New York Times and decaf coffee.

He was, and continues to be one of the most unwavering people I've ever met. 

His routine was like that of Old Faithful.

Day after day, waking up at 5 am, to rye toast and chilly hardwood floors, spending his days driving school buses around bucolic countryside. He would then return, about 12 hours later, trudging slowly up the front walk, maybe with a few minor, but necessary groceries in hand. 

Then, dinner with wife of 53 years (and still counting...) Upon consumption, he would praise, 'Well, nice dinner momma', clear the table, load the dishwasher, and easily make his way to his notorious perch in the living room. 

     Sigh, leisure time. With feet elevated and reading glasses balanced at the tip of his nose, his face would be perpetually shrouded with the day's New York Times, decaf coffee within arm's reach, and ambient classical music wafting around the room. 

This is my grandpa. 

Patient, hardworking, not desirous of much, except to provide for him and his. His modest, reserved demeanor would never feel the need to gloat about how he wonce worked in a spacious office on the top of a NY skyscraper, or how he was once a big-shot at Bell-Atlantic Telephone Co. No, you'd be more likely to get that out of his beautiful, occasional spit-fire of a bride. (A woman who would bear his four children, watch the birth of their 8 grandchildren, and wash his underwear for the greater half of a century.) 

His hair had since gone salt&pepper, his mid-section increased, as did his cholesterol. His pace slowed from a stride of power and determination, to an ever-faithful, sometimes unsteady trudge. 

This is an excerpt of a short story I'm writing. It's still a rough draft, just a little something I wrote on the train this weekend. Hope you enjoyed. 

lets blog about vaginas. ready? go.

Last night I experienced a renaissance in the form of a play I saw. After much persuasion, curiosity and a persistent feeling of hesitant intrigue, I saw a production of The Vagina Monologues, that is currently being put on by my school. It is a collection of vignettes and narratives, written by Eve Ensler. Now, I had known about the play for a while, even seeing a clip of it in my theater class last semester, but I had never really liked the idea of it. Yes, all women have vaginas. I have a vagina. What else is there to say about it? Why make these exhibitionist proclamations about it? Just keep on living your life. 

But, why not try something new, right? I have to admit, I was still a little wary of the concept when I saw the merchandise for the show including t-shirts that said 'Vaginas are for lovers', and lollipops in the shape of vaginas. Now I've never considered myself conservative-minded, but I was a little shocked, (if not borderline appalled). But, the show had received good feedback, and I knew it wouldn't be in poor taste. So, I sat back and strapped myself in for the ride. 

What I saw for the next two hours was a collaborative, creative piece that entertained, perplexed, educated, shocked, and impressed me. I understood the purpose of the play was not for exhibition, but celebration. Eve Ensler intended for women not only to embrace their sexuality, but their confidence and sense of self. What better way to do that then by talking about it, and performing it. 

I watched my female peers in front of me, perform monologues about every aspect of their vagina imaginable--from the obvious standpoint of pleasure, to sexual awareness about rape and abuse, to informative pieces about the history of vaginas and their role in society, and about empowering yourself through your love for your vagina. There was so much being thrown at me that, upon conclusion of the show, I didn't think I'd need to say vagina for quite a while. But I realized that that was one of the purposes of the show--to make the word less taboo. It definitely succeeded. It revealed to me that it can be socially acceptable for women to talk about stuff like this. Hell, men talk about their genitalia all the time. They're practically best friends with it. So, why the double standard?

Now I must admit there were parts of the show that left me a little uneasy. One of the first monologues tackled a word that I will never, ever be friends with. Everyone has at least one word that they can't stand, and will never use. Mine is cunt. Eh, I cringe just typing it. Let me tell you, I cringed even more watching it be explained and spelled out in a high-energy, passionate monologue, performed by a friend of mine. While I admired the approach, it is just something I will never get over. 

On the other hand, my favorite monologue was one entitled 'My Short Skirt', in which a woman justifies her decision to wear a short skirt, and to explain how it is no one else's property, or business. It was one of those moments that makes you want to snap and say 'Damn. Girl knows what's up.' This monologue kind of helped to identify my favorite aspects of the play--those of empowerment and awareness. Call me a feminist (you'd only be half correct), but I was definitely very pleased with the play's ability to shock audiences about the injustices of women, and how sometimes people don't give a shit. Not only did the play inform/educate, but it gave the very clear, definitive message that these injustices are not okay, and should not be accepted. Rather than being ashamed for being raped, women should love their vaginas, and embody a sense of self-worth. That's basically the strongest message I took from the production. 

So, as you can see, I survived. And I am no longer a Vagina Monologue virgin. I'd also like to point out that I saw the play with two friends- one straight boy and one straight girl. And upon gazing at my fellow audience members, I saw women, men, gays, straights, lefts, rights, mothers, and even a few dads, who happened to be perpetually blushing as they watched the 'apples of their eyes' fake orgasms on stage. =0

On spring break...

Our battered suitcases were piled on the sidewalk again; we had longer ways to go. 

But no matter, the road is life. Sometimes it seems like life on the road is nothing more than a jumble of airport terminals and postcards. Gas stations and cramped apartments. 

Sometimes, home feels less like the place you grew up and more like a scattered collection of familiar couches and good friends. Sometimes, we meet people along the way who make impacts on our lives we can never really calculate. 

-kerouac.