At roughly the All-Star Break, here's my kill count for summer reading:
 
Speaking With the Angel, ed. Nick Hornby
The Pearl and The Red Pony, by John Steinbeck
The Corrections by Jonathan Franzen
East of Eden, by John Steinbeck
 
As much as I liked that last one, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to give Senor Steinbeck a rest for at least a year. I think that The Pearl/The Red Pony (Divinity School Used Book Sale, w00t!) dulled the edge of East of Eden for me, because I could really mark Steinbeck's flaws in his two novellas, where as before I didn't think he had any flaws. I decided that I don't like the way he passes judgement on his characters. The Corrections served as a kind of foil, because Franzen takes the same stance on every one of his characters: condescending distance. In East of Eden, however, I couldn't shake the feeling that Steinbeck had every character numbered in the order that he liked them best. It made the whole book seem a trifle transparent.
 
For the Cape Cod trip, which starts today (so no blog until next Saturday, like that's really going to disrupt the status quo), I'm bringing The Devil in the White City, by Erik Larson, and Even Cowgirls Get the Blues, by Tom Robbins. The first is a non-fiction recount of a series of murders at the 1890 World's Fair in Chicago; specifically, in Hyde Park only a couple of blocks from where I live. Recommended by John's mom, actually, which he doesn't know about.
 
What have I been up to besides work and reading? Not a whole lot. Monday, Kristen and I ran 7 miles for the first installment in our training for the half-marathon on Thanksgiving morning, the Turkey Trot (long-sleeve t-shirt? I'm there.). It was a hard out-and-back on the Greenway, which we run on all the time but never at dusk. I discovered that I like running there better at 7 at night. The runners and bikers there aren't the chatty moms and stroller-pushers we pass in the morning. The dusk-folk are lone runners, work-a-day bikers, and even when we were passing people I felt like I was running in solitude. It turned out to be the most pleasant run I've had in a long time, despite the fact that Kristen got sick from it afterwards. It's easy to forget how nice July weather in Georgia can be when it's not 3 in the blistering afternoon.
 
Last weekend I went with my mom to American Sampler, which is the folk art place in downtown Roswell. They've been sending us these quaint postcards for years, and we finally decided to go to their Christmas in July open house. I tell ya, that place is two sacks of Precious Moments figurines away from being the quintessential kitsch store. However, it redeems all the cute trite with some really.... well.... creepy stuff. On every shelf you'll see your usual American Folk woodcuts and jugs and porcelain, and then you'll see one instance of a creepy doll or an insane snowman holding another snowman's head on a stick or a bisque-fired Satan lamp. As it turns out, it's almost all independently hand-crafted stuff, and some of these down-home amateur artists must also be amateur goths. Some of the stuff in there tickled the Halloween bone in me. Also, when I left, the really butch shopkeep gave me a flyer for Folk Fest: a 3-day Folk Art Festival in Mid-August. Free t-shirt if I come Friday? Call me Jasper.
 
Despite the prominence of Folk and free t-shirts in my life, I'm feeling a bit restless. I should be enjoying the summer because I get to see Kristen every day and Thomas is home for most of the summer and, truthfully, my job is pretty good-- I have very few funny work-is-hell stories to relate here (save for the conversation I overheard, while busing tables, about how UPS women are some of the hottest women you'll ever find in a tight pair of brown shorts). But I miss losing myself in something I'm really interested in, and for the time, I am wishing that I were in some performance piece. Nicole from Anarchist emailed me the other day (one of my blog photos of campus might be used for the Parents Weekend brochure? Do I get a free t-shirt?), and it got me missing the peformance high. Hopefully, I can just tuck that craving away for the remainder of the summer and just enjoy the Retta.
 
Finally, I think I now prefer Rachel Harris to Michael Ian Black on I Love the '90's. Damn. I need a Furby in my life. 

