Monthly Archives: October 2012


It was a hellish week, nearly a month ago. And Tuesday—of course it was a Tuesday—I spent first with my barely controlled contempt for everything, and with my ever-patient (but not burly) parents, hauling and dragging, from house to truck, from truck to house, for hours on end, every heavy and awkward thing in my world. Fuck mattresses. Fuck aaaaaaaall the mattresses.

When I finally took a break (broke), I lied down on the floor (for the couch was gone), too tired to cry, and contemplated setting fire to the remainder and having done with it. Because when the day was done—and it was far from done—there would still be another, and another, and another. And in a tunnel that long, my search for light often ends in brilliant explosions.

But then came the rally: Friends arrived, ate pizza, drank beer, played automobile Tetris with Rubbermaid containers and night stands. It was like the mumbling of an orchestra before the music starts—tuning and plucking, shuffling sheet music, setting up stands and chairs.

And then the baton raises for a moment of stillness. And then we were off.

The first movement: mosso. Literally, “moved.” Agitated. We were in and out of traffic, every car its own instrument, and no one in the same place, all over the place. But the chaos moved together toward a single destination—the driving rhythm, resolving, aligning, until finally we came together, a caravan alone on a two-lane road.

Movement No. 2: Allegro. It rained, and we danced. The unloading was an ant farm; no one stopped moving, just churning around, in and out, with such purpose and dexterity. Imagine the office in Brazil. It was beautiful.

And finally, rest. Well, rest amid stacks of boxes and piles of god-knows-what, but still: rest.

Curtain call.

That was how it got there. Here’s what it looks like now.

Built-in bookshelves (always a plus) and my late uncle’s Clavinova electric piano.

The sign above the door, “procured” from a trail head along the Blue Ridge Parkway, says “Foot Travel Only.”

I’m endlessly proud of the “spice rack.” I wandered Target for an hour and a half in search of spice rack inspiration and only found a lazy susan. I decided to take a chance on this assembly-required desktop cube shelf (of course I hadn’t measured anything; I never do) and it fit perfectly. Serendipitous spice rack.

I like to think this wall says nice things about me: a hockey stick, a Chagall poster, a framed Stoppard quote and a generic photo from TJ Maxx that might have mountains in it but I like to pretend it’s a shot of the intracoastal. (There’s also a birdfeeder that hangs outside the window, which doesn’t say a lot about me except that I’m clever with my birdfeeder placement.)

The street.

One end, a block and a half away.

The other end, two and a half blocks away.


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At some point I’ll have to do a post about last week’s move and other burdens, but for today, more random reading material:

I remember at various points this past weekend (and at various beers this past weekend), describing articles I’d read recently, and saying, “I should send you the link,” and having the listener(s) respond, “Yes, please do send me the link.” Unfortunately, now I can’t remember to whom I was describing which stories, and my reading subjects being what they’ve been recently (read: weird), there’s no logic to pair one friend to “Scientology” and another to “bull goring.”

And, frankly, I didn’t want to guess wrong and wind up being That Friend Who Sends Articles About Pedophiles.

So, if I promised you a link, look for it here. If I didn’t, I probably meant to. Here’s some shit that caught my attention and gave me some much-needed distraction during the past week or two of utter, painful insanity.

(Side note: Recently discovered feature-length story aggregator is awesome for finding random shit to read about.)

In Plain View: How child molesters get away with it. Jerry Sandusky is just the jumping-off point for this story that uses anecdotes from psychiatrists about how pedophiles manipulate the people around them–victims and witnesses–and walk a careful line, so that they’re not “technically” doing anything wrong–until they are. Plus it offers an interesting look at how Joe Paterno’s own psychological makeup fit into Sandusky’s story.

The Blind Faith of the One-Eyed Matador. Interesting look into the world of bullfighting; also, an amazing, horrifying, graphic description of this guy getting his face damn-near ripped off. (With pictures!)

Jani’s at the Mercy of Her Mind. A six-year-old with schizophrenia, which is a terrifying disease to begin with, and apparently it’s way worse the rare times it affects children.

On Falling Apart. Relatively short but refreshingly candid story from a woman who was diagnosed with bipolar disorder at 30.

“The Best TV Show That’s Ever Been.” An “oral history” of Cheers–interviews with cast members and the creators help construct how they all got involved in what turned out to be an incredible show, how they perceived it, their relationships, and their extracurricular drug- and alcohol-fueled craziness. (And the fact that Kelsey Grammer stood out enough to require TWO separate interventions really says something.)

Eyes Wide Shut. OK, this is actually from our September issue, but it’s good (and thanks to its appearance on Longform, it’s garnered more than 10,000 views)–a look at Peg Nadel, widow of our homegrown ponzi schemer Art Nadel.

The Boy They Couldn’t Kill. The story of the destruction wrought by former NFLer Rae Carruth, who was convicted of ordering the murder of his pregnant girlfriend in 2001. It’s told from the heartbreaking (and fairly inspiring) point of view of the girl’s mother, who took custody of her grandson, who was disabled due to oxygen deprivation in the womb after his mother was shot. Carruth’s appearances in the story are particularly maddening.


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