Journo

Blogger Inaction Day

I'm a few hours late, but I've decided to honor Blogger Action Day by selling my car.

That's right. From now on, it's just my trusty boots, my new road bike, and my bus and train passes. Aren't I just the perfect picture of eco-crazy hippie? Just the sweetest little earth-conscious flower child?

So let's tell no one that this decision came right after my Jetta, which needs a new engine anyway, dropped its exhaust and muffler in the middle of the road after leaving Whole Foods. It knew that Al Gore had just won a Nobel prize for his environmental work, and it knew that today (well, yesterday) was Blogger Action Day, and it thought: "Kate, what are you doing to help the planet today?"

See? Caring about the environment is easy! Just let your car do the deciding for you.

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Local Girl Mesmerized By TV, Falls Into Coma

I, famously, do not have television. No cable, no antennae. I do own a TV set, which serves as a handy plant stand.

Still, the darned thing is inescapable.

My place of employment recently installed three huge plasma screens, and in the mornings these things scream the news in neon colors using catchy phrases like "Firemen forced to endure lewd comments for hours" and "11 Year Old Boy Mauled by Bear" (both, unfortunately, true). Not only do they shout inane nonsense at loud volumes, but it's always the same loud nonsense: Vicks and dogs, O.J. Simpson, that same forest fire that's been raging around Tahoe since before I can remember... you know the drill. Nothing truly important on a national scale and certainly no international news about stuff like, you know, the Middle East. And, you know, other stuff.

I realize that I've jumped on the ‘24-Hour News Channels Are Schlock' bandwagon a little late in the game--forgive me, and note the lack of TV and the WGBH membership--but if I see another camera focused on the courthouse where O.J. may or may not be emerging (any minute now) or following a rookie reporter up the stairs at a senior home in Cranston, Rhode Island, I'm going to do something drastic. Like stop watching, if I could just tear my eyes away from the bright, shiny colors.

Don't Touch That Dial!

Luckily, I go to my parent's home a few times a month for laundry services and a chat-and my parents have cable. After a channel-changing marathon last Thursday, my mother and I settled down to watch Scrubs, that cute and witty medical sitcom that I really just can't get enough of.

Before the program could begin, however, I slipped into unconsciousness and was immediately sucked into an alternate universe wherein CNN broke into choreographed song and dance ("For in spite of all temptations / To belong to other nations / He remains an Englishman!") and left Scrubs to cover popular political issues on the international front. I sat up, bleary-eyed and confused. What was going on here? How could this be Scrubs?

In the episode "His Story IV," an Iraqi War veteran is admitted to the hospital. Private Dancer (for that's his name, poor darling) bonds with Dr. Kelso and incites a full-on partisan battle between Republicans and Democrats, bleeding heart liberals against family members of servicemen, with all the players screaming overused sound bytes at one another and playing nasty tricks. While at times it was a bit forced, the best moment came when J.D., with nothing to contribute to the heated political battle and no knowledge of current events, begins to read The Iraq War for Dummies:

J.D.: You know what's so messed up? I just got to the point where President Bush gave his gives his "Mission Accomplished" speech on a battleship, and I still got like 400 more pages to go!

I changed the channel and indeed, the talking heads on CNN were stilling putting on H.M.S. Pinafore. What was I to do but change to the channel, which was playing last season's finale of ER? At least there I'd get some rapid-fire medical drama with all the familiar trappings.

Instead, ER gave me a sound bashing with a huge, and very heavy, war protest sign (the follow-up to which aired tonight, Thurs 9/27). In May, ER presented viewers with an unequivocal anti-war message that included a traumatized translator addicted to painkillers and shouting pleas for help in Arabic and the build-up to a huge protest rally, which an Iraqi war widow is bound and determined to attend. Thank goodness she did, because in the season premiere this evening, the protest rally blew up. Literally. And ER was off to the races.

Not to get all Grey's Anatomy on you, but, seriously? Seriously? Today's "journalists" are so busy wondering if they should be paying attention to O.J. (answer: please, for the love of God, no) and tracking down pre-teens at their immaculately landscaped suburban homes for incompetent interviews on why they ended up on the FBI No Fly list (answer: who gives a flying fig?) that fiction has begun to pick up the slack. The Daily Show has proven to be just the tip of the iceberg.

