[ stories from the highway, stories from VT ]
...and every PJ Harvey fan winces. News, and revisions to old news:
In spite of the authoritative map of yesterpost, at this point Burlington is more or less off the table. It's charming as hell, to be sure (the view over Lake Champlain was impossibly gorgeous), but it doesn't offer a lot in the meaningful employment or proximity to loved ones departments.
Honestly, if I succumbed to the notion that I'm not capable enough for a real job, I might have moved there and just dashed myself to bits trying to crack the music industry. I did, however, land a gig writing for Soundcheck Magazine (the website is a half-formed, misleading thing: it is first and foremost an honest-to-glossy print magazine) thanks to one Caitlin Caven. It's not at all a meaningful source of income, but were the simple pleasure of writing about music not enough, the exposure is a currency unto itself.
In other musicy news, I soundtracked a short promo clip for ic! berlin eyeglasses, though we'll see if anything comes of that. I thought it woefully inadequate when I finished it, but find it downright okay upon revisitation; so it goes with most things I do.
As it is, I'll still be in Vermont for the summer, though not beyond that: the two of us will be sending forth a modest torrent of cover letters and résumés and reading about various cities in the far-fetched hope that one can glean the experience of living somewhere from a couple of books and the internet. Summer income will come from peculiarly lucrative odd jobs, I expect: Manchester is a quiet haven for old money and vacationing New Yorkers who don't mind the drive.
So! Come visit: Vermont is nothing if not beautiful, and the house(!) we're renting for the summer has no shortage of free space. The middle of nowhere, as it turns out, won't charge you that much for a roof over your head. Not quite sure how much free time we'll have, but I'd be surprised if we were too busy for a road trip or two (if either of our cars can take it). Writing is also heartily encouraged, and odds are good I'll have the time and inspiration to reply. Let me know if you want the address.
Where to, then, after the summer? Likely Chicago, though it's far from a done deal. If something choice turns up in Boston or New York, we may just stay on the Eastern Seaboard. As much as I love everyone in Philly (so, so, so much), it's a definite second or third choice as a place to call home. While the West Coast still calls, I can't quite answer it just yet, though Portland rests at the tip of everyone's tongue, it seems, as a lovely city to live.
Along the lines of responsible employment, I'm applying to more peripherally academic science jobs, though there's almost nothing in Physics that academia doesn't take care of in-house; the majority of lab jobs I've found are either biomedical research or industrial chemical synthesis. While I'm nothing if not mired in reluctance and inaction, my avoiding such positions seems a more trustworthy leeriness than the usual baseline inertia.
I'm fervently hoping this is the last of my post-collegiate inactivity. Anything you guys might be sitting on in the way of advice, leads, or general encouragement would be most welcome indeed. Awkward high-fives and demeaning ass-pats are less desirable, but also accepted.
****
In less recent (but related) news, while in Vermont seeing Burlington, I got caught in a speed trap just inside Rutland township. The ticket ran me $130 for 50 in a 35; trash. I do have the consolation that at least I was caught by a speed trap, and not actually being an unsafe driver. My only recourse: a sullen letter accompanying my check and a frowny face in the memo field.
Then, while returning to DC from Berkshirey parts, I get violently sick while we're stuck in traffic on the Jersey Turnpike. Sicker than I've been in 15 years. Drinking-ginger-ale-so-at-least-I'm-not-dry-heaving sick. No-I-do-not-want-another-goddamned-saltine-stop-looking-at-me-barfing-FUCKING-STOP-LOOKING-AT-ME sick.
No word on whether it was the sandwich I'd had for lunch, some kind of vicious stomach bug from Easter dinner, or something else altogether. Between my thorough incapacitation and her car's ill-timed disobedience, Rachel decided to just pull off the highway and hole up at a motel until I felt okay enough to sit in a passenger seat for the remaining 3 hours of the trip. We pulled off at exit 8A (Cranbury, for the Jersey-curious) and found pretty much only this place. It wasn't cheap, but I did have the luxury of being able to writhe around a king-sized bed while waiting for the next round of hardcore emesis.
Rachel was beyond wonderful, though, and with her ministrations I was mostly done being sick some 10 hours later, though my sides ached for days afterwards from all the convulsing. Things I learned: vomiting anything is slightly better than dry heaving, fever dreams are only exacerbated by a bed large enough to get lost in, and Seagram's ginger ale is also pure corn syrup fizzwater bullshit, as best as I can tell.
All in all, though, it was a fine Easter weekend. There was a lovely potluck at the Manchester Church (denomination forgotten, and largely irrelevant: a warm community is a warm community), and there was still a touch of snow on the ground. We must have listened to A Night At The Opera in its completion over twelve times.
...not 12 hours later, though, we saw Low live. I'll post a full report in the next day or two here, but it was easily among the best concerts I've been to. The encores, in order: "Dinosaur Act", "In Metal", "Laser Beam"*, and "Starfire". At show's end, I walked over to Mimi and shouted my earnest thanks for a lovely show over the post-concert din. She smiled nervously and waved at me, ostensibly weirded out. A far cry from a handshake or a conversation, sure, but pretty funny nonetheless.
Plenty more writing to come once things have settled down some. Love you dearly, miss you all...
Music: Joy Division's Substance. Excellent, certainly, but it's hard to say how legendary it would be if Ian Curtis hadn't left the music business quite the way he did.
*Alan Sparhawk hit the high third harmony in the chorus I'd wanted to hear since the day I heard the song; at their frail, immaculate "alone," I squeezed Rachel's hand so hard my fingers hurt.
