6/30/11
Happy Birthday Claudette (or is it Clef?) !
A very HAPPY belated BIRTHDAY to the best singer of Whitney Houston's I Will Always Love You that I will ever know.
6/29/11
mmm mead
Wikipedia can clearly not always be trusted. Confidently cited information sometimes rings bogus. Whether made up or certified factual, wikipedia entries are a treasure trove of silly information. I hope the below from the "honeymoon" wikipedia page is true.
[the source cited is the illustrious sounding Wassail! In Mazers of Mead written in 1986 by Robert Gayre and published by Brewers Publications. ]
Stand forewarned, moving forward, I plan to give all of my friend's a months worth of mead as a wedding present. And, having tried mead at the Maryland Renaissance festival three years ago, I can tell you... it's best left to the dark ages.
6/28/11
Street Art
We watched Exit Through The Gift Shop last night. Anyone see it? Thoughts?
We enjoyed it. Amusing send up of the art world's pretensions and also entertaining introduction to a world, its characters, and its products (some fantastic, ranging from moving to laugh out loud goofy, and always impressively original murals), which we knew next to nothing about about. Not to mention it reminded Gen of his fight the man long haired middle school sk8ter boi days. By the end we had totally lost track of where the hoax ended and where it began.
Relatedly, I saw this article today which I found amusing -- Soviet War Statue
We enjoyed it. Amusing send up of the art world's pretensions and also entertaining introduction to a world, its characters, and its products (some fantastic, ranging from moving to laugh out loud goofy, and always impressively original murals), which we knew next to nothing about about. Not to mention it reminded Gen of his fight the man long haired middle school sk8ter boi days. By the end we had totally lost track of where the hoax ended and where it began.
Relatedly, I saw this article today which I found amusing -- Soviet War Statue
 |
| the mural street art-ified |
We've been traveling and adventuring...
... and unable to post frequently as a result. Voila Walt to wholeheartedly summarize the mood:
Song of the Open Road
 |
| as a I whisper, "Camerado, I give you my hand!" |
I do not offer the old smooth prizes, but offer rough new prizes.
These are the days that must happen to you:
You shall not heap up what is called riches,
You shall scatter with lavish hand all that you earn or achieve.
However sweet the laid-up stores,
However convenient the dwellings,
You shall not remain there.
However sheltered the port,
And however calm the waters,
You shall not anchor there.
However welcome the hospitality that welcomes you
You are permitted to receive it but a little while.
Afoot and lighthearted, take to the open road,
Healthy, free, the world before you,
The long brown path before you, leading wherever
you choose.
Say only to one another:
Camerado, I give you my hand!
I give you my love, more precious than money,
I give you myself before preaching or law:
Will you give me yourself?
Will you come travel with me?
Shall we stick by each other as long as we live?
Walt Whitman
6/21/11
Do Right Ancestors
This is my great-great grandmother, an accomplished Belgian equestrian. I'm told we have an Olympic medal somewhere that she won in riding but I'm not sure if that's just family lore...
6/20/11
Around my French table with Vladimir
Some book recommendations....
1) I can’t stop paging through this cookbook discovered in my parents' house and hoping someone will make me everything in it....
Around My French Table by Dorie Greenspan.
Our chef, Ms. Greenspan (no relation to Alan... whew.), had me at the cover photo of poulet roti, and I was putty in her hands 15 seconds in (upon discovering that she has three different kinds of rillettes described lovingly in the apps section). Her photos are mouth watering, the recipes look delicious, clearly directed and practical, and before each recipe she has a paragraph or two of context (which I appreciated heartily as a non-cook) where she expands enjoyably- describing a region, featuring commentary on general French culinary philosophies, or noting how the particular dish is served in a favorite Parisian bistrot, etc. Delightful! Gen please get over your prejudices asap put your fine booty in gear and whip me up a lil je ne sais quoi (ok I do sais quoi... please see the dessert section) from the motherland.
2) I've also really enjoyed paging through Verses and Versions: Three Centuries of Rusian Poetry selected and translated by Vladimir Nabokov
It's basically a collection of Nabokov's translations of prized Russian poetry (alongside the original Russian), featuring both his amusing and insightful backgrounds on the various authors (e.g. on Afanasiy Fet, "Fet - the spirit of the air a wispy cloud, a butterfly fanning its wings." and on Fet's critics, "Fet was harried, spat at, spanked, mocked, insulted in such a thorough fashion that it is a wonder he never lost his head..."), and also a small collection of his notes on translation and poetry. I'm always fascinated by translation and the question of what is lost from the original language (and of course also what is gained from the translator ... particularly when it's someone like Nabokov).
6/18/11
The Border War and Moneyball Trailer
With the advent of the St. Louis Cardinals-Kansas City Royals series this weekend, the battle of the hearts and minds of Missourians begins. This is kind of like the Civil War skirmishes on the border of the two states but updated for the 21st century. In other words, there is no love lost between the two states and the two municipalities have stark and deep-rooted differences in terms of culture and worldview, but the fight is no longer waged with guns and border raids, but in vicious slander and libel broadcast in print and over the internet.
About half of Kansas City and all of St. Louis sit in the Show Me State, the state of Missouri, the 18th most populous state in the Union. The St. Louis metro area has an edge in population at 2.8 million to Kansas City's 2 million, although the gap is not that large, and even less if you include Lawrence, Topeka and St. Joseph in Kansas City's metro. Both are midwestern cities with midwestern sensibilities - outdoorsy, socially conservative in general, skeptical of the intentions of more liberal coastal states. In turn, both also have a bit of a chip on the shoulder - St. Louisians have an inferiority complex to Chicago, Kansas Citians have an inferiority complex to everyone.
Both stand as the home of distinctly American culinary traditions - toasted ravioli and St. Louis-style pizza in St. Louis, and slow cooked barbecue in Kansas City. Both have proud, rich baseball traditions - St. Louis as the home to the second most successful franchise in MLB history, Kansas City as the home to the most successful franchise in Negro League history, one of the most successful minor league teams in history, and one of the most successful expansion MLB teams in history. And hey, they've treated one of Missouri's own - Albert Pujols - with tremendous hospitality over the year (although we'll see if that changes next year when he signs with his hometown Royals).
