one night she'll show up for his party. When I got my piece back, my teacher had written in the margins "There's nothing about the American Dream and materialism."

So fine, I didn't read Gatsby the way my teachers wanted me to. But I read it and I loved it, just like I loved "Love is a Mixtape." There's nothing like getting lost in a book, and we don't need open book essays to help us get there.

Peace, Love, and Semicolons,
Lisa

Live from the Honolulu International Airport

Sorry for the lack of entries over the past few days. Except not at all. I've been in Maui and I have the new skin tone to prove it. It's a distinct mix of red and bronze, somewhere between a burn and a tan. Also my shoulders are peeling, and it's gross and fascinating at the same time. My sister chastised me for trying to sneakily pick at them on the airport shuttle today, and hit me she was so mortified. She's sitting next to me now, telling me that peeling my sunburn will lead to my abduction by a stranger. Apparently some scary man will find my peeled skin (I've toyed around with that phrase for about three minutes and there's no way to make it not sound gross) and scan it for DNA so he can identify and subsequently kidnap me. That just sounds like something one of my mom's friends would forward in a chain email.

This trip has been full of small moments like that one, and bigger moments too. But I prefer the smaller ones because they're not so expected. Like the grandmother on our Zipline tour who was scared out of her mind but jumped off the plank with her harness anyway. Or seeing the sun break the horizon this morning on top of the highest point in Hawaii (It was like that first scene in The Lion King, only real).

Last night one of my favorite moments happened, but it merits a paragraph and not a sentence. Julia, my dad and I went to The Four Seasons for dinner to see how the other half lives, and after some out of this world food we overheard this cute old couple talking to some people working behind the hostess station (I think that's what they're called?) Anyway, they were talking about this young honeymooning couple they had met at the restaurant and how much they liked them and that they wanted to buy them dinner. "Charge their bill to our room" the old man said. I thought that only happened in movies.

Peace, Love, and Semicolons,
Lisa

Nostalgia and Non-Sequitors

I'm putting The Cranberries into Pandora Radio, in an attempt to make myself less sad about having to miss "100 Greatest Songs of the 90s" on VH1. But it's not the same because I know that once "I Can't Be With You" ends, there is no chance that I'll hear some choice Biggie track. That's why the 90s remain my favorite decade for music. There was just so much variety, but so much emotion. Real emotion, none of that pop-punk crap. Oh damn, I sound like Jack Black in "High Fidelity." I'm not a music snob, I'm just feeling a little nostalgic.

This nostalgia would normally have me on the couch in front of VH1, but I've got packing to do. That's right, I'm taking a little vacation. 10 days in Hawaii with my dad and sister. Later this summer I get a week on Martha's Vineyard with my mom and sister. I suppose that's one good thing about having divorced parents. I am not complaining about two vacations.

Oh I also got a job. I'm a freelance reporter at a local newspaper. Yeah, I know, the word "freelance" just reeks of hipster. But I'm hoping to make some money and some connections, and I'm pretty much done researching my first assignment. Hopefully I can write the piece before I leave for the airport at 5:30 TOMORROW MORNING. WHAT?!

I don't think I'll sleep tonight. My boyfriend Earl Grey will keep me up. I'll miss whatever dream I would have though. They've been getting very entertaining lately. The other night I had a dream that Arcade Fire came to my school to perform. Only they split into two bands and one half was kind of indie-folky sounding, and the other half was Ciruqe du Soleil-ish. Also it was at Hampshire, but I still had to take a bus from campus to get there? Anyway, the whole time I was really stressed out because I was trying to figure out which band would be playing "Wake Up." So I went to get some food, but the food cart there that looked like a vintage bus was charging me 75 bucks for a hot dog. So I bought a tabbouleh and olive wrap at the suggestion of the cute guy in line next to me. He then gave me his number on a shoelace.

I think I should pitch that to Wes Anderson. Or maybe Spike Jonze. I actually had to look up how to spell the latter's last name. Aaah, my indie cred!

Peace, Love, and Semicolons,
Lisa

Dog Days of Summer

One of my favorite things about summer is being able to hang out with my dog all day. Just look at that face. Normally Penny is not the most photogenic of ladies, but I caught her at a good angle. One of these days I'll pull the cat in for a photoshoot. For now, I'm trying to figure out how I should go about turning him into an Internet sensation.

Summer so far has been a lot of lemonade and a lot of job searching. My wallet is grumbling in a "feed-me" sort of way. I'm pretty sure I just scored a freelance reporter gig at a local paper, and my mom is going to be paying me to clean out the basement and garage, but when it comes to making money, I'm afraid I'm becoming a bit addicted to it. I worked the Phonathon at my school this past spring, and getting that check in my mailbox made me feel so euphoric. I want to have that feeling all summer. I think it'll nicely complement the popsicles and books I'll also be savoring.

But I'm also getting in some adventures with other people. This weekend I was in New York City with two old friends from high school and we smoked hookah and ate Asian food and people watched until the wee hours of every morning until it was time to go. Other highlights included gawking at the packs of attractive Marines in town for Fleet Week, and spending an afternoon at The Museum of Sex. It's definitely worth a visit; there's a great exhibit up now about animal sex. Totally ideal for a third date.

So now I'm off to compose a cover letter. But all I really want to do is go on the swings outside and then dance to mashups in my room. Summer, I'm finding, does require some prioritizing.

Peace, Love, and Semicolons,
Lisa