A Study in Noir

Dear Readers,

I am so sorry for being gone so long, I won't make excuses for it. However, as an attempt for penance I will be treating you to something special.

Part I

It was early morning, early for a student that is. Anything before seven is early for a student, some would even argue that before ten was early, I would probably agree. But that's not the important part. The important part is that it was so early that the color hadn't fully joined the rest of the world. Everything had a bluish gray look. The few people who were up, stumbling through the streets, didn't look fully human. Maybe they weren't, maybe I was sleep deprived,  either way I did my best to stay out of their way.

As if it wasn't already early enough, I was early to my destination. Like a disease that slowly eats away at my sanity, it's impossible to keep from being early. Someday being this early is going to kill me. With a sudden burst of lighter emotion, the memory of the summer rushed over me. I was right to worry, less than a year ago at my last gig I was -- with all the compassion that is to be expected from such a stand up managerial patron -- reprimanded for my illness. It seems that even that chastisement wasn't enough to cure the sickness. Everyone's got one.

Eventually the bus came tilting around the corner dangerously. With the resolve of someone resigned to fate I entered the treacherous beast.

Just like the denizens of the world outside, those who currently inhabited the bus seemed devoid of most color. Eyes half closed, hoping that the day would be over before it began. It wasn't just the lack of will to exist at such an early hour that gave the lurching object a feel of hopelessness. I'm about to take a leap here and assume that everyone has been in a bowling alley at least once in their lives. Everything tries too hard to be cheery. That carpet, you know the one, tires to look like it's covered in confetti, or psychedelic bowling pins. In reality, that carpet is designed for one thing. It was constructed specifically to hold the smell of cheap beer and defeat. This bus borrowed the same carpet, but used it to cover the seats. Bright orange and yellow flecks tried to over power the dusty maroon of the rest of the interior. Perhaps it may have worked on any other day. But today, when there was no more color in the world, the brightness of the seats was obviously a scam. There is little worse than the smell of stale smoke, but that's what this great metal hulking thing smelled of.

I admit, it is a genius design.

The only other bit of color on the entire bus came from a kid. He sat at the front, so he could babble to the bus driver, probably about Pokemon, or whatever it is young kids are interested in these days. He wore a red sweater that would give a fire engine a run for it's money. The kid had the largest coffee cup that money could buy, part of me hoped that it really was coffee and not hot chocolate.  "Hey," the kid was obviously speaking to the driver who paid him no attention. On the other hand, he now had my undivided interest. He didn't speak again for a long time though, he was busy savoring the caffeinated drink in his hand.

After what seemed like an eternity of anticipation he spoke again, "What does being sorry really mean?" If I hadn't been interested in listening to him before, this certainly did it for me, what would this kid know about what being sorry meant? He answered my question for me, though, "Does it mean that you actually regret your actions?" He paused again, waiting for the driver to answer, the whole thing was much like an interrogation. "Or," the kid spoke again, a look crossing his face that for an instant made him look well beyond his twelve years, "Does it mean you just want to be forgiven? Saying you're sorry doesn't mean you really are." Satisfied with his epiphany, the kid sat back in the too bright chair with a pleased smile cemented into his young features.

The kid had a point.

It wasn't long after the short exploration into human motive that the out of date metal beast lurched to my stop.

Public Transport: The Diamond in the Rough

Dear Readers,

Living in a city that has a wonderful public transport system is a blessing. You can get almost everywhere you need by hopping on a bus, or street car, or train. Along with that, you get to see some very interesting characters, and if you are a fan of people watching it is about the most fun you can have for $2.50.

Now, generally, I attempt to avoid conversation with people who are also using the public transport system. Not because they, for the most part, exude unapproachableness, but because I don't generally strike up conversations with strangers that I will only be seeing for five minutes or so. In an attempt to forgo conversation, I usually listen to music, or at least put headphones in so it looks like I'm listening to music, even if that is not the case. I wish I could count the number of times I have had my headphones hooked up to a music player whose battery had gone dead. It's been more than once.