So why the animosity? These are two teams that play in separate leagues that meet up only twice a year. I prefer to see us not as rivals, but as brothers who spar once in awhile, but ultimately belong to the same crazy family with XXX signs along I-70, wonderfully liberal alcohol and fireworks laws and a step-brother named Springfield they're both a bit embarrassed by.
Anyways, sticking with the baseball theme the trailer for the upcoming film Moneyball starring Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Robin Wright has been released. For those of you who have not read the book by Michael Lewis, you should. You don't have to be a baseball fan to appreciate the story. Nadia, you can just borrow my copy.
About half of Kansas City and all of St. Louis sit in the Show Me State, the state of Missouri, the 18th most populous state in the Union. The St. Louis metro area has an edge in population at 2.8 million to Kansas City's 2 million, although the gap is not that large, and even less if you include Lawrence, Topeka and St. Joseph in Kansas City's metro. Both are midwestern cities with midwestern sensibilities - outdoorsy, socially conservative in general, skeptical of the intentions of more liberal coastal states. In turn, both also have a bit of a chip on the shoulder - St. Louisians have an inferiority complex to Chicago, Kansas Citians have an inferiority complex to everyone.
Both stand as the home of distinctly American culinary traditions - toasted ravioli and St. Louis-style pizza in St. Louis, and slow cooked barbecue in Kansas City. Both have proud, rich baseball traditions - St. Louis as the home to the second most successful franchise in MLB history, Kansas City as the home to the most successful franchise in Negro League history, one of the most successful minor league teams in history, and one of the most successful expansion MLB teams in history. And hey, they've treated one of Missouri's own - Albert Pujols - with tremendous hospitality over the year (although we'll see if that changes next year when he signs with his hometown Royals).
So why the animosity? These are two teams that play in separate leagues that meet up only twice a year. I prefer to see us not as rivals, but as brothers who spar once in awhile, but ultimately belong to the same crazy family with XXX signs along I-70, wonderfully liberal alcohol and fireworks laws and a step-brother named Springfield they're both a bit embarrassed by.
Anyways, sticking with the baseball theme the trailer for the upcoming film Moneyball starring Brad Pitt, Jonah Hill, Philip Seymour Hoffman, and Robin Wright has been released. For those of you who have not read the book by Michael Lewis, you should. You don't have to be a baseball fan to appreciate the story. Nadia, you can just borrow my copy.
In the tradition of Mainstreamed Wonkiness...
... found the below very informative. Maybe a bit too political science-y (it is co-authored by Jason Brownlee after all), but such is the nature of the BB42 beast. Early Observations on Post-Mubarak Egypt
It seems that between the events in Syria/Libya/Yemen, Canadians surprising everyone and passionately rioting (not to mention proving that Mounties aren't just for show), and our summer of sex scandal galore, no one in the media is talking about Egypt anymore.
ok and now I stop trying to be a credible blogger and just share cartoons I found funny.
A Sentimental Saturday Poem
A Prayer
Let me do my work each day;
and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me from bitterness
and from the sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time’s olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening’s
twilight find me gentle still.
— Max Ehrmann
Let me do my work each day;and if the darkened hours
of despair overcome me, may I
not forget the strength
that comforted me in the
desolation of other times. May I
still remember the bright
hours that found me walking
over the silent hills of my
childhood, or dreaming on the
margin of the quiet river,
when a light glowed within me,
and I promised my early God
to have courage amid the
tempests of the changing years.
Spare me from bitterness
and from the sharp passions of
unguarded moments. May
I not forget that poverty and
riches are of the spirit.
Though the world know me not,
may my thoughts and actions
be such as shall keep me friendly
with myself. Lift my eyes
from the earth, and let me not
forget the uses of the stars.
Forbid that I should judge others
lest I condemn myself.
Let me not follow the clamor of
the world, but walk calmly
in my path. Give me a few friends
who will love me for what
I am; and keep ever burning
before my vagrant steps
the kindly light of hope. And
though age and infirmity overtake
me, and I come not within
sight of the castle of my dreams,
teach me still to be thankful
for life, and for time’s olden
memories that are good and
sweet; and may the evening’s
twilight find me gentle still.
— Max Ehrmann
6/15/11
Pretty much what you'd expect
From "Measuring up the Republican Field;" fundraising with respect to conservative ideology (and this post compares to Nate Silver's recent findings on similar questions)...
Hmmm.
Well, the good news is that this is the sunset I saw on a walk in the neighborhood the other night (taken from my blackberry all you I-phone naysayers!)...
Hmmm.
Well, the good news is that this is the sunset I saw on a walk in the neighborhood the other night (taken from my blackberry all you I-phone naysayers!)...
6/14/11
In upstate NY
 |
| speaking of cats.... |
Some recommendations from the last two days:
- Good recent series on Brazil in The American Interest. A lot of different perspectives.
- Keith Richards autobiography Life (endlessly entertaining and surprisingly well written... he's completely fascinating)
- I think this should be required reading for everyone in the IR/ID field, it rang very, very familiar and accurate- http://shotgunshackblog.com/2011/06/03/pretty-on-paper/
- Barbara Kingsolver's La Lacuna (ok so maybe she's cheating a bit by making her protagonist friends with historical figures like Leon Trotsky and Frida Kahlo ... there's certainly a lot of name dropping that goes on and his life is exaggeratedly touched by every important historical event of the period - e.g. his Mom dies in a car crash because she's rushing to see Howard Hughes land his plane - but the book is a lot of fun precisely because of all this historical "context," gorgeously written, and it's a thought-provoking meditation on art, friendship, and concepts of national patrimony... among other things).
Articles that irritated me recently (try to guess why):
- Bloomberg Businessweek - God's MBAs: Why Mormon Missions Produce Leader
Before I turn back to my pile of reading, a special shout out to my Dad as Father's Day approaches...
6/12/11
Sunday Poem
Miracles
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Walt Whitman
Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky,
Or wade with naked feet along the beach just in the edge of
the water,
Or stand under trees in the woods,
Or talk by day with any one I love, or sleep in the bed at night
with any one I love,
Or sit at table at dinner with the rest,
Or look at strangers opposite me riding in the car,
Or watch honey-bees busy around the hive of a summer
forenoon,
Or animals feeding in the fields,
Or birds, or the wonderfulness of insects in the air,
Or the wonderfulness of the sundown, or of stars shining so
quiet and bright,
Or the exquisite delicate thin curve of the new moon in spring;
These with the rest, one and all, are to me miracles,
The whole referring, yet each distinct and in its place.
