Knitting While Bound for the Beach

I'm knitting a series of donuts. I've knitted two jelly-filled donuts and one chocolate-covered donut. I'm giving the chocolate-covered one to Jason Toner in thanks for the amazing, vegan donuts that he has made from scratch and shared. I've enjoyed sitting around with a group of friends and eating Toner's hot, fresh donuts. I've helped frost and fill them, but I doubt that I could match Toner's skill in making donuts. So good.

I knitted Jason's donut last Sunday as I sat in the car with Pat on my way to the Outer Banks in North Carolina. On the way home, it was too dark to knit and I played dj with my iPod.

"Donut shop rock. Come on everybody and do the donut hop!"

On a more annoying note, turning away from yarn and friends -

My boss at work has made a new office policy: all jelly donuts that enter the office are his donuts. He's decided to make such a claim because "the one that got away" left an empty space in his stomach. A co-worker brought in a box of donuts from Duncan Donuts one morning. Someone ate the only jelly-filled donut, which was nested in a box with 23 others. My boss had the audacity to yell at the pregnant woman down the hall from me, bellowing out how pregnant women are always hungry and nosing around her office looking for signs of powdered sugar. In the end, she hadn't eaten it. Feeling slighted, my boss launched his donut-claiming campaign. He thinks that vegan food is unnatural, which gives my food some sort of loophole or sanctuary from his designs. Strangely enough, my boss would be the first to admit that he's being a jerk.

Regarding the beach -

The water generally felt icy, although, the last day that I was there, the water warmed up a little and became clear enough for me to see my feet as I walked out to jump in the waves. Typically, the water has more sand and debris in it, so I feel lucky.

I loved the giant sand dunes near the beach. Climbing with sand between my toes felt like freedom.

Charm City Art Space

Charm City Art Space advertises itself as socially conscientious. Today, it issued a draft statement with the goal of ending debate over claims of sexual misconduct on the part of one of its members. Five women accused one guy of sexually harassing them in separate incidents, including one woman who accused him of having sex with her against her will. Unfortunately for the women, members publicly vetted the question of what happened to them for over six months with several members essentially calling the women liars. As a result, friends of the victims and the victims left the space. The remaining members agreed that, in essence, nothing should happen to the guy. A few people did talk to him about boundary issues.

After the draft of the statement was circulated, members responded with questions about whether the person who was accused of the harassment felt comfortable with the statement's wording and protested against the women being called "victims," requesting that they be instead called "survivors" or "accusers." No one asked how the women themselves felt about the statement's wording. I do appreciate calling women who are raped "survivors," but not in the context of discussing how to handle rapes. At the point of the rape, you aren't looking at the woman's future ability to move past the attack and gain strength,. You are looking at the wrong as she is being attacked and dominated. If I suffer through adversity, don't use my ability to heal to justify ignoring the evil of what happened.

I don't feel comfortable calling Charm City Art Space a "safe space." I am concerned that if one of its popular members sexually assaulted me, that I would be more stigmatized for bringing it up than he would be for violating me. Plus, I don't want to be a double victim - once as an individual being sexually harassed and then again as a person being alienated by those who fail to listen or, even worse, try to discredit me for refusing to silently be abused.
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PS

August 21, 2010 - Charm City Art Space posted their final statement this week. Backlash - a flurry of e-mails from people who've gone to shows at and supported CCAS; someone painted "rapist" on the CCAS door. The statement reduced the other four women from CCAS who were attacked to "a history of problematic sexual conduct," only mentioning the rape of a woman the guy met at CCAS. The statement called the woman the "accuser."

People protested and lots of women complained that CCAS has made excuses and is ignoring the security and well-being of its female members. As written by a woman I've known for five years:

"Saying that you can't take a side in a situation like this IS taking the side of the accused person because he is still allowed to operate in a 'safe' space... Also, creating and maintaining a safe space is not as easy as just saying you have a safe space; it's not just shit like walking women to their cars at night and saying 'racism sucks.' It's believing marginalized people... It's about support, even when it means questioning what you think you know about a friend."

Another women I know responded with an e-mail to CCAS in which she pointed out that picking apart the words of the women for months signals disbelief. CCAS reinforced this message of denial by trying to harbor the accused and by disseminating an answer to the accusations that amounts to: whatever.
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Almost 3 years later.  A lot of new people are involved in Charm City Art Space.  They and long-term members insist that they are committed to providing a "safe space."  They can't change the past, but insist that they learned from everything that happened in 2010.