Drew Dir at 10:02 AM |

Yesterday at the Bucks, this guy came in who used to be the minister at my family's Lutheran church until about the end of middle school. He doesn't look like your average Lutheran pastor: he's young, he's a Bowdoin graduate, and he's Jewish (methinks). A fairly liberal guy, I think he left our church under political circumstances. He taught my confirmation class when I went way back in middle school, and he actually made me like it. Pretty much, this guy's the reason I ever came close to being really religious. His last Sunday at our church was the Christmas Eve service, and really wanted to go so I could see him off before he left (for a campus ministry at USC). I hadn't seen him since until he came in for a latte on Wednesday. He was coming from a painting job, but he's back in town because he's quit the ministry and enrolled as a full-time law student at GSU.

So the last glimmer of my hypothetical spirituality is now studying law. Sigh.

I was about to complain about working too much, but I just learned that my sister is working from 8 (am) to 9 (pm) tomorrow and Tuesday. So I'll be quiet now. Anyway, next week I'll be in Cape Cod with loved ones, and that's over a week out of work. I don't think I'll enjoy a summer vacation within a summer vacation so much. How many times have you thought to yourself, "I can't wait until school starts so I can sleep in again!"?

The Cubs are up 7-1 in the bottom of the 7th, which means they'll probably blow it by the time I finish writing this. At the All-Star break, it's apparent that St. Louis is way too hott and they're not powerful enough to seal the division. Oh well. If the season ended today, they'd be the wild card, at least. Oh, wait. No.

I'm starting to miss school a little bit. Not necessarily Hyde Park or college life, although I'm sure I'll miss those in a month or two. I'm really just missing... OK, academics. I need a freakin' paper to write, or something. I'd even take a Hum Fucker. In fact, I'd take one especially. I also miss Anarchist.

Anything else? Umm... City of God is awesome... but it reminds me of another movie. Several, in fact.
Drew Dir at 7:03 PM |

Well, I loved Fahrenheit 9/11. I was about to blog a reason why, but then I realized that I would just be writing an apology, and it's ridiculous for me to apologize for liking a movie, unless it's directed by Steven Spielberg and has at least the letters A and I on the poster.

I ran a long run from Milton to Wills Park and back last week, and after the run I stretched on the stadium stands and walked the perimeter of the school. I'm sorry to say that it looked like crap. There were broken chairs and wood scraps that had been pitched out and lay scattered in front of the blue double doors like they were gutting the interior. The bricks of the outer wall looked more stained than usual, even on the "new" science wing. Some of the debris is just summer cleaning, I know. But the building still has one more year left, but already it looks like they're already letting it rot. That happened quick. It makes me pause and wonder how much work was really going into keeping Milton looking fresh-- like when an old man tries to hide a bad knee.

Then yesterday, Kristen and I went to the school to watch the fireworks like last year. Again, we walked around the outside while we waited for the Alpharetta Fire Department a mile away to get its act together. Gotta say, I didn't really get nostalgic or wistful or thoughtful. I didn't even ponder. Zero ponderance. That should've been abnormal, but it's very much become normal since the summer started. Is there anyone I can blame for stealing my romanticism? I can't even daydream anymore without having stress dreams of making coffee. I think I shall call these fits "strespressos."

By the way, good people of Alpharetta, there is no such thing as an "expresso," and no, you cannot get it in a venti size.

By the way of the way:

-Alfred "Throw Me the Whip" Molina rocks in Spider-Man.
-Harry Potter and the Prisoner of Azkaban rocks in IMAX and may be my favorite movie ever because of its juxtaposition of pumpkins and jazz and David Thewlis.
-I broke down and bought Return of the King, theatrical version, on DVD, but used and for only $12.95.

Ahhh. Pour me a glass of sweet, ice-cold CGI.





Drew Dir at 8:19 PM |

His goal in life was to be an echo

Wilco - "Hummingbird"

I find it to be a very sad blog when all I have to talk about is my job; but job blog is better than no blog? Question mark infers confusion.