To me every hour of the light and dark is a miracle,
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth is spread with
the same,
Every foot of the interior swarms with the same.
To me the sea is a continual miracle,
The fishes that swim—the rocks—the motion of the waves—
the ships with men in them,
What stranger miracles are there?
Walt Whitman
summer miracle of watching Watson "swimming"
6/7/11
Interactive post round II
Alright, so I really enjoyed reading responses to Gen's post in May asking readers to answer the same handful of questions and so here please partake in a second round. I promise these answers won't get deleted this time.
1) What is a book you have read more than once and always enjoyed?
2) What music do you listen to that would qualify as embarrassing and/or that others probably wouldn't guess that you enjoy?
3) What is a time that you have been afraid?
4) What issue(s) get you on your soapbox?
5) Share a favorite quote.
l promise to supply my answers tomorrow but gotta run...
1) What is a book you have read more than once and always enjoyed?
2) What music do you listen to that would qualify as embarrassing and/or that others probably wouldn't guess that you enjoy?
3) What is a time that you have been afraid?
4) What issue(s) get you on your soapbox?
5) Share a favorite quote.
l promise to supply my answers tomorrow but gotta run...
6/5/11
Reunite and Rejoice
You hear people say all the time that they don't want to live in the past. The past is gone, it is the future that matters. But I think that, more often than not, is a half-truth at best and a cop-out at worst. Don't we all want to live at least a little bit in the past? Don't we all want to remember those moments when the sun shined brightest, when those who have passed on were still with us, when the hole-in-one dropped, where we were when the wall fell/Saddam died/the Red Sox won the World Series? Don't we all save the scribblings and trophies and photographs that remind us?
That's why Princeton reunions is such an interesting and fun event for me. It's a reminder of a seminal time in my life and one for which I am extremely grateful - college. For those of you who are unaware of the implications of this event beyond the typical college reunion, Princeton University reunions are the most well-attended college reunions in the world. This year, in addition to boasting a member of the Class of 1925 in attendance, Princeton reunions once again proved itself the world's largest annual alcohol consumption event (the Fifth Year Reunion tent alone went through over 400 kegs of beer in three days).
Class of 1925, the man behind these beautiful Scottish bagpipers is nearly 110 years old...amazing dedication. Photo courtesy of the Princeton Alumni Weekly.
To say that this is a college reunion is a gross understatement; it is an alternate universe where for a weekend the real world disappears. This world is experienced vicariously through academic panels with distinguished speakers, reminiscing on college memories with friends, cover bands from all decades that take you back to sophomore spring lawn parties, art exhibits that make you feel like a college student again, a parade of hideous orange and black costumes that present the Princeton diaspora to the world, and a massive fireworks display that make even the most grizzled, cynical, and weathered alumni feel like kids again. This world is fueled by catered meals and unfathomable amounts of free alcohol. For one weekend, an entire university campus is transformed into an outdoor party worthy of Rome.
This year, however, as I walked up to the registration tent for my 5th college reunion, I realized for the first time that Princeton reunions is much more than the pomp and spectacle weekend prior to the pomp and circumstance of commencement. Reunions is an event that is independent of time, allowing me to live in the past, present, and future simultaneously. At face value, reunions was a whirwhind of standard two-minute conversations with hundreds of acquaintances (how are you? what are you doing these days? oh my goodness, you're engaged!? Congratulations!, etc.) mixed in with hour-or-more rendezvouses with very good friends (hey, do you remember that time we got shit-faced and set off fireworks inside your car?! (tremendous laughter) Man, that was stupid.) But in-between these interactions, my mind with constantly, persistently preoccupied with the most vivid memories of the four years I spent at Princeton. I saw myself studying in the library, biking across campus, drinking beers on the Tiger Inn lawn, agonizing over Japanese literature in Jones Hall. I visited old friends I have not seen in many years, my professors, an alumnus of the Class of 1941 who I struck up conversation with a few years ago and remain in touch with, my old college facilities director, an Italian man who still speaks very little English and this year was given an honorary degree for his thirty-year commitment to Princeton. So for one weekend, I relished an abridged version of my college experience.
Gen fills a beer in the Tiger Inn taproom, the site of many a long college night. This was the final day for the taproom before it is torn down and renovated (nostalgic tear).
Yet at the same time, I was supremely conscious of how today's Gen, age 27 years, is no longer the Gen of circa 2002-2006. I'm older, wiser (hopefully), more cautious, more career-obsessed, more focused on my future. I am happily in love with a new wonderful woman who just happens to be the beautiful, intelligent, Francophonic co-author of this blog. I moved to New York City to wander into one career path, only to switch gears midway, to switch back again in Washington, DC, and then pull a fake-out switch...ending up in business school in St. Louis. In the years since I've graduated, a minority has been elected President, Three 6 Mafia has won its first Academy Award along with Martin Scorsese, and Osama bin Laden has been killed. So, a lot has changed for me and my place in this spinning world.
Leaving the fifth reunion tent, smartphone in hand. Back in my day, we didn't have fancy phones. We had flip-phones like the ones that Nadia and Cory Landerfelt still use.
And as for the future, well at this fifth reunion for the first time I felt that I could safely and carefully pack away a lot of my Princeton experience in the closet, metaphorically speaking, for safe-keeping and remembrance. I'm in graduate school, so I no longer need to lean on my undergraduate degree for applications. I'm starting a new job in a new industry where no one cares that I went to Princeton. And after having lived in New York, Washington, DC, and St. Louis for the past five years, I have experienced the rude awakening that Princeton is not the real world. And by not the real world, I mean not even close. Very few places in this world have student dwellings with gorgeous gothic architecture, subsidized meals, tap-rooms with flowing beer every evening, worldly accomplished guest speakers daily, and average SAT scores north of the 98th percentile. Very few places are as ethnically, politically, and lifestyle-diverse as Princeton. And very few places are as economically privileged as the students, faculty, and alumni of Princeton University. Perhaps I am sounding sadly typical and naive, and in a way you are probably right. I can't help but feel sheepish about my mindset during my college years...As if living in castles, taking classes in cathedrals, and partying in mansions could even pass for normal.