Republicans better get on this, stat, I thought. Because as we all know, Hollywood has an evil liberal bias, and if we let dramas and sitcoms do all our debating and reporting and satire, then pretty soon people might turn off their TVs and actually march on Washington, their minds full of snarky pacifist propaganda, and demand an end to the war and the torture and the unrecorded civilian casualties.

And then I woke up.

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We Can Do It!

Just the other day, my naïve and trusting landlady gave me permission to go ahead and replace my medicine cabinet. My recessed medicine cabinet, in my circa 1850 apartment, which has been ravaged nearly to death by the constant comings-and-goings of hipster tenants and the work of overzealous (and, often, woefully underzealous) handymen. My medicine cabinet was clearly old, painted and taped onto the wall, missing a shelf, and covered in bizarre stains. It really had to go, and so I asked permission to do it myself. Permission granted.

This was a mistake.

Taking it out was easy enough. I just unscrewed a few things, peeled away layers of masking tape, and pried paint away with the end of my screwdriver. Then I gave it a good yank, and out it came, along with several bushels of brick dust, plaster, and assorted ickies.

I exposed what once must have been the original wall, now covered in layers of drywall and plasterboard (and in some parts of my apartment, sheet plastic. Classy!). I am heartbroken for this building. Can you imagine if someone were to restore it? I could be living in luxury, with an exposed brick wall in the middle of my kitchen! Perhaps I could even have cupboards!

Unfortunately, the modern medicine cabinet I bought at Home Depot to replace the old one just didn't fit. Too wide. Since I didn't have a saw, I chipped away at the particle board with a screwdriver. Very technical work. When that failed, I removed one end by prying up the staples with, again, my screwdriver (the only tool a single gal needs, until she screws everything up, no pun intended). And what do you know! The cabinet fit into the oddly shaped hole. Of course, it no longer had sides, or part of its door.

Using wood glue (my favorite thing) and the weight of the mirrored door, I attempted to fix the cabinet and modify its size. Failure, once again. So I journeyed to Home Depot, bought a jab saw, measuring tape, molding, and clamps, and am now staring at the whole darn thing on my kitchen table.

I have no idea how I am going to fix this. But if it can be done, and tastefully, then I will do it. Hopefully before my landlady sees it.

 (to be continued)

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Women v. Rhetoric

What, did they think we couldn't read?

(The latest issue of ELLE magazine contains some beautifully written and thought-provoking essays on this subject; some of them found here.)

Justice Anthony Kennedy, who wrote the April 18, 2007 Supreme Court opinion that upheld a federal ban of partial-birth abortion, thinks I am a really, really dumb. True, it took me a few months to realize that there was more going on in the case of Gonzales v. Carhart than a mere abortion debate that ended badly for my side. But when I finally got my hot little hands on a copy of the opinion, found here, I was appalled. Offended. Insulted.

What, did Justice Kennedy think I couldn't read?

I'm not paraphrasing much when I state that Kennedy thinks women are too ignorant or too emotional to make educated decisions about their bodies and their reproductive organs. And it's not a stretch to imply that this decision may have repercussions in the future that affect abortion rights as laid out in Roe v. Wade--the language is that powerful. Kennedy is a writer, I'll give him that. He knows how to manipulate his audience.

Well, I'm a reader, and darn fine educated one at that. Let's take a look at some of Kennedy's language.

Whether to have an abortion requires a difficult and painful moral decision... which some women come to regret. In a decision so fraught with emotional consequence, some doctors may prefer not to disclose precise details of the abortion procedure to be used. It is, however, precisely this lack of information that is of legitimate concern to the State.