The Bucks has me working 35 hours a week. That makes me giddy when I calculate the paycheck (I'm sure the feeling is temporary), but quite disappointed when I tally the hours I have leftover. I'm sure Clarke is cackling at the screen right now and needling a voodoo doll, but I'm new to the whole working stiff dealie. As you know, Kristen is working four days a week at Emory, which means we don't get together until 7 or 8 most nights and then we part at 10 for early bedtimes. When I step back, it seems like we have enough time together, but for some reason the short increments make all the time we share really forced, and some weeks I feel like I haven't seen her at all. Despite this sinking feeling, everyone else tells me that I'm being neglectful of friends and family. I feel neglectful, but it's not like I'm not trying. Sometimes I get the ill feeling that I'm in the business of parceling out time to the select people in my life.

But back to the Bucks, it really isn't that bad of a job, especially when I compare it to Jason's Deli, which was 18 hours a week of old man sending back soggy reuben sandwich. Here, the customers are friendly. I'm just intimidated by the regulars who know the lingo and expect you to spot them and have their favorite drink made ten seconds before they hit the threshold. That's when they accuse New Guy of being part of a vast conspiracy to change all that was old/good to new/corporate. So now I'm the Man?

Oh, I finished The Corrections. Midway, I was prepping myself not to like it, and I kept looking for instances of pretention running away with itself. It's a pretentious book, but unfortunately, Jonathan Franzen never lets himself go so's I can accuse him. Really, my biggest criticism was that he covered too many topics (Alzheimers--Lithuanian economics--electrometallurgy--Philadelphia--restaurant business & culinary arts--illegal drugs--Hollywood--decline of the American railroad--Academe hypocrisy--insider trading--Stanley Tucci--clinical depression--biomedical engineering), and he even managed to tie all those together. Damn you, Franzen, and your Oprah sticker.

It's raining this morning, so probably Kristen and I won't do the long day of running we had planned, it being two days before the Peachtree. I am relieved by the inclement weather, but We Are Going to Die on Sunday.


Drew Dir at 7:57 AM |

Are You Experienced?

The Starbucks Job, once cruising on its way to Wageville, has hit a pothole. I was supposed to attend a class yesterday in Sandy Springs as part of my training; the class is titled "The Starbucks Experience" and it's designed to train employees in everything except actually making coffee. When I arrived there promptly at 4, however (the class was located in the upstairs of a Roswell Rd. location, very sketch), I barged through the door and found myself in the middle of a PR meeting with the major power brokers of the 'Bucks. But before I realized this was not the Experience, I moved to take a seat at the table with them. I was kindly informed that I had just made a fool of myself, at which point I excused myself to go sit in traffic for an hour until I got to Haynes Bridge and was apologized to for being given the wrong time and place of the class. So I have to take the class on Thursday, which may or may not interfere with my plans to go see Psycho at Screen on the Green in Piedmont Park. Most likely I'll be spending 5 hours learning about First Impressions! with only the rare condescending remark to salve the knowledge of missing my only chance to see a gigantic Anthony Perkins in the middle of Atlanta.

Well, otherwise I had a good lunch with Kristen at Burrito Art, just a short drive from her work at Yerkes (yes, the monkey place). And I picked up the new Wilco album, which Thomas and I promptly dissected last night. Thomas thinks that Wilco is obsessed with one particular chord, and I think Thomas is obsessed with chords.

By the way, I saw The Station Agent last night, which is one of the movies we missed at DOC, and I loved it, perhaps because it was about dwarfs and trains.

Now I'm going to go read Jonathan Franzen's The Corrections out on the deck, which is really, really good.



Drew Dir at 9:20 AM |

My edition of the Communist Manifesto is roughly 100 pages long.
My new Starbucks manual is 232 pages long.