The fact of the matter is, when you are five years out of Princeton, you feel old. Perhaps it's because it is the first landmark reunion after graduation that everyone goes to. Perhaps it is because my friends who entered medical or law school upon graduation now have titles such as "Doctor" and "Esquire". Perhaps is particularly because I was asked by an undergraduate while casually filling my beer and making conversation, "Soooo...how are the first five years out?" I think I had what would be classified as a panic attack trying to answer this question. The point is, in aggregate, such things make you feel old, and not only because all of the undergraduate guys these days wear tanktops and look like they are 14 and the undergraduate girls wear bikinis and look like they are 12. I'm dead serious. This was an odd phenomenon.
I feel older, with my compass pointed toward the uncharted waters of the future, because Gen Gillespie, Princeton University Class of 2006, no longer defines my life. This is not to say that I am blind to my past -- I am fiercely proud of what I accomplished at Princeton. I was handpicked out of Salina South High School, in Salina, Kansas -- the only student from Salina to ever attend Princeton. But ultimately, history is history. It is a small thread of the fabric of the now, and now is all that matters. Now, it is Gen Gillespie, Intern at Company Awesome, Gen Gillespie, MBA candidate, Gen Gillespie, boyfriend of Nadia. Princeton is the past...I lived it once, that was good enough. Today, the future has so much more potential, at least until online registration for my sixth reunion opens next spring.
An Ode to Reunions
People tell me
How they thought it was
Way back then.
They tell me
How they remembered it.
And I tried to say
It wasn't exactly like that.
We were boys and girls
Flesh and blood
And we played in the sunshine
Studied in the dark
We went off the wall
We had fights, and we made love.
We sang songs and drank beer.
Before games.
We were real. Yeah. We laughed and cried.
We felt pain. And we felt joy.
There was a lot wrong with the world.
There still is.
But we weren't sad, man.
We had the times of our lives.
We tell them that for five years.
They hear. But they didn't understand.
They tried to understand, but you had to be there.
That's why Princeton reunions is such an interesting and fun event for me. It's a reminder of a seminal time in my life and one for which I am extremely grateful - college. For those of you who are unaware of the implications of this event beyond the typical college reunion, Princeton University reunions are the most well-attended college reunions in the world. This year, in addition to boasting a member of the Class of 1925 in attendance, Princeton reunions once again proved itself the world's largest annual alcohol consumption event (the Fifth Year Reunion tent alone went through over 400 kegs of beer in three days).
Class of 1925, the man behind these beautiful Scottish bagpipers is nearly 110 years old...amazing dedication. Photo courtesy of the Princeton Alumni Weekly.
To say that this is a college reunion is a gross understatement; it is an alternate universe where for a weekend the real world disappears. This world is experienced vicariously through academic panels with distinguished speakers, reminiscing on college memories with friends, cover bands from all decades that take you back to sophomore spring lawn parties, art exhibits that make you feel like a college student again, a parade of hideous orange and black costumes that present the Princeton diaspora to the world, and a massive fireworks display that make even the most grizzled, cynical, and weathered alumni feel like kids again. This world is fueled by catered meals and unfathomable amounts of free alcohol. For one weekend, an entire university campus is transformed into an outdoor party worthy of Rome.
Gen fills a beer in the Tiger Inn taproom, the site of many a long college night. This was the final day for the taproom before it is torn down and renovated (nostalgic tear).
Yet at the same time, I was supremely conscious of how today's Gen, age 27 years, is no longer the Gen of circa 2002-2006. I'm older, wiser (hopefully), more cautious, more career-obsessed, more focused on my future. I am happily in love with a new wonderful woman who just happens to be the beautiful, intelligent, Francophonic co-author of this blog. I moved to New York City to wander into one career path, only to switch gears midway, to switch back again in Washington, DC, and then pull a fake-out switch...ending up in business school in St. Louis. In the years since I've graduated, a minority has been elected President, Three 6 Mafia has won its first Academy Award along with Martin Scorsese, and Osama bin Laden has been killed. So, a lot has changed for me and my place in this spinning world.
Leaving the fifth reunion tent, smartphone in hand. Back in my day, we didn't have fancy phones. We had flip-phones like the ones that Nadia and Cory Landerfelt still use.
And as for the future, well at this fifth reunion for the first time I felt that I could safely and carefully pack away a lot of my Princeton experience in the closet, metaphorically speaking, for safe-keeping and remembrance. I'm in graduate school, so I no longer need to lean on my undergraduate degree for applications. I'm starting a new job in a new industry where no one cares that I went to Princeton. And after having lived in New York, Washington, DC, and St. Louis for the past five years, I have experienced the rude awakening that Princeton is not the real world. And by not the real world, I mean not even close. Very few places in this world have student dwellings with gorgeous gothic architecture, subsidized meals, tap-rooms with flowing beer every evening, worldly accomplished guest speakers daily, and average SAT scores north of the 98th percentile. Very few places are as ethnically, politically, and lifestyle-diverse as Princeton. And very few places are as economically privileged as the students, faculty, and alumni of Princeton University. Perhaps I am sounding sadly typical and naive, and in a way you are probably right. I can't help but feel sheepish about my mindset during my college years...As if living in castles, taking classes in cathedrals, and partying in mansions could even pass for normal.
The fact of the matter is, when you are five years out of Princeton, you feel old. Perhaps it's because it is the first landmark reunion after graduation that everyone goes to. Perhaps it is because my friends who entered medical or law school upon graduation now have titles such as "Doctor" and "Esquire". Perhaps is particularly because I was asked by an undergraduate while casually filling my beer and making conversation, "Soooo...how are the first five years out?" I think I had what would be classified as a panic attack trying to answer this question. The point is, in aggregate, such things make you feel old, and not only because all of the undergraduate guys these days wear tanktops and look like they are 14 and the undergraduate girls wear bikinis and look like they are 12. I'm dead serious. This was an odd phenomenon.