So instead of acting on a concern that doctors are misleading pregnant women about the severity of partial-birth abortions (the non-partisan term for which is "intact D&E"), women should be removed from the decision making process altogether.So instead of acting on a concern that doctors are misleading pregnant women about the severity of partial-birth abortions (the non-partisan term for which is "intact D&E"), women should be removed from the decision making process altogether. I find it interesting that Kennedy uses the word "decision"--to make a decision implies an inherent choice. Also insulting is the clear implication that women would undoubtedly choose not to have intact D&Es if they knew the precise details of the procedure. Women know what they want, and they are strong and smart; they'll do it anyway if they feel it's right, no matter the emotional risk to themselves.

partial-birth abortion, more than standard D&E, undermines the public's   perception of the doctor's appropriate role during delivery, and perverts the birth process

Let it be made clear that women do not need doctors to have babies; women do need doctors to perform medical procedures, like abortions. Got that, confused public? Just because there's a guy with a white coat in the room doesn't mean that you're going to have an abortion. Sometimes, he's just there to remove a planter's wart. Breathe.

Babies and Bathwater

I won't cite the actual descriptions of an intact D&E, which Kennedy provides plenty of--pages and pages, in fact. Yes, it's gruesome. But Kennedy specifically references anecdotal evidence (page 15 of the PDF found online) which is terribly misleading at worst and completely irrelevant at best. The testimony of a nurse is so contrived and so painstakingly detailed that any scientific mind should scoff. And it doesn't help that Kennedy constantly refers to the patient as "the woman" or the "expectant mother"-while both may be technically accurate, in the name of tact I'd avoid using the term mother or referring to the Constitutionally protected citizen in anything but gender-neutral language. I'm a stickler for gender-neutral language, however ridiculous it may seem. A woman is an emotional, hormonal wreck; a patient has dignity and rights.

Second-trimester abortions account for only 10% of all abortions, and the reason is usually medical.Kennedy supposes, in no uncertain terms, that women must be grief-stricken when they find out after their abortions that their babies' heads were vacuumed. He fails to acknowledge that these women were probably grief-stricken in the first place (and probably knew what they were doing, too), choosing to end their pregnancies in the second trimester. Second-trimester abortions account for only 10% of all abortions, and the reason is usually medical and usually done to save the potential infant some amount of discomfort, pain, disfigurement, or imminent death after delivery, or done due to genetic defects. A reasoned and touching essay can be found by Ayelet Waldman here. 

Throughout the opinion, there's a decided obsession with "anatomical landmarks"; anything remotely resembling actual birth that isn't actual birth is somehow an aberration. Birth is sacred; babies are sacred. I'm not arguing. But my absolute right to control my own uterus is sacred, too.

No one can stand there and tell me that I have no control over my own body, my own babies.Justice Ruth Ginsburg wrote a lovely and moving dissent to Kennedy's majority opinion, found here. And she makes a few points I'd like to reiterate.

Abortion isn't about religion, or a vague notion of individual privacy (which our government cares nothing for, anyway), and it isn't about feminism. It isn't about the viability of the fetus or the profound respect we should have for innocents. It isn't even about death. It's about life-the life every woman has inside her that she has every right to protect. Hers. No one can stand there and tell me that I have no control over my own body, my own babies. The idea leaves me shaking and shocked. To use Justice Kennedy's own words, the idea that my body is not my own--to do with what I will, even if disgusts some, horrifies others--fills me with grief.

grief more anguished and sorrow more profound

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Independence Day Playlist

I only regret I have but one holiday to give to my job

The Fourth of July has come and gone, and I hardly noticed. I worked all day; time and tide wait for no waitress. And it seems the country hardly noticed, either, what with the pomp and circumstance and the complete lack of educated, informed conversation about the patriotic issues plaguing our nation (if that sounds like bitter liberal whining, don't worry; I said it with a yawn and a shrug).

But the knowledge that it was our country's birthday did creep into my brain, or at least it must have, because since the 4th I've been listening to music that echoes the issues of war and domestic strife that the USA seems to attract like moths to a porch light.

And so, here's my Independence Day Playlist:

 1. Alison Krauss and Sting - You Will Be My Ain True Love
Krauss's lovely, twangy bluegrass voice gives me chills; the song is of the Civil War, written by Sting for the film Cold Mountain, based on the award-winning book by Charles Frazier.