Every now and again, though, I'll not wear them and fully enjoy the atmosphere. Often times, there are things that are funny and if you're lucky you can share a knowing smile with a stranger. It is moments like those that make not listening to music worth it. Because even if you are "listening to music" you cannot laugh at someone's joke, then people will know you are just being rude.

Other times, it is worth the pretending to listen to music, when someone starts to get loud and cause trouble. During those situations it is easy to look out the window, convincing the other passengers that you are not part, nor wish to be part, of whatever is going on.

I generally believe that this anxiety with not conversing with strangers is a hold over from childhood. The idea that people you don't know are inherently dangerous (unless it's a police officer, fire man, or someone in an official looking uniform) is a major part of growing up, and rightly so.

Do not mistake me, Readers, I would never say that the "Stranger Danger" program is a bad one, I fully support it. I, however, somehow missed the memo that said, "After you become an adult, it's actually okay to talk to and interact with strangers, as long as you are not being stupid about it." I realize this, and have actually been working on it.

My greatest success was about a year ago. I was riding the train and took a seat next to a nice old woman. As I did every morning, I took my book out, preparing to read. Instead, I was treated to the abridged story of the woman's life. Sadly, at this point I would not be able to give you a single detail. All I remember was that she was on her way to the airport, she was flying out to visit one of her sons. She was very sweet, and I remember as I was leaving the train I meekly wished her a safe flight. I didn't have to do anything for that interaction to be be wonderful. All she wanted was to talk to someone about her adult children. Listening is so easy.

Since then I have made an effort to be more aware of my surroundings while on public transport. It's no effort to remove a head phone to talk to someone. Which leads to my most recent experience.

Last week I was on the train again. At the stop I was waiting at there were two other people. One older gentleman who seemed to be in a hurry, and a younger gentleman, who looked like he wasn't quite sure about this stop. He was dressed nicely in what I would call casual business attire, but he looked more than uncomfortable in it. Obviously, he was on his way to somewhere, but he was worried about what was about to happen, that didn't stop him from wanting to look his best.

It took no effort from me at all to remove my headphones when he started talking. Did I know the time? Was I familiar with this train line? Two simple answers, and he looked slightly more at ease. I went back to my music and my book. A few minutes later, I realized that he was still nervous, and so I thought of something to talk about, and once again removed my music. I asked him where exactly he was going, because one stop may be slightly closer to where he wanted to be. He assured me that his destination was kitty corner (Readers: This is the third time in my life I have every heard this phrase. Is the whole world aware of it and I somehow missed out? It's becoming one of my favorites.) to the stop I'd mentioned.

And we talked.

This young man, has had a hard life, made some poor choices along the way, and yet he is working his way to turning his life around. He has aspirations of returning to school and eventually becoming a substance abuse counselor: "I do have seventeen years of relevant experience."

Readers, I don't know this man's name. The chances of me ever seeing him again are as close to zero as you could possibly be. But that doesn't stop me from hoping that he achieves everything he is working for.

Readers. Sometimes it's okay to talk to strangers.

Public Decency: Proper Hallway Conversation

Dear Readers,

First of all, I would like to apologize for the delay in posting. I have been dealing with a sinus headache that was keeping me from drawing for you. However, I'm much better and able to share Wednesday's topic!

Today, I think that we should talk about public decency. Now, I'm sure all of you are wonderful people who respect those around you without a thought. I applaud each and every one of you individually, and thank you, sincerely  for making the world I exist in one that is happy and family friendly. Unfortunately, we have all experienced times where those around us are perhaps not as respectful.

 That couple who look to be trying to eat each other's faces:

The couple who don't understand the limits of proper public PDA:

Like, seriously, get a room.

These are unsettling and not very respectful. However, they have become mostly common place and, honestly, I hardly bat an eye any more. I've come to expect that plenty of people, strangely enough, think that the world is their bedroom. I don't approve, but what can I do? I'm not going to carry around tape and do this:

As funny as it might be, I simply don't have the time (or money for tape) to do that all the time.

However, yesterday I stumbled across something I had never encountered before, nor was I fully prepared to handle it, I think.