I feel older, with my compass pointed toward the uncharted waters of the future, because Gen Gillespie, Princeton University Class of 2006, no longer defines my life. This is not to say that I am blind to my past -- I am fiercely proud of what I accomplished at Princeton. I was handpicked out of Salina South High School, in Salina, Kansas -- the only student from Salina to ever attend Princeton. But ultimately, history is history. It is a small thread of the fabric of the now, and now is all that matters. Now, it is Gen Gillespie, Intern at Company Awesome, Gen Gillespie, MBA candidate, Gen Gillespie, boyfriend of Nadia. Princeton is the past...I lived it once, that was good enough. Today, the future has so much more potential, at least until online registration for my sixth reunion opens next spring.
An Ode to Reunions
People tell me
How they thought it was
Way back then.
They tell me
How they remembered it.
And I tried to say
It wasn't exactly like that.
We were boys and girls
Flesh and blood
And we played in the sunshine
Studied in the dark
We went off the wall
We had fights, and we made love.
We sang songs and drank beer.
Before games.
We were real. Yeah. We laughed and cried.
We felt pain. And we felt joy.
There was a lot wrong with the world.
There still is.
But we weren't sad, man.
We had the times of our lives.
We tell them that for five years.
They hear. But they didn't understand.
They tried to understand, but you had to be there.
Speed Recommending
Some other joint recommendations from the last few weeks:
DC Events:
Asian Heritage Festival on the Mall - it's nothing special (despite awesomely being officially titled "Fiesta Asia!")... pretty much your typical outdoor fair with stands featuring various forms of protein on skewers and fried everything, "experts" leading workshops (sushi chef! small Indian women teaching children how to weave baskets!), and trinkets/jewelry/obligatory bob Marley beach towels/Nepalese flags. That said - Go purely to (1) watch the DC Public Schools do their Karate demonstration which is pretty much the cutest/funniest thing I've ever seen and (2) see how places like Kurdistan and Azerbaijan sell themselves as tourist destinations.
Jazz in the Park at National Gallery of Art's Sculpture Garden - Ok everyone living in DC/VA+MD burbs has heard of this by now and this is really a plug for our friend MK's impressive photography on her blog and flickr account. Quelle artiste! First stop - Dcist.com ... next stop - world pictorial domination!
Werner Herzog's Cave of Forgotten Dreams in 3D at Georgetown Cinema -- we could write an entire blog entry about what a fantastic cinematic experience this is. It's a flawed movie... clearly needed some editing to cut the superfluous, a bit all over the place, and no doubt bizarre. But the superfluous is what makes it endlessly entertaining and the visuals of the chauvet cave itself - including mind blowingly beautiful art preserved for 30,000+ years make the movie entirely unforgettable.
[the kind of friend Werner would love]
Roosevelt Island in the Potomac River - The hike itself is pretty mediocre (it is after all the potomac and you do see trash bags floating down the river) but the monument area is kinda cool and it's always nice to get out of the city a bit.
Gen on the bridge to the Island
Current Woodrow Wilson House exhibit on American women rebuilding efforts in France 1917-1924. Our nations used to get along so well! Well, at the very least, rich American socialites just wanted to get out of the damn house and save peasant children in Picardy.
Taking the Bolt Bus - I'm not really sure if this fits into this category and I realize I'm late to the Bolt Bus party but it was a recent discovery for us to take the Bolt Bus up the east coast rather than Amtrak (and save 100+ bucks). It only took 4 hours, has internet, was quiet/clean/civil, very well-run, and we were able to buy ticket super last minute. Previously, I associated east coast bus rides with the trauma of the china town bus (which deserves an entire entry in itself), so this was a welcome find.
GASTRONOMY:
We are on an epic Trader Joe's Vegetable Masala Burgers kick - it's like an Indian buffet experience in the form of a small patty and tastes good with everything.
Two awesome new coffee discoveries - the newly opened Peregrine Espresso on 14th street (bomb espresso) and Filter (bomb coffee and looks like a good place to study) in Dupont.
The collared greens and the biscuits at Eatonville in the U st. area (we did brunch there so can't speak to dinner and lunch but beyond these items, I didn't think much else was that good and it was all entirely too salty.)
Newly opened Tsunami Lounge on 14th st in Logan area - clearly the timing on their name is unfortunate but the sushi was yummy and affordable and better than a lot of local spots I've been too. Plus you have a nice view of the 14th street corridor and the friendly waiter gave me shitake miso soup on the da house. hollaaa.
Bistrot Lepic in Georgetown - we went with my Dad for dinner when he was in town recently. The food was solid, not great, but definitely solid French bistrot fair which is rarer in Georgetown's ooo la la we think we're so Francais scene than you'd think (for the love of dieu, having table cloths from Provence doesn't really make sense and having creme brulee on the menu does not justify your lack of a croque madame!) and the atmosphere was lovely. The upstairs wine bar looked great for a date and had live music.
Teaism's ginger scones .... holy sacre bleu. so good. Can't stop coming up with an excuse to walk by and get one.
I'M A TECH GODDESS:
NASA app for iphones. Ok I don't really know how to use an i-phone but Gen keeps sending me pictures and factoids from this and they are pretty freaking sweet. Plus anything that can keep him entertained for a whole 4 hour busride when I'm hogging the one Economist we have between us gets my blessing.
Jon Stewart ripping Donald Trump and Sarah Palin for their NYC pizza faux pas - Really wish I knew how to post videos
Amazon's cloud stream service which has allowed us to easily share recent finds including the new My Morning Jacket album Circuital, Eddie Vedder on the Ukulele, and, obviously, soundtrack to Sons of Anarchy Seasons 1-4.
6/3/11
Our first guest post!
[We have decided to occasionally incorporate guests posts from wise and/or witty acquaintances. Naturally, we launched this initiative with a contribution from one of our wisest and wittiest friends. In her post she skillfully describes an experience most of us will never get to have. This Do Right Woman is uncovering archaeological artifacts for posterity. Here you go - !]
Our guest blogger in front of a small Austrian palace she dug upHello to all the loyal readers of BBFT! You probably don’t know me (but you really should, you’d probably like me) my name is Jeanine, and I am an old friend of Nadia’s—I knew her back when her bangs were not so chic and she “knew” how to drive a car (she was particularly apt at applying the parking brake). Although, to be fair, Nadia knew me when I was dressing like a JCPenney runway model and wrote angsty entries in composition notebooks. But I digress. Nadia did not ask me to guest post about our former selves (though she should, those stories would prove much funnier than the ones I am about to tell). She asked me instead to guest post about a recent academic experience I had, likely my last one ever; which in and of itself is grounds for a personal existential crisis about who I am now that I am not a student. But again, I digress.