And as you walk through death's dark veil,

The cannon's thunder can't prevail,

And those who hunt thee down will fail,

And you will be my ain true love,

And you will be my ain true love.

2. Black Rebel Motorcycle Club - Complicated Situation
You can say that again.

3. Bob Marley and The Wailers - War/No More Trouble
From the live album, Babylon By Bus. Wikipedia says this song is "derived from a speech made by Ethiopian Emperor Haile Selassie I."

4. Dave Matthews Band - Cry Freedom
It's a little-known fact that Dave Matthews is South African; this song is a beautiful anti-apartheid tune, one of Dave Matthews's best.

5. Eric Clapton - Knockin' On Heaven's Door
Clapton does a great cover.

6. Maurice Durufle - Pie Jesu
From his Requiem.

7. Jack Johnson - Good People
"Where'd all the good people go? .... We got heaps and heaps of what we sow." Johnson's poppy little ditty is really a biting attack on our TV-driven, consumerist culture. Still toe-tapping, though.

8. OK Go! - A Good Idea at the Time
A response to The Rolling Stones' "Sympathy for the Devil," this songs places the blame for all our ills squarely back on our shoulders. Fun, too.

9. The Police - De Do Do Do De Da Da Da
Sometimes I feel like sticking my fingers in my ears and shouting, "La La La -- I can't hear you!" At other times, I think our politico talking heads are just singing, "De do do do."

10. The Decemberists - Sons & Daughters
Although nearly every song by The Decemberists is a direct response to Americana, this song is particularly moving. I heard it live in Boston a few months ago, right before the elections; the band had the audience sing along. I've never been one for hippie sing-alongs, but after singing "Hear all the bombs fade away" in unison, in Boston, after being urged to vote... well, this nerdy history major and bleeding heart liberal started to cry. I still do, a little, when I hear it.

Hopefully the sentiments found in these tunes last long after the month of July; after the Iraq War; and at least until our children no longer need inspiring tunes to help them through the latest, tragic US foible.

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I Ain't No Holla' Back Girl

The other day, I was taking a walk through the streets of my fair city. I live in a mostly residential neighborhood, with the odd restaurant, gas station, and business scattered here and there. It's a nice, leafy district, with lots of historic homes and plenty of families with kids. It's also kind of in the hood.

During the winter, walking around was no big deal. Guys in cars didn't pull over to shout at me, probably because it was too darned cold to bother rolling down their windows. The most I got was a fairly innocuous honk now and again.

But now that the warm weather is upon us, the catcalls have begun anew. "Hey, baby!", whistling, honking and shouting, and various other acts of desperation -- including the always popular "slow drive by", most often perpetrated by guys in huge black SUVs with tinted windows, i.e. the pinnacle of creepiness -- have begun to interrupt and disconcert my casual strolls. This harassment is not limited to the thugs that roam my streets; young, white urban professionals are just as likely to scare the living daylights out of me by pulling up alongside and asking if I'd like a ride.

The other day, however, on my aforementioned walk, something happened that gave me a bit of a giggle, and a pause. I got catcalled by guys driving in a government van on, supposedly, government-sanctioned business.

That's right; the Graffiti Task Force slowed down to take a gander and give a whistle (and a shout, and a whoop, and a "Hey, honey!").

One of the reasons the Graffiti Task Force exists (the "force" consists of two vans advertising the group's mission, and a little trailer that the Task Force uses to clean up various acts of criminal art) is to eliminate vandalism that "diminishes the quality of life for our residents."

And you know what? Paint the whole town neon green if you want, local punk artistes. You are not my problem. Not once have I been harassed by a hooded boy with a can of spray paint (or a skateboarder, for that matter, if we're talking about other city "crimes"). But what does diminish the quality of my life in my neighborhood is the constant fear that at any minute, one of those harmless catcalls or pulled-over vans will yield a man looking to give me more than just the time of day.

Clean up my neighborhood all you want, Mayor Cicilline, but tell your Task Force to be quiet about it. They represent the city, the government, and the vox populi -- and from what I've heard, pretty accurately, too.