When I need to do my laundry, all I have to do is walk down the hall. It's pretty awesome and generally, I don't run into people. Not this day. At the end of the hall there is a woman, who I think is reading the poster that is hanging there. As I approach I hear her talking. Ah, must be a phone call.


Readers, I don't care what people want to do in the privacy of their own rooms. Really. But when those bedroom activities spill out into the world, it's just uncomfortable for all of us.

I won't tell you exactly what I heard, because not only do I want to keep this a clean and healthy environment  I want to respect that woman's privacy. But: Use your imaginations. I'm sure you'll get close.

I'm pretty sure for about a few seconds I forgot how keys and door knobs worked. As you can imagine, I ran into the laundry room as fast as physically possible, without being able to phase through walls.

Readers, please, please, keep your phone sex to yourselves. No one wants to hear that.

Down the Rabbit Hole?

Dear Readers,

Every now and again when we're out in the big wide world we see people who look like people we know. Generally, these lookalikes are called Doppelgangers. It's always fascinating when we run across someone who looks just like our cousin, or sister, or best friend. Now this doesn't just happen with people we know. More than once, I am sure all of you have seen someone who looks just like a celebrity  or just how you imagined your favorite book character to look.

This isn't uncommon, especially when you consider how many people there are in the world. What is uncommon, though, is seeing so many Doppelgangers within a short space of time.

The other day I was on the elevator, heading back up to my room, when who should step into the box but Sam Winchester!

For those of you who don't know, Sam Winchester is one of the two main characters from Supernatural.

Now, for about 15 seconds I was about to have a major fan girl moment. But then, I realized this was real life, and that would probably scare him away. So I chose to just stare at him subtly until he got off the elevator. Because that's not creepy. Right? ...Guys...?

Only a couple of days later I was walking to get myself some coffee. As I'm walking through the crowd I am two steps away from running into the more modern approximation of Shaggy Rogers.

 It was insane. He was gone before I had a chance to say anything.

 At this point, I am seriously wondering if my campus has started to drift into some fictional dimension. Slowly, only a few characters bleeding through at a time.

That, however, is very silly. As an educated woman, I know that this is largely ridiculous (Though can we really discount the possibilities of other dimensions where these people [or approximations of these people] exist? I don't think so.).

I was willing to put this thought behind me. So I found a couple of men who looked like they stepped out of tv land. I'm sure that happens all the time.

Until this weekend. I was walking through the lobby of my building when I saw someone I never expected. I saw the Cancer Man, from The X-Files!

For a moment, I was even positive he was smoking indoors, even though that's a big no no. You also may notice something different about my outward reaction to the Cancer man. That's because that man is terrifying. I'm not sure how many of you have watched X-Files, but I wouldn't want to mess with that man.

Readers, I don't know if there really are that many Doppelgangers around here. It seems unlikely that I'd've seen so many within the a week and a half.

Perhaps this place really is slipping through a rift in time and space. If so, I only expect good things to come...As long as I don't keep running into Cancer Man.

My Little Piece of Wonderland

Dear Readers,

Today, I want you to take a journey with me. Before we start on this journey, in order to get the full effect of what I am going to describe, I would suggest listening to this: Share the magic!

For those of you who do not instantly recognize this, it is the theme for the 2010 Tim Burton version of Alice in Wonderland. I have simply fallen in love with this entire score, it is all beautiful, but this is not quite the beginning of our adventure, Readers.

Last Sunday I was in my dorm, as usual, when I got the strong urge to get up and go do something (possibly because I hadn't left my room since Friday...). As usual, when I get ready to go somewhere, I make sure I have my mp3 player, the world is always much more exciting with music in it. Generally, when I turn my music on, I pick a song at random then begin on my way. Today was no different. I chose some popular tune, perhaps "50 Ways to Say Goodbye" because I have been favoring that song lately. Anyhow.

As I leave my room, I consider going to the elevator as I usually do, but today, I am not in a hurry. Today, I will take the stairs, down 11 floors. This, Readers, is where the adventure begins.

It would be rude of me to assume that everyone is familiar with the story of Alice in Wonderland, as I am sure that, even with as many variations as there have been, someone is unfamiliar with the story. Alice's Adventures in Wonderland is a story that chronicles the adventures of a young girl named Alice in a strange, dream-like world.