Jeanine on an excavation. Tip 1: Make sure to pack your whip to fight snakes and dastardly Nazis.
When one imagines an archaeological site, I would assume they imagine a Bedouin-style encampment, of linen tents and dust storms, of sexy, dirty people in khaki sitting around a fire swatting at mosquitoes and drinking some sort of local moonshine talking about the divergent human lineages and cultural groups in excited, breathy whispers. Sounds sexy, doesn’t it?
I regret to inform you that my digging experience was nothing like this. It was, for the most part, a group of women digging in the dirt on an unassuming patch of grass on an inconspicuous hill in Alexandria. While quaint in setting, this site was a total pain to access. Firstly, I know nothing about Alexandria. So when I got off the metro on that first day, I had my iPhone and my piss-poor sense of direction to guide me. I could see where I was supposed to be, but I had no idea how to get there, since where I needed to be was on the other side of several train tracks. So I followed myself as the little blue dot on the map on my phone and tried to make out street names and guess which way was “north.” (I often like to blame my poor sense of direction on being left-handed and the oppressive nature of such things). Naturally, I ended up going all the way around the wrong way, making me late, after the professor expressly said that the one thing she would not tolerate is tardiness. Also, it is uphill the whole time, which Nadia can attest to, I hate.
The excavation team found evidence that Jeanine and Nadia's colonial era doppelgangers had indeed existed
and, as it turns out, Gen and Zach's did too.
Colonial gen experimented with many hairstyles
and colonial Zach loved shoes.
Off to a great start, I had only a few moments to glance at the impending splendor of the George Washington Masonic Memorial which is an incredibly beautiful, formidable, and strange place. I still don’t actually know what it is or why it’s there except the Masons want it there, and want to keep it extremely clean. Though they graciously allow the field school students to use the facilities, we would remove our dusty/muddy/grassy shoes every time we went into the Memorial to use the restroom. We also had to use the side door and ring a doorbell to be let in by a security guard. Once inside, we were confronted with lots of marble, and upon peeking into some of the exhibit galleries, mannequins in full Mason regalia holding small children, or honest-to-God altars in an Egyptian style, which made our brains buzz with the implications of cultural appropriation. It was, needless to say, weird; picture 7-10 girls and women in dirty clothes wandering around an immaculately clean granite and marble building in their stocking feet. But their facilities were much nicer than a Porta-Potty, or peeing in the woods.
The site itself occupies a small fenced-in space next to a giant tree on top of what is known as Shuter’s Hill (I won’t bore you with all the details of the history of the site, but it includes a plantation, a few mansions, a Civil War headquarters, a golf course, and a proposed subdivision that the Masons bought and preserved instead). Our site manager, Fran, drives a 1984 white Chevy van with the words “Alexandria Archaeology” on the side in blue letters; think of the type of van you’d expect a suburban sex offender to drive, and that is what our “base camp on wheels” looks like. Fran parks it under a large tree, next to chain-link fenced in area where our site is. Obviously, if there is a thunderstorm of any proportion, we would be extremely safe.
The George Washington Masonic Temple in Alexandria
The site has been continuously open for like 10 years, which is not good archaeological practice (which Alexandria Archaeology recognizes) meaning there is a big hole in the ground of various depths, covered with a series of tarps, held down by rocks, bricks and tarp pins. It is, in a word, underwhelming.
Likewise, actually excavating is underwhelming. The first day our site manager, Fran (who reminds me of every crazy mom I know, so I loved her. She came to the dig one day wearing a FC Barcelona shirt and I asked if she was a fan, and she looked down at the shirt quizzically and replied that it must be a gift from her son who lives in Barcelona to her husband) marched us over to a patch of grass, handed us some shovels, and swore up and down that underneath these carefully outlined squares of earth was an archaeological feature (a significant artifact that cannot be removed from the ground—often an outline in the soil of something used by humans at one point) that was directly related to the laundry outbuilding, which was the associated building of our excavation. Additionally, on the first day, after a long weekend of rain, we had to bail water with a series of pumps and an assembly line of buckets. We initially joked about not having to go to the gym that day, which would later turn out to be a cruel joke, as our fingers, hands, shoulders and knees began to slowly deteriorate beneath us. Because the thing you don’t see in Indiana Jones movies or National Geographic documentaries is that digging is manual labor. One spends half the day kneeling over a hole with a trowel, scraping away, with varying levels of exertion and strength, across a clearly marked “unit,” making sure not to collapse the walls (this will royally ruin your unit and your work, as the soil will get all mixed together and “contaminated”) or dig through the level into the next one. After scraping, one uses a dustpan to scoop up all the soil, dump it into a bucket, and once the bucket is full, “screen” it, which means to sift through it like a surveyor looking for artifacts.
In our case, we were looking for historic artifacts—ceramic sherds, glass shards (yes, there is a difference), metal, bone, building material, anything that would indicate human modification or use. We weren’t finding whole bowls or diamond rings; we were finding minuscule bits of decorated ceramics, animal bones, window glass; the most mundane evidence of human activity ever. At the beginning of our dig, a mere glimmer of painted ceramic or animal bone was met with a squeal of delight (it was a class of only females, like most of my classes in grad school), “Oh! Porcelain, true porcelain! What fine dining these people were doing! And I’ve found it!” Which would then turn into a fantastical diatribe about a raucous dinner party gone awry (we had a running joke, based on the artifacts we found, that at our site was a pig roast, accompanied by several bottles of beer and wine, which ended in a drunken brawl in which one person lost a tooth—that I found!)
But save a few thrilling pieces (and “thrilling” is a relative term—I’m talking manganese glass, a human tooth, large animal bones and a Civil War shell casing—hardly the Missing Link) we found hundreds of nails, bits of ceramic, and windowpane glass. And when I say bits, I mean bits—miniscule scraps of mainly unidentifiable dinnerware that had to be washed and analyzed by hand in the lab later. But after a dig, the lab was a dream to me—I’m one of those people. Our instructors say you are either a lab person or a field person, and I am definitely a lab person (it’s honestly one of the main reasons I went into museums and not anthropology—the idea of spending long spans of time “in the field” wearing khaki pants and Merrell hiking boots does not suit my sensibilities or my delusions of fashionability).