**NOTE: The photo above is not intended to represent the men who catcalled me; as I said, there are two vans, and since it was late if I have no idea which Task Force crew it was that hollered at me in the dark.

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when I became a man, I put away childish things

Here's a list of things that should, by rights, make me feel, act, and be treated as an adult.

1. I'm over 18.
2. I have a full-time job, with benefits, if I wanted them.
3. I pay for school myself; my loans are in my name.
4. My name is the only name on the lease for my apartment.
5. I do my own taxes.
6. I change my own oil.
7. I vote.
8. I throw lavish dinner parties and can cook for myself.
9. I pay my own bills; I have a checking account; I have a mutual fund.
10. I am a member of WGBH.

But no. Not until today did I truly realize that I have come into my own. I am a grown up--and with that power, bien sur, comes great responsibility.

Today I looked into my freezer and saw four neatly stacked ice cube trays, all full.

Today, I am an adult.

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Soylent Green is Chickens!

But I read Playboy for the articles

If I'm being honest I'll admit that I get Gourmet for the recipes and the short blurbs and usually skip the lengthy pieces. Truly, I know no Italian dairy farmers and am not likely to obtain a sample (nor do I find the thought appealing) of fresh, still-warm-from-the-buffalo, drippy mozzarella balls. I eat like a lady (sorry, PC feminist folks) and don't really enjoy barbeque--therefore, I skipped right over the black-and-white photo montage and the "Mama Sugar" article in this month's issue. But one bit did catch my eye: a little bit of foodie investigative reporting, if you will.

It was about chickens.

As a gal on a budget, I have a thing for fowl. I like to throw dinner parties, and preparing heaping bowls of pasta always seems a little cheap (like, "Thanks for bringing the wine, enjoy your Ramen"). Neither do I wish to shell out $50 for steak from Whole Foods on a regular basis, since that's my entire meal budget for a week. But what could be better than chicken thighs at $2.19/lb? They're free-range, antibiotic-free, and hopefully died blissfully unaware I was about to marinate their legs in garlic, lemon and thyme.

Like the South Park turkeys, complete with projector.

Failing nirvana, I'd at least like my chickens to die peacefully. As in, not hacked to bits by an automated buzz-saw when their electrocution doesn't go just right, or accidentally boiled alive. This happens, according to Daniel Zwerdlin's article "A View to a Kill" in June's Gourmet, to approximately 180 million chickens each year.

I'm not a fan of PETA, but I obviously shop at Whole Foods for a reason-and it ain't just because my evil hippie-snob alter ego takes over my body and propels me to the East Side with my credit card, either, although that's been known to happen. So I'm divided on the animal-rights thing: I believe I have a right to eat animals, and I do not believe animals have rights. It is in our, humanity's, best interest to treat animals well--because if we don't, we feel bad about it. And in the case of animal protection acts, because other humans tell us we have to. Acting evil is not in humanity's best interest, whether you're kicking a puppy or setting a building on fire.

According to this article, killing chickens humanely actually saves money in the long run. By simply gassing the chickens and using a forklift to carry crates of birds (instead of carrying them by their feet), slaughterhouses can hire fewer workers and save space, as well as cutting down on chicken accidents--there are more birds, intact, to sell at the end of the day. So it makes sense morally and financially, as ‘the right thing to do' often does.

(As an aside, there is actually such an institution as the National Chicken Council. No joke. They call themselves this, every day, without laughing.)

Still, despite all the warm fuzzy feelings and good PR and sound business sense and national trend toward the natural, healthy, humane and organic, the top five chicken producers in this country wouldn't even let the author of the article visit their farms or their slaughterhouses. And I'm guessing it's not because they're modest. So the only question left to ask is: why? The easy answer is, of course, because it is far, far easier not to. Easier not to care and easier not to change.

And maybe those big companies have a point. If your life was a crappy as a factory-raised chicken's, you might not care how you died or much it hurt or how long it lasted.

You'd just want it to be over.

Bring on the marinade.

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Travel: The Bahamas

Where Bond Goes to Vacation, I Follow. Sort Of. 