More Than a Run-On Sentence - a Run-On Blog Entry

My week started off with a clothing swap and potluck at Christine's house. My housemate Zack, our friend Olga, and I made tabouli salad using a recipe from the Moosewood cookbook. Gathering the ingredients in a last minute rush, we got stuck buying limp, curly parsley at the Giant near my house. Then, once we started dicing scallions and tomatoes, I noticed that we were low on lemon juice. With an eye on the clock, we substituted lime juice for some of the lemon juice in the recipe. Fortunately, the lemon-lime still balanced the garlic, tomato and parsley well. I liked it. The food table at the potluck mostly amounted to a some chips and grocery-store cookies. As for the clothing, I appreciated the variety of sizes, colors, and styles. I got a few dresses, a shirt, and a patch.

While we were at Christine's in DC, a storm hit with almost the ferocity of a tornado. The high winds sent both power lines and trees crashing onto the streets. The rain literally came down in sheets. Our housemate Meredith had remained home alone with Basil and Viola, the two Boston Terriers that I was watching for Pat while he was on tour with Rations. Meredith holed up in the basement with the dogs cuddled up against her as our electricity went out. Apparently, more than 300,000 customers in Maryland lost power. At Christine's, we stayed dry inside. When Zack, Olga, and I ventured out, the ride home presented unusual challenges, forcing us to maneuver through intersections with the traffic lights out and around tree limbs strewn across the roads.

According to Meredith, as she ran upstairs to retrieve her cat, Motley, she glanced out of the window. Meredith spotted the elderly lady who puts trash in our yard. The lady was soaked and roaming around in the street, looking at our house. The lady was nice to me the next day and I haven't spoken with her in a long time. She told me that she'd worried about us and wasn't sure we'd know what to do in a storm. I ignored the condescension, although Meredith complained to me that Meredith wasn't the one circling trees as branches blew by in the wind. I thought maybe the lady would stop discarding rotting food items near our sewer drain, but she didn't stop. This very morning, I saw two rotting tomatoes perched curbside in our yard.

When I got home after the storm, I sat with Zack and debated going to Ilsa's record release show. He went. I focused on food. People had inhaled our tabouli salad at the clothing swap and I was hungry for dinner. Pat called me from Brooklyn. Inviting me to stay at his house in DC, I accepted after calling one of his housemates to confirm that they had electricity. I drove with Pat's dogs through the debris-filled streets. By then, the failure of the traffic lights and the impatience of drivers had resulted in a series of accidents. Navigating around the obstacle course of tree branches, I just felt tired.

When I got to Pat's house, I left off the dogs and went to dinner with his housemate Rachel. It was almost 8pm. We drove to multiple restaurants, finding each one closed. I finally settled on ice cream made from coconut milk that I bought from Giant. Totally unhealthy. I went to sleep early in Pat's bed, with Pat and his other housemate, Greg, still in Brooklyn for the Ration's tour. I appreciated the air conditioning.

On Monday, Pat was back and I saw his and Zack's band, State Violence, play at the Corpse Fortress, which means in the basement of a house in Silver Spring. They sounded like a wall of angry feedback and noise, heavy on the bass and drums. Mundo Muerto (CA), Perdition (NYC), Lotus Fucker (DC), and Syndrome (VA) provided a night of incredible music. Mundo Muerto especially surprised me. They have an early 80s punk sound and I really got into their music.

Not to give a daily rundown, but I saw my friend Bridget during the week. For no occasion at all, she bought me a spatula that looks like a guitar and a set of pirate-themed baking cups for cupcakes. Another night, I went to Casey Jones, a restaurant in La Plata that serves wood-fired pizzas, to commemorate the last day of one of the law clerks volunteering at the Public Defender's Office where I work. The restaurant is amazing in the context of La Plata, which is, in essence, a collection of strip malls and fast food restaurants. The pizza's crust is crispy on the outside and soft on the inside. They don't have vegan cheese, but do offer a pizza without cheese with extra sauce and a collection of green vegetables.

I went to a show on Friday at St. Stephen's Church. State Violence played again. Blood Type, a straight-edge band from New Jersey whose demo tape is called Bringing More Stuff Down, played a set with an 80s hardcore sound. They did a cover of Black Flag's Drinking and Driving. Who wouldn't like hearing a cover of that song? (Aside - I spoke with a guy named Max from Austin who told me about a girl he'd met in Germany who claimed "covers of songs" as her favorite type of music. Weird.) Nomos played next. Their singer scrunched his face up and shifted his eyes around as if he was trying to imitate Jack in The Shining. Christine, from Deathrats and the clothing swap, told me that she liked his somersaults. Some other friends told me that the Nomos singer was criticizing them for not wearing shiny, athletic shorts. The guy insisted that the shorts breath well and increase his mobility as he belts out those lyrics. Of course, he didn't appear as the picture of health and his shorts slipped down his waist as he rolled on the floor. Next, Brain Killer played. Dan complimented their name. He categorized their sound as "mind melting," like a musical lobotomy. Finally, Deathrats played their songs about women's empowerment, independent-thinking and personal accountability.