Because when you’re in the field, you’re dirty, hot, wet, itchy, sweaty, hungry, which leads to general crabbiness. The week I was in the field it rained. Every. Day. And because we were only in the field for a week, and in the class for two, we could not afford to waste precious digging time. So every day we would bail water, erect a canopy (think of one your parents put up for a backyard party) and work underneath the canopy while it rains. The canopy then creates a steam room like atmosphere, and you’re sweating through your bright blue poncho you insisted on buying at Target and every step you take your sneakers are making that squishing noise. You sit there and think no person ever in history could ever have wanted to do this with his or her life, which is why everyone digs in the desert (or so you think).
In between the pottery shards we found THIS. Holy DINOTOPIA.
And other thing about participating in a field school in a reasonably urban setting is that when you take public transportation to your site, you get a lot of very strange looks. Fran swears that one day after a dig a person on the metro offered her money, seeing as she looked so homeless. Indeed, the wardrobe for field school was a major concern of mine; I don’t have much in the way of field clothes (unlike Nadia and Gen, my boyfriend Zach and I aren’t really into “urban hiking” or hiking of any kind). As a result, I wore the same pair of khaki pants (a botched attempt at online shopping at Banana Republic, before I realized that there was no way the pants would like they did on the model) and weird Nike sneakers my brother bought for me at a Goodwill online auction (yes, I am being serious) and white v-neck t-shirts I stole from Zach. So when I rode the metro in the morning, with all the federal employees and non-profit do-gooders in their Ann Taylor Loft and J. Crew clothes, I looked like a very unusual construction worker (the large lunchbox never helped). And then when I rode the metro home, I was covered in dirt, grass, sweat and surrounded by an unmentionable odor. Needless to say, no one sat by me.
By the time I got home at night, I was exhausted. I had to prop myself up with a heating pad and a BIG glass of water while I toiled away at my field notebook. Inside I had to record daily activities (“We opened the site this morning only to immediately close it again, due to torrential rain. We later opened it up and took soil samples, which were somewhat skewed by being soaking wet”) and all sorts of soil descriptions and color measurements that I barely understood, but being somewhat adept at writing (though by this point, you may disagree) I at least managed to BS my way through it. Much like the way I had to BS my way through lab analysis. Remember all those bits of ceramic? They are very different, based on composition, time period of production, glaze used, and so forth. So once they had all been cleaned, we had to compare them to examples from a study collection, as well as a huge three-ring binder of photos. We painstakingly identified tiny sherds based on fluorescent testing (who knew that porcelain fluoresces differently than pearlware? Or soda glass fluoresces differently from lead glass?), eyeball identification and our instructors’ help. I can pretty surely say I don’t really know anything more about 18th or 19th century ceramic except that there is often a difference.
Jeanine's monster truck is prohibited from entering the dig site.
I also can’t say I know that much more about being an archaeologist. You have to be deftly skilled in geology, archaeology, history, soil science, anthropology, and so forth, which I am not. I did learn how the process works, and to appreciate it, which will hopefully help me in my career as a museum professional. And I will give Werner Herzog some credit; when he asks the French archaeologist in Cave of Forgotten Dreams about how we can never what the hopes, dreams and fears of these ancient people were, he’s right. We can’t. Even in historic archaeology, where there is written record available, documentation still poses many obstacles. Historic documentation is often only pertinent to those who had access to it: literate individuals, with resources to write, which are often white, wealthy, landowners who were men. And even their records often only pertain to aspects of their lives that they deemed important at any given time; such records often negate the ordinary everyday lives of people in the past, which we in the disciplines like anthropology are wildly interested in. Historic archaeology, in the same vein as anthropology, or museum studies, or any type of cultural studies begs two very important questions: what is at stake? And, who gets to decide? (Hops off soapbox)
Note: My field school was sponsored by the dedicated and talented women at Alexandria Archaeology (http://alexandriava.gov/Archaeology) who have spent 20+ years preserving the archaeological record in the city of Alexandria. Indeed, Alexandria was one of the first cities in the nation to have a citywide commission dedicated to the preservation of the city’s history by archaeological means. It began as a rescue-type practice, saving historically significant areas from development without first preserving the contents and the features in the ground, to full-fledged community archaeology. This means that the local community participates in the digging, processing, and discourse of the city’s archaeology. The idea behind it is that the local history belongs to all the local citizens, and as stakeholders, they should and can be allowed to partake in its preservation. Alexandria Archaeology has a museum space in the waterfront Torpedo Art Center in Old Town Alexandria; if one expects a traditional museum and exhibition space, he or she will not find it here. The museum very openly practices what its mission statement preaches: preserving and studying the archaeological record is done in the lab, which is the exhibit, which is the museum. On Fridays, the museum is active with volunteers and interns cleaning and analyzing artifacts within view of the visitors, so they become a part of the exhibit, according to staff, who also mentioned that the Alexandria Archaeology Museum was one of the first museums to have an open lab. This practice directly creates a connection between the past and the present for visitors and community participants, which in turn then hopefully encourages a feeling of stewardship to all who visit and participate.
Until we meet again!
6/2/11
"and one man in his time plays many parts"
Well, clearly, we have been big time MIA. What can I say - Life is complicated when you're an international couple of mystery.
....
Anyhow, as we await a much anticipated Guest blog post from my friend who is most like Indiana Jones, today we expand upon our last DC theater recommendation with another suggestion. A few days back we saw Harold Pinter's Old Times at The Shakespeare Theatre Company’s Lansburgh Theatre. Despite the Company's mildly irritating affinity for spam emailing us every three minutes since seeing this play, we very much enjoyed the production and recommend it to readers. It will be showing through July 3, 2011 and discounted tickets are available (in fact, through Gen's sneaky machinations, we saw it for ten bucks).
By the aforementioned "very much enjoyed it," I mean that we were utterly, deliciously, baffled by the play - walked out a bit dazed - immediately I-phone searching various interpretations of Pinter's haunting work - and debated ours and these analyses. It's telling that a week later, I'm still thinking about what it all meant.