Perhaps the most memorable scene from any adaptation of the story is when Alice falls into the rabbit hole, the doorway, if you will, between the real world and Wonderland. As she falls through what appeared to be a normal rabbit hole everything started changing. Around her were all sorts of peculiar things.

What, you may be asking, does this have to do with you walking down 11 flights of stairs?

If you wait just one more moment, I am getting to that part. As I had described, I had turned my music on. Whatever that initial song was, was over by the time I had made it to the stairs. By chance, the theme that I gave you before I started this recounting of the tale began to play.

Think for a moment, of a time in your life where you were filled with giddy apprehension. There is no easy way to describe what it is this music makes me feel, but I think that may be the closest. It's a feeling that builds in the chest, and no matter what you do you cannot stop smiling. Perhaps you even giggle.

The song began as I began my descent, down the rabbit hole, as it were. And, as if the Universe knew that I was already filled with the wonder of the music, something brilliant and unexpected happened.

Join me on a pictorial recreation of my journey:

The first few landings are very much the same, there is nothing all too interesting, you get the idea. 

 They start to change, just a little, becoming slightly more worn looking, slightly more old.

 And then they change completely!

The feeling of the music, combined with the changing of the stairwell was one of the most magical moments of my life. For a moment, when I had my hands on the door, I was convinced that I was going to step out, not into the city I knew to be there, but into my own wonderland.

If only this story could be filled with a little more magic, I hear you saying.

Never worry, I would never leave my readers wanting.

I must confess that I did not take these pictures on that Sunday. When I knew that I wanted to share these pictures I went to take them. To help relive the magic I felt, I turned the theme on repeat, and started my journey back down. I left through that side door to go back through the front of the building (let's be honest, it was partially to check my mail, but mostly to use the elevator).

Once I got off on my floor, I was treated with one of the most amazing sights I have ever seen. After you leave the elevator on my floor there is a small area that is called a "lounge" basically, it is a wide hallway with a couch on either side.

On each couch sat an older man, roughly the same age, nearly the same build, and looking as if they could very well have been brothers, posted as if sentries...

Is That Good for Your Teeth?

Dear Readers, 

My favorite thing to study is Literature. I don't have a preference as to when, where or by whom it was written. This includes both poetry and prose. I love it all. Luckily for me this works well with the fact that I am working on becoming an English Major. There is, however, one class I have shied away from in the past. That class is Women's Literature. "But why?" I hear people calling from the cheap seats. I will tell you why, Readers. I really have a low tolerance for people who are intolerant. "A-hahaha," I hear you calling, "That is a good one, intolerant of intolerance." It's true. Perhaps my least favorite form of intolerance comes in the form of the angry feminist. Everything that women deal is Men's fault. Everything a man says or does is some how rude and degrading. 

This is what I was wary of. However, I decided that it was high time to expand my literary knowledge and take a literature course focused on woman writers. The very first day I could tell that I was going to enjoy the class. The professor, much to my relief, is not an angry feminist, or if she is she keeps it hidden well so that her students can form their own opinions. 

Like with every class, this one is full of interesting people. Probably the most interesting is the woman who has chosen to sit by/near me. 

She really is a lovely lady. Perhaps a bit loud, but who isn't from time to time. Everyone knows that person who has a problem with the concept of whispering. This is her. 

Readers, there are somethings I just cannot stand. Some things make me so angry I just want to throw bricks through windows. I have learned to deal with these things. 

One of those things, however, is the sound of chewing. It's not fair, I know. People need to eat. But the sound of chewing drives me to a near homicidal rage. It is only made worse when that person is chewing ice. I am 90% positive that is all this woman brings in her large cup. There's no liquid in there. Just ice. That she wants to crunch. Right at my elbow. 

Now, before I go on, I want to give you a short history lesson. 

This is Sylvia Plath. You may be most familiar with her book The Bell Jar. What you may or may not know about her is that she was suicidal for the majority of her life, this eventually was the cause of her death. Her sorrow is evident in her works, as is to be expected from a writer feeling any strong emotion. 