Ft. Reno - Tiny Bombs

I went to Fort Reno on Thursday again to see Tiny Bombs. Pat called Dave, the singer for Tiny Bombs, to pinpoint what time the band would start playing. So, realizing we had almost an hour, we ate bagel sandwiches filled with bacon-style tempeh and egg-style tofu first and, then, shared mock chicken nuggets with barbecue sauce as a sidedish at Sticky Fingers. Done with dinner, Pat and I got to the park about 10 minutes before Tiny Bombs started playing.

Navigating up a grassy hill on a sunny day as kids run around and clusters of people sit on picnic blankets is not the typical course to see a friend's band play. I felt wrapped in summertime.

As Pat and I approached the park, we saw a group of friends standing around. Danny had his shoes off. I repeat, summertime. We talked and, then, moved close to the stage. A girl on the picnic blanket next to where we ended up sitting offered me some snacks. Friends on a nearby blanket ate fruit salad and watermelon. After somehow managing to finish a giant container of smoked almonds with Pat in the car, I lacked the desire for any more food. Still, I'm inspired to bring food for a picnic next time I go.

Tiny Bombs entertain. Dave refuses to take himself too seriously. He announced that he and the guitarist are teachers so he wanted to teach everyone a thing or two about slang. He said that he'd just rode along on the Fordists' tour through the Midwest. He taught the Midwesterners the word "bama." He said that they shared with him the phrase "straight chimpin'," which can be used to tell someone that they are being lazy or struggling.

Dave's singing voice falls somewhere in between the voices of Jello Biafra, from the Dead Kennedys, and Steve Hustefer, from The Dickies. Tiny Bombs plays straightforward punk with simple melodies. Between songs at Ft. Reno, Dave commented on the guitarist's playing as "straight chimpin'." Dave added that he hopes people pick up the Midwestern phrase even if they don't like the music.

I ran into my friend Sara Klemm on the way to my car. She's so busy lately that I barely get to
talk to her. She spoke a little about her clerkship with the DC Public Defender Service, which is coming to a close, and some family problems recalling her to Baltimore. Then, as the sun set, Pat and I detoured to Best Buy before topping off the night by watching an episode of the X-Files.

The Magicians

I just finished reading The Magicians by Lev Grossman. I'm disappointed.

The reviews promised "Harry Potter for adults" and "A darker look at a school for wizards." The Magicians definitely lacks the hope, loyalty, and passion found in Harry Potter. Instead, it holds that a person can be bored anywhere. At the beginning of the book, Quentin, the main character, is 17 years old and about to go to Princeton. He skips the Ivy League, though, in favor of a secret and exclusive boarding school for magic. He learns to fly through the air and make objects move with his hands. He is still bored and feels empty.

Quentin graduates and moves to New York City with some of his magician friends. He seeks to fill the void in his life with alcohol, drugs, and sex. He cheats on his talented girlfriend, who loves him. In line with the book's theme, Quentin finds the club scene, his girlfriend, and New York City boring.

Then, Quentin and his friends find a way to transport themselves to the alternate reality of Fillory - think C.S. Lewis's Narnia with minor differences like the original children enter Fillory by walking into a grandfather clock instead of a wardrobe. Quentin explores Fillory and concludes that he is bored.

Essentially, the reader is forced to endure page after page about a depressed, bored, and privileged guy, Quentin, wallowing in self-pity. Even when Quentin goes to school, his ennui is only broken by melodramatic drivel like: "His crush went from exciting to depressing, as if he'd gone from the first blush of infatuation to the terminal nostalgia of a former lover without even the temporary relief of an actual relationship in between." Grossman rips off the settings of fantasy novels, while disavowing that the imagination can excite. In The Magicians, a unicorn or questing horse even seems mundane. Grossman lacks the poetic style and complexity of F. Scott Fitzgerald, but, like Fitzgerald, concentrates on rich, drunken, and spoiled characters. Unlike Fitzgerald, Grossman forgets to make his characters charming. Grossman's characters perform incantations and talk to animals. While seeing, in essence, a trust-fund kid conversing with a goat may sound funny, I assure you that he's bored, the goat's bored, and, ultimately, the reader is bored.

Police and Thieves; Rations, Wasted Time, Striking Distance, Damnation A.D.