Basically, Old Times examines memory and "reality" through a basic story line - three seemingly former friends find themselves together for the first time in twenty years and recall their relationship - both nostalgically and traumatically. Two of the friends, Deeley and Kate, are introduced as a couple currently living together in the country, and the third character, Anna, a visiting friend, was Kate's flat mate in London years ago. From the play's first scene, it is alluded that Anna was in love and perhaps sexually involved with one or both of the now married Deeley and Kate. Through out their evening of conversation together - tensions arise, their laughter/drinking/general charged intimacy both exhilarates and exhausts you, and it becomes clear that - well, at the risk of cliche ... nothing is at it seems! The three freinds' interpretations and recollections of the past and of their past selves differ and blend to the point where the audience is no longer sure that these are even separate individuals and which scenes are occurring in memory, in the present, and/or in the past. In fact, the minimalist stage and the characters' manner leave you feeling sealed in, as if even trapped within someone's psyche or privy to a dream that they are replaying for themselves.
Katie, Deeley, and Anna on set
I don't want to expand too much upon my interpretation because I think it's best to see it as we did with no influence but if you do end up seeing it - I'd love to chat and hear your thoughts!
The one thing that is clear is that whatever really did or did not happentwenty years ago - Anna's visit, her presence and corresponding evocation of Kate's previous, pre-Deeley life, and her complex dual attraction/revulsion to Deeley provokes and threatens some fine balance between Deeley and Kate. The level of tension is high - you know that these people (or arguably this individual's mind that you're in) experienced some great suffering and understand that in one fateful episode (relived at the end of the play and evoked through out) there was a cataclysmic break through of sorts.
Perhaps, Pinter's one failing is that Deeley is written almost too opaquely as a Mad Men era esque businessman - an example of male ego and entitlement, completey uncomfortable with female friendship. Although, I suppose his weakness, discomfort, and ensuing aggression in the face of Anna and Kate's closeness makes a lot of sense depending on how you interpret the story. After all, some would argue that he may have lost the love of his life to her personal demons and/or be losing her again to mental illness once put to rest. In this context, his frantic battle to put a stake on Kate, his angry need to out do Anna and chase her out, makes more sense.
As vague and dreary as that all sounds, I should note that the play is also quite funny. Much of the dialogue consists of Deeley and Anna practically competing for Kate's attention and for the accurate recollection of a collective memory - both of which make for laugh-out-loud moments.
I'm also especially impressed with the actors because the task before them was to be both intriguing and elusive and to demonstrate how these fraught relationships both sustain and eat away at all involved.
So, in sum, see this disorienting, fascinating piece if you can. It really was a thoughtfully rendered, interactive, choose your own [theatrical] adventure, and we enjoyed "figuring it out."
....
Anyhow, as we await a much anticipated Guest blog post from my friend who is most like Indiana Jones, today we expand upon our last DC theater recommendation with another suggestion. A few days back we saw Harold Pinter's Old Times at The Shakespeare Theatre Company’s Lansburgh Theatre. Despite the Company's mildly irritating affinity for spam emailing us every three minutes since seeing this play, we very much enjoyed the production and recommend it to readers. It will be showing through July 3, 2011 and discounted tickets are available (in fact, through Gen's sneaky machinations, we saw it for ten bucks).
By the aforementioned "very much enjoyed it," I mean that we were utterly, deliciously, baffled by the play - walked out a bit dazed - immediately I-phone searching various interpretations of Pinter's haunting work - and debated ours and these analyses. It's telling that a week later, I'm still thinking about what it all meant.
Basically, Old Times examines memory and "reality" through a basic story line - three seemingly former friends find themselves together for the first time in twenty years and recall their relationship - both nostalgically and traumatically. Two of the friends, Deeley and Kate, are introduced as a couple currently living together in the country, and the third character, Anna, a visiting friend, was Kate's flat mate in London years ago. From the play's first scene, it is alluded that Anna was in love and perhaps sexually involved with one or both of the now married Deeley and Kate. Through out their evening of conversation together - tensions arise, their laughter/drinking/general charged intimacy both exhilarates and exhausts you, and it becomes clear that - well, at the risk of cliche ... nothing is at it seems! The three freinds' interpretations and recollections of the past and of their past selves differ and blend to the point where the audience is no longer sure that these are even separate individuals and which scenes are occurring in memory, in the present, and/or in the past. In fact, the minimalist stage and the characters' manner leave you feeling sealed in, as if even trapped within someone's psyche or privy to a dream that they are replaying for themselves.
Katie, Deeley, and Anna on setI don't want to expand too much upon my interpretation because I think it's best to see it as we did with no influence but if you do end up seeing it - I'd love to chat and hear your thoughts!
The one thing that is clear is that whatever really did or did not happentwenty years ago - Anna's visit, her presence and corresponding evocation of Kate's previous, pre-Deeley life, and her complex dual attraction/revulsion to Deeley provokes and threatens some fine balance between Deeley and Kate. The level of tension is high - you know that these people (or arguably this individual's mind that you're in) experienced some great suffering and understand that in one fateful episode (relived at the end of the play and evoked through out) there was a cataclysmic break through of sorts.
Perhaps, Pinter's one failing is that Deeley is written almost too opaquely as a Mad Men era esque businessman - an example of male ego and entitlement, completey uncomfortable with female friendship. Although, I suppose his weakness, discomfort, and ensuing aggression in the face of Anna and Kate's closeness makes a lot of sense depending on how you interpret the story. After all, some would argue that he may have lost the love of his life to her personal demons and/or be losing her again to mental illness once put to rest. In this context, his frantic battle to put a stake on Kate, his angry need to out do Anna and chase her out, makes more sense.
As vague and dreary as that all sounds, I should note that the play is also quite funny. Much of the dialogue consists of Deeley and Anna practically competing for Kate's attention and for the accurate recollection of a collective memory - both of which make for laugh-out-loud moments.
I'm also especially impressed with the actors because the task before them was to be both intriguing and elusive and to demonstrate how these fraught relationships both sustain and eat away at all involved.
So, in sum, see this disorienting, fascinating piece if you can. It really was a thoughtfully rendered, interactive, choose your own [theatrical] adventure, and we enjoyed "figuring it out."
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