In spite of the authoritative map of yesterpost, at this point Burlington is more or less off the table. It's charming as hell, to be sure (the view over Lake Champlain was impossibly gorgeous), but it doesn't offer a lot in the meaningful employment or proximity to loved ones departments.
Honestly, if I succumbed to the notion that I'm not capable enough for a real job, I might have moved there and just dashed myself to bits trying to crack the music industry. I did, however, land a gig writing for Soundcheck Magazine (the website is a half-formed, misleading thing: it is first and foremost an honest-to-glossy print magazine) thanks to one Caitlin Caven. It's not at all a meaningful source of income, but were the simple pleasure of writing about music not enough, the exposure is a currency unto itself.
In other musicy news, I soundtracked a short promo clip for ic! berlin eyeglasses, though we'll see if anything comes of that. I thought it woefully inadequate when I finished it, but find it downright okay upon revisitation; so it goes with most things I do.
As it is, I'll still be in Vermont for the summer, though not beyond that: the two of us will be sending forth a modest torrent of cover letters and résumés and reading about various cities in the far-fetched hope that one can glean the experience of living somewhere from a couple of books and the internet. Summer income will come from peculiarly lucrative odd jobs, I expect: Manchester is a quiet haven for old money and vacationing New Yorkers who don't mind the drive.
So! Come visit: Vermont is nothing if not beautiful, and the house(!) we're renting for the summer has no shortage of free space. The middle of nowhere, as it turns out, won't charge you that much for a roof over your head. Not quite sure how much free time we'll have, but I'd be surprised if we were too busy for a road trip or two (if either of our cars can take it). Writing is also heartily encouraged, and odds are good I'll have the time and inspiration to reply. Let me know if you want the address.
Where to, then, after the summer? Likely Chicago, though it's far from a done deal. If something choice turns up in Boston or New York, we may just stay on the Eastern Seaboard. As much as I love everyone in Philly (so, so, so much), it's a definite second or third choice as a place to call home. While the West Coast still calls, I can't quite answer it just yet, though Portland rests at the tip of everyone's tongue, it seems, as a lovely city to live.
Along the lines of responsible employment, I'm applying to more peripherally academic science jobs, though there's almost nothing in Physics that academia doesn't take care of in-house; the majority of lab jobs I've found are either biomedical research or industrial chemical synthesis. While I'm nothing if not mired in reluctance and inaction, my avoiding such positions seems a more trustworthy leeriness than the usual baseline inertia.
I'm fervently hoping this is the last of my post-collegiate inactivity. Anything you guys might be sitting on in the way of advice, leads, or general encouragement would be most welcome indeed. Awkward high-fives and demeaning ass-pats are less desirable, but also accepted.
****
In less recent (but related) news, while in Vermont seeing Burlington, I got caught in a speed trap just inside Rutland township. The ticket ran me $130 for 50 in a 35; trash. I do have the consolation that at least I was caught by a speed trap, and not actually being an unsafe driver. My only recourse: a sullen letter accompanying my check and a frowny face in the memo field.
Then, while returning to DC from Berkshirey parts, I get violently sick while we're stuck in traffic on the Jersey Turnpike. Sicker than I've been in 15 years. Drinking-ginger-ale-so-at-least-I'm-not-dry-heaving sick. No-I-do-not-want-another-goddamned-saltine-stop-looking-at-me-barfing-FUCKING-STOP-LOOKING-AT-ME sick.
No word on whether it was the sandwich I'd had for lunch, some kind of vicious stomach bug from Easter dinner, or something else altogether. Between my thorough incapacitation and her car's ill-timed disobedience, Rachel decided to just pull off the highway and hole up at a motel until I felt okay enough to sit in a passenger seat for the remaining 3 hours of the trip. We pulled off at exit 8A (Cranbury, for the Jersey-curious) and found pretty much only this place. It wasn't cheap, but I did have the luxury of being able to writhe around a king-sized bed while waiting for the next round of hardcore emesis.
Rachel was beyond wonderful, though, and with her ministrations I was mostly done being sick some 10 hours later, though my sides ached for days afterwards from all the convulsing. Things I learned: vomiting anything is slightly better than dry heaving, fever dreams are only exacerbated by a bed large enough to get lost in, and Seagram's ginger ale is also pure corn syrup fizzwater bullshit, as best as I can tell.
All in all, though, it was a fine Easter weekend. There was a lovely potluck at the Manchester Church (denomination forgotten, and largely irrelevant: a warm community is a warm community), and there was still a touch of snow on the ground. We must have listened to A Night At The Opera in its completion over twelve times.
...not 12 hours later, though, we saw Low live. I'll post a full report in the next day or two here, but it was easily among the best concerts I've been to. The encores, in order: "Dinosaur Act", "In Metal", "Laser Beam"*, and "Starfire". At show's end, I walked over to Mimi and shouted my earnest thanks for a lovely show over the post-concert din. She smiled nervously and waved at me, ostensibly weirded out. A far cry from a handshake or a conversation, sure, but pretty funny nonetheless.
Plenty more writing to come once things have settled down some. Love you dearly, miss you all...
Music: Joy Division's Substance. Excellent, certainly, but it's hard to say how legendary it would be if Ian Curtis hadn't left the music business quite the way he did.
*Alan Sparhawk hit the high third harmony in the chorus I'd wanted to hear since the day I heard the song; at their frail, immaculate "alone," I squeezed Rachel's hand so hard my fingers hurt.