I'll try to catch up with my blogging. Highlights. Last week, I went to Ft. Reno and saw Police and Thieves play. They have a late 80s/early 90s hardcore sound. Fort Reno is a park in DC that has hosted a free, summer concert series for years. I liked seeing the eclectic mix of families, random passersby, and music enthusiasts who gathered on the grass in front of the stage. Picnic blankets were scattered around. In the distance, people tossed balls and Frisbees. Summertime fun.

For better or worse, the shows at Fort Reno tend to showcase bands of different musical genres. Right after Police and Thieves finished, a band with a herd of members lumbered on to the stage and began setting up. I counted three synthesizers and several tambourines. Maybe they were amazing, but the group of friends that I was sitting with all dispersed.

Since everything at Ft. Reno takes place outside, some shows get rained out. The schedule leaves some "To Be Announced" slots so that bands can be rescheduled, instead of cancelled, due to the weather. The shuffling of dates may also result in traditional, folk bands playing alongside a band playing techo pop or hardcore.

On Saturday, I went to a show at St. Stephen's Church in DC with a bunch of bands, including Rations, Wasted Time, Striking Distance, and Damnation A.D. A lot of people drove from Baltimore and Philadelphia to see Damnation A.D. (or maybe Trapped Under Ice who also played...) In fact, the church sold out. The bands
delivered enthusiastic and loud sets. The sound, however, was a little off. The show's organizer hired a professional sound guy, who somehow managed to get the balance off so the guitars overwhelmed the vocals and drums of every band. The music still inspired raised fists, bobbing heads, and dancing.

PS Alex DiMattesa from Wasted Time is a great bassist. And, yes, Pat Vogel from Rations gave "hot on the guitar" a double meaning. He was the only person wearing long sleeves in a swampy, July room. He layered, too. As always, though, he got compliments on his guitar playing and on his pink guitar with the Rorshach patch on the strap. Plus, I shared an iced mocha and some sandwiches from Sticky Fingers with him. What more could a girl want in an afternoon?








Rations Set (poor sound quality): http://vimeo.com/13260966

July 3rd - Deathrats, Nobunny, The Shirks

On Saturday of the July 4th weekend, Pat and I went to the Folk Life Festival on the Mall, the grass courtyard in the center of the line of Smithsonian museums, for a brief moment. The festival happens every year featuring different countries and a region or state of the United States. This year, the festival was more limited, celebrating the culture of Asian Pacific Americans and Mexico. We went to the Asian Pacific tent and watched two people in a long, goldish, glittering lion costume perform a dance for good luck to the clatter of drums. I've never seen The Lion Dance outside of a scene in a movie with a Chinatown parade. The eyes of the lion could blink. The second person in the costume even made the lion's stubby tail wag as the lion curved around. The dance ended with some acrobatic stunts. The person in the back maneuvered and jumped onto the shoulders of his partner, creating the illusion of a standing lion.

We returned to Pat's house so that he'd be there for the 4:00 p.m. Deathrats practice. I headed out to run errands and agreed to meet with him at 6:00 p.m. for dinner. In the evening, Pat filled in for Brad, one of the guitarists, for Deathrats, who played at the Black Cat. When I arrived at Pat's house, everyone in Deathrats was waiting for me in Pat's van to go to Everlasting Life for dinner. I was surprised. The goal was to get to the Black Cat by 7:00 p.m. for a sound check. I went with them and hung out backstage. The Black Cat generously filled a little refrigerator with Diet Coke, upscale root beer, beer and water. Half of Deathrats is straight-edge, so not too many people drank the beer.

Deathrats went on stage a little after 10:10 p.m. They did well and got the crowd moving. Christine sprang off of the stage and sang as she blended into the mosh pit. Then, she returned on stage and Greg, the bassist, hopped off the stage for a few minutes.

Nobunny had a slide guitar on the stage, but never used it. They aim to play rockabilly punk with the added gimmick of performing in bunny ears. I didn't like them that much, but many people in the crowd were bouncing to their rhythms. The costumes didn't impress me the way the lion costume had earlier in the day.

I ran into my friend Sarah Klemm at the Black Cat. She's law clerking this summer for the Public Defender Service in DC. She's passionate about learning and, while I'm sure the PDS appreciates her, feels like she could handle more responsibility there. As a public defender, I like having summer law clerks, but it's difficult to figure out whether they'll do a good job until they're about to leave. We've had some weird law clerks in my office. One stands out who kept making ridiculous promises to our clients like "you'll get out at your next bail review." So, when the court refused to grant bail to the armed robber who skipped his first court date and got picked up on a warrant, this robber pushed aside his criminal conduct and failure to appear in court previously. He felt like his attorney was at fault, since someone from the office guaranteed him release.

I watched The Shirks when they did their sound check, which was kind of cool. I left, though, before they played their set.