Shortly after Daniel Craig (um, James Bond, I mean) achieves 007 status in the new Bond flick Casino Royale, he hopelessly bungles a delicate assignment. And where does he go next, ostensibly to pout and relax, but really to spy on Evil Men who do Bad Things?

The Bahamas, of course. Paradise Island. Looking smashing, as always, Bond seduced me with his white button-down shirt, private villas, room service and proper blonde English receptionists. And while I am no Mediterranean beauty on a horse with a private beach (or, thankfully, an angry arms-dealing husband), I imagined my own trip to Nassau would compare favorably. After all, I wasn't looking to save Queen and Country... I was looking for a few days on a beach with a good book.

Breezes, the SuperClubs all-inclusive resort about fifteen minutes from the airport in Nassau, had almost nothing but bad reviews at such sites as Hotels.com, Travelocity, and Priceline. I didn't know this, of course, when I opted to pay for a 3 night stay; but still, after the deal was done, I remained optimistic. Reviews claiming food poisoning often undid themselves with revealing acts of tourist stupidity (who eats crab salad by the pool in 90-degree heat?), and complaints about rooms -- dripping ceilings, broken TVs -- were a few years old. 

The most striking thing about arriving in Nassau (apart from the distinct "Welcome to Orlando" vibe) is the odd airport. The staff and security were generally unfriendly and the place seemed deserted, with long, empty hallways and unclean facilities. Due to long security lines, what should have been a nearly 4 day trip was whittled down to 2 and 1/2.

After a cramped shuttle bus ride to Breezes, I found myself in a beautiful open-air lobby at around 12:00 noon. Check-in is at 3pm -- what to do in the meanwhile? Drink, apparently, as I was immediately handed a frozen strawberry cocktail liberally splashed with rum. Someone inquired what was in it, and the waiter replied, "Alcohol! That's all you need to know!"

Uh-oh.

The main problem with Breezes is that it's designed for Americans. You can't fault them for trying to anticipate our every whim (for food, fruity drinks and poolside games), as it evidently works with the majority of tourists. But I find that this sort of behavior happens everywhere, and in an effort to cater to American tourists, the locale loses whatever charm and flavor it might otherwise have retained (albeit here in a glossy resort setting). When in Paris, for example, I traveled with a semi-guided tour; when we dined out, restaurants invariably offered a bland chicken-and-potatoes dish instead of the normal French fare. Breezes is sort of a chicken-and-potatoes version of what the Bahamas could be.

That's not to say 007 got an authentic experience, either. Perky blonde receptionists with English accents don't inhabit the Bahamas -- they're flown in. And private ocean front villas are not normally offered at AAA travel expos for one low price. But the subdued beauty of the Bahamas, with all the sunshine, soft colors, cool winds and warm waters, is lost when you peel back that expensive veneer. And what you get at Breezes is a Dirty Dancing-type "camp," with endless activities, a huge cloudy pool, an all-you-can-eat buffet and sugary drinks in plastic cups.

Breezes did have a few perks: the beaches and rooms were generally very clean, even after a long day of swimming and activity; the rooms themselves weren't bad, although the TV and showers had a tendency not to work and housekeeping was a bit erratic (I'm allowed to judge, as I was a housekeeper last season on the Vineyard); and although you couldn't swim far, the beach was lovely and generally uncrowded. The food was fresh and quite good, although I did need to buy bottled water. $15 for Smart Water over an entire long weekend is not really an extravagance.

Only two unavoidable things detracted from the experience: the loud, thumping 90s dance music that played morning and night, and the lawful indoor smoking of cigarettes and cigars. Smelling second-hand smoke again was a real shocker after going to clubs and bars in Providence and Boston and being blessedly smoke-free.

So, it breaks down to be a rather affordable vacation for those who plan on drinking and dining their way into a relaxing, sun-burnt oblivion by the pool (and there is nothing wrong with that, certainly!), but a rather loud and tense vacation for snobs like me who'd rather make their own entertainment and ignore the posted lists of daily activities and the cheery solicitors walking up and down the beach, selling their hearts out.