We read a poem by her titled "Lady Lazarus" in my Women's Literature class, which I have linked there. This poem is about her suicide attempts and how people treat her because of it. This was a very controversial poem when it was published and probably would be today as well, due to some of the themes she uses to get her point across. 

I told you that story so that I could tell you this one. We read her poem aloud in class, and then were charged with figuring out just what it was the poet was attempting to get across. Perhaps one of my favorite poetic analysis moments as a student comes from this. We were on the stanza, "The nose, the eye pits, the full set of teeth?/The sour breath/Will vanish in a day" (lines 13-15). "What is she talking about?" We were asked. Though some of us in the class knew what we thought the answer was we stayed quiet, not wanting to be mocked for our wrong answer. My Ice Crunching neighbor didn't seem to have this hesitation, however. She looks from the poem, up to the professor and boldly proclaimed, "She drunk." It took all of my will power to hold in my laugh. Not because I thought her answer was foolish. No. Because it was so simple. So true to life. Why would your breath be sour? You were drinking all night. It'll pass. 

If I get to hear more brilliantly simple ideas as to what the literature is saying, I have no problem listening to ice crunching.  

Glorious Facial Hair Choices

Dear Readers,

For those of you who may not know, I grew up (largely [that was an unintentional, but hilarious weight pun, you can laugh]) in a small, but ever expanding, town called Grants Pass. Feel free to look it up. I then decided I was done with the small town feel and jumped into Portland to go to school. It is because of this that I still find something new and exciting in the inhabitants of this city.

As I was walking to class the other day I saw something that was, in all truth, nothing out of the ordinary. It was a man who was making a questionable facial hair choice. He had, what is called, a neckbeard. This is, as you can imagine, a beard which one grows on the neck. This is not a new trend:



The very well known writer, Henry David Thoreau sported one, at least for a time.

This, however, does not make the style any less questionable.

For one man, though, my opinion of the neckbeard has changed. It was just after I had gotten off of the elevator with the woman who could not move her head. I was walking across the street, toward the building that I needed to enter. That is when I saw him.

Generally, the men you encounter sporting a neckbeard look serious, perhaps even a bit somber. Not this man, no. He had a small smile on his face, as if the universe was going his way that day. He wore a hood, as if to signify that he was part of the prestigious and glorious Order of Neckbeardedness. The smile on his face could only mean one thing. After his classes, when the sun started to set on our fair city, he became a masked hero. Oh yes, there is a smile that denotes that. Perhaps he is not the hero that this city deserves, but the one that we need. The one who keeps our children safe during the darkest of nights. 

Thank you, masked neckbeard man. Thank you

Do All People Have Necks?

Dear Readers,

The day was still young, not even yet ten in the morning. I had already left my room, ready to greet the day with my normal level of enthusiasm. I knew it was cold out, it had been for a while, but my destination was only a block from my starting point, there was no need to bundle up too much. So there I was, waiting to descend the eleven floors to the lobby of my building.

All was quiet for the first couple of floors, the elevator softly singing out as we passed each new door. Just about half way down we slowed to a stop. Of course, I have no issues sharing the elevator with people! That is what it is made for. What happened next though was far more funny to my still half asleep brain than it probably should have been. A young woman with her face hidden in her phone screen entered the little box. That alone was not the funny part.

The funny part was that she seemed to have tied her scarf in a neck brace fashion. She could not tilt her head, nor move it side to side to look around. Whenever she wanted to look at something beyond the range of her natural vision, she had to move her whole torso. Admittedly, she reminded me instantly of this (warning: there is sound attached). I had to pretend I was very busy on my own phone, too busy, in fact, to look at her any longer. 

In her defense, I am sure she was much warmer than I was.

Welcome!

01/18/13

Dear Readers,

Welcome to what will become a source of all things that I find to be amusing in any way. I think I am quite hilarious  and in the end, that really is all that matters. For the first day or so I will be adding all of the ideas I have already posted elsewhere. After that, I will, more than likely, drop my rate of posting (blogging? [musing?]) down to about twice a week.

-Kris