Talk amongst yourselves, because that is all I can disclose, for I signed a contract stating that I would not talk about Starbucks procedures, tips, secrets, equipment, and recipes to non-Starbucks persons. This includes any discoveries, inventions, or improvements I make during my employment with Starbucks, which devolve to the ownership of Starbucks. And I must not let the Everlasting Gobstopper fall into the clutches of Slugworth. Also, I can not discuss insider trader information, especially in public places like "airports" and "elevators" where anyobody might be listening in.

I've always wanted to be in a secret society!

And despite my new membership, I'm still able to enjoy articles like this.

Furthermore, to demonstrate that I haven't sold out completely to Reagan and corporate America, here is a somewhat level-headed hit-and-run of the Reagan adminstration.

Drew Dir at 1:39 PM |

From an article on the upcoming Batman Begins:

On this particular day, Bale has been in the Batsuit for nine hours, and his brain is starting to boil. But he keeps up his good humor. After one take, Nolan instructs him to try a line again with more intensity, and Bale answers with a riff inspired by "This Is Spinal Tap": "How much more Batman can you get? The answer is: none. None more Batman."

* * *

I've been to all 3 local libraries in the past weekend, and it has only confirmed my belief that public suburban libraries are sad, lonely places; but, as Rita has pointed on a biweekly basis, I am often sad and lonely, thus, I will continue to indulge my autumnalocity. And by the way, Spruill totally kicks Roswell and Alpharetta's ass, still.

Kristen and I cooked dinner for her parents on Saturday night-- pesto tortellini with salad-- which is our first attempt at teaching ourselved how to cook so our kitchens don't get lonely next school year. The food turned out almost flawless, due to grace and innate culinary jive. I'm really psyched about cooking next year. On that Maine kayaking trip before junior year, we had two guides, Jesse and Brian, who, when they were roommates at U of Maine, would spend their Friday nights cooking and baking muffins. So, Chicago people: Friday nights, Shoreland, room 705.

We also saw Saved! at a theater which was not Madstone, because Madstone closed down to make me the saddest little Days of Heaven fan ever (Richard Gere among wheat!). Anyhow, the movie was very much like watching a story about Milton FCA, but the film took a very can't live with 'em, can't live without 'em treatment, so it's not the acid-frothing satire on Christian Youth culture that the trailers promised. I'm kinda glad it wasn't. And I would be ill, but not surprised, if the new Milton christened itself as Super-Lucky American Eagle Milton Christian Rock High School next year.

Last night, I finally hung out with Clarke and Daniel and Adam and Sara and Jason and then Sarah and Ian, all of whom save one have blogs that have been sorely neglected in the past month, so don't even bother to go check because you'll just be disappointed; again. Well, maybe we're growing out of the blogs. Anyhow, Clarke's new house is hott and Perlman & Beverly almost died on the way and Fellini's was amazing (because 9 months of deep dish wears one out) and Georgie peed and A&E; is unentertaining and Jason made tasteless rape jokes. And it seems like every time I go out with you guys it's the best possible run-on sentence. Everyone's working and interning in far-off places and moving and stage managing and making plans, and it's all so much change to take in at once that it's best to just eat ice cream and take a look at how little everything's changed.

I think that goes for just about everything back here so far. God, I love it. Chicago will be the bee's knees next year, but for now there's nothing I'd rather do than be in Alpharetta forever.

Now I'm just sitting and eating Kalamata olives and dates (I have recently grown a substantial archipelago of Mediterranean taste buds) and waiting for Kristen to get home from work so we can start our evening, which, the way I see it, is actually my first official night of summer (eliminating free days from finals week last week and the weekend). I hope we're running.

Finally: Starbucks interview tomorrow at 11:30. I will not get it. They asked my why I wanted to work at Starbucks on my application; I answered, "The chicks."

Finally, finally: Kelly, did you try and call me yesterday? Because I tried calling you back, but the number I'm calling is a wrong number.



Drew Dir at 3:10 PM |