All in all, not a bad trip. I have a golden glow, blonder hair, and I read three new books; I suppose I should just be lucky I didn't end up hacked to pieces in a hammock, as befell Bond's beauty during her Bahamian vacation.

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The Occasional Piece of Fiction

"...like anything worth writing, it came inexplicably and without method."
-- Kay Eiffel, Stranger Than Fiction

 There comes a certain point in every writer's life--be in the fifth grade, grad school, or well into retirement--when said writer realizes that some of his or her behavior might very well be classified as Odd.

Films have picked up on this trend. Harriet the Spy, with her endless notebooks filled with observations; Beatrix Potter talking to her animals (her pretend animals) in Miss Potter; Emma Thompson standing on her desk contemplating fictional suicide in Stranger Than Fiction.

My penchant for endless note-taking has spilled over into my non-writing life, and I've begun to realize that my little notebook fetish has begun to creep people out. Someone mentions a band they like. Hmm, wait a minute while I find a pen. Okay, got it. Now, spell that for me?
J-o-l-i-e  H-o-l-l-a-n-d? Great, thanks, and I'll ignore that look you're giving me and just change the subject, shall I?

It's not just enough to share information--nowadays I have to record it and store it in a place I can easily access later on. And my music collection has positively burgeoned as a result, although I can't say the same from my friend base.

Other drivers stare at me on the highway as I scribble in my notepad during traffic jams. Maybe I'm jotting down a thought, a good line, or some sort of artful literary gem I can then transcribe on my laptop and turn into a raving best-seller. More often than not, though, I'm trying to figure out if the classical music guy on WGBH said Gavriel Lipkind or Lipton, and furiously scribbling down the name of his CD. (For the record, the cellist's name is Lipkind. I did buy his CD, which was only available through Amazon.de, and my inbox has been full of incomprehensible German spam ever since).

It doesn't help that most of my really stupendous ideas happen suddenly, late at night, while I'm in bed. And I'm not one of those full-time authors who can afford to get up and act upon this inspiration, tap-tip-tap-tapping away on their laptop until 5am and taking a nice long nap the next day. I'm not even a part-time author. Heck, I'm not even a paid author. I have to sleep. So more often than not, I convince myself-foolishly-that I'll remember the nugget in the morning, and drift off to sleep, incredibly brilliant sentence structures dancing in my head.

And in the morning? Nada.

I suppose I could remedy this by keeping pen and paper by my bedside. Other authors go to more extreme measures, after all; I heard Roald Dahl wrote the idea for The Fantastic Mr. Fox in the dirt on the hood of his car in order not to forget it. However, late nights mean a dark room, and without my glasses or contacts I cannot see more than two inches in front of my nose. Can you imagine me poking around in the dark for my pen, paper and glasses? And if I did manage to find said items, there's absolutely no guarantee I could read my handwriting or have the faintest idea what I meant the night before.

Hermetic behavior is not uncommon. I can spend an entire day in my apartment, actually being productive: working (I am a part-time grant writer), writing (for my own pleasure), cooking decent, healthy meals, cleaning up after myself, taking regular showers. I even look decent, half the time. I don't just sit around in my underwear eating Cheetos. But if you had a surveillance camera fixed to my apartment, you'd never know. My car doesn't move. My door doesn't open. My plants continue to thrive on the windowsill, and sometimes music blares from my office. But seriously, I ask, what is healthier: staying indoors and drinking tea by one's lonesome, or hanging out in crowded coffee shops, looking very fashionable and sipping a latte à la Carrie Bradshaw, with at least the possibility of eye contact with another person?

I'm going to be harsh and not count my e-mails to my friends and co-workers as human interaction; likewise my frequent postings to the Books & Writer's Community over on CompuServe.

So what's a writer to do? Take walks, I suppose. Meet people for breakfast. Gossip and giggle at my "real" job, waiting tables at a local pub. Go to school; take the train; drive my car. And, at the end of the day, come home to a very empty apartment--except for the goldfish, of course--where the only warm thing is a laptop, left running in anticipation of my return.

I've promised myself that if I sell my novel, I can get a cat.

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