A Breakup Story

Jon and I became good friends last year, although I’ve known him since high school. I hate to fill the stereotype that LA people only hang out with each other–but somehow it just works out that way.  He is twenty two and I am twenty, and when we were in highschool I thought he was cool because he had a popup restaurant. During this time, him and a few other seniors from his high school were trying to be chefs.  Jon spent the summer interning at Noma, and the rest of his squad were written about in LA magazine and LA weekly.

But, as happens with much art, Jon and the rest of his friends become disenchanted with cooking–it proved to be too much hard work and too little payoff. So, here we are, meeting again in New York, and hitting it off as great friends.  Jon is boyish but he’s also a gossip queen. He’s not super social, but he knows the tea about everyone. Who’s dating who, who broke up with who, what so-and-so really thinks about so-and-so, etc. Jon and I had fun making fun of the flamboyant Angelenos we mutually knew.

Jon and I hit it off so hard, that when April came around this time last year, and every student in NYC was scrambling to find roommates, we thought we could be a good match.   Good friends, but not too good.  Mutual friends, but not too many.  Similar in age, but he was graduating that coming spring–wouldn’t be staying too long.  We had intersecting lives, but presumably not enough to lose my mind.  I was excited. Jon was a good chef, maybe he would cook us dinner I thought.  Presumable too.  The apartment we found we could both afford, and our parents were eager to help us apply. Jon had a TV in storage, something he was graciously willing to put in our living room.  “My friend has an old apple TV box he’d be willing to give us if you’re down,” I said. He gave me a reassuring look: “No no,” he said. “It’s fine. I’m gonna get a PS4 which will be smarter in the end–you don’t have to split it with me because I’ll want it after. The PS4 can download the internet, and all the apps like netflix, HBO, and Hulu alike.  “It’ll be great.”

It’ll be great.

Cut to now.

It’s been roughly 224 days.  Little did we both know, that Jon would soon become fully addicted to not one, but two video games.  Something that wasn’t even in our periphery back then. Something that he didn’t even obtain back then.  The games are called Overwatch and Fortnite.  4 of his best friends from LA, Alex, Charlie, Oliver, and Jack join him on their respective earpieces to chat and communicate about the game, however those aren’t the only folks he’s talking too.  He’s often yelling to strangers, instructing them to protect him assist him, or “GET THE BASTIAN” (whatever that means).

This development has spoiled many things for me overtime.  It’s spoiled my daily moods, when almost each and every time I walk into the building, I hear explosions, yelling, and laughing from down the hall as I get out of the elevator.  It’s spoiled the living room, as its never unoccupied, never not swamped with used napkins, crumbs near the screen as he sits right next to it, shoes, socks, wads of electrical cords that litter the floor.  

It’s also ruined our relationship to a certain extent, and these words are not easy to type.  We don’t talk in the apartment much anymore. I don’t spend time anywhere but my room. For me, its spoiled parts of his personality, which I know are still there.  He doesn’t leave, ever, which translates to lazy.  Though, this wasn’t who he was before, because we used to go on day trips together: to the museum, to a brooklyn park, even to upstate New York or somewhere in Jersey to see the leaves turn colors. He’s no longer interested in past passions, the ones I “thought he was cool for” which I say in the beginning of the story.  I.e. He hates cooking, he thinks it’s lame.

Jon’s also relatively uninterested in the real world. He doesn’t listen to me when I talk, understandably, as he has 5 voices squabbling at once in his ears, and a colorful, strobing screen in front of his eyes.  He doesn’t let real-life invitations pass up his game time, either. There have been moments that a friend and I have come home from a movie in order to meet him at the apartment, to which we’ve sat patiently waiting for him to finish.  When he doesn’t, he’ll swiftly turn to us and say “looks like its not ending anytime soon,” to which we will head right back out the door, and head elsewhere, just to be away from the game.

Jon has told me that the game often reflects his mood on any given day.  If he loses the game, he is not happy for the remainder of the day. If he wins, he is in great spirits.

This story of disillusionment tends to read fairly pitiful.  But it is also lacks my failures. It’s missing my responsibility in the matter. My thoughts-but-never-attempts at trying to change this. When I lay awake at 3 AM to the sound of “Good one Reinhart, you beat the enemy!”  I am haunted with my absence of confrontation. My lack of simple statements like, “the video games have bothered me,” or problem-solving questions like “Can we put this in your room? Can we make a schedule where you play when I’m out?”  Instead, I have merely grown to be passive, quiet. I’m the one who lets it burn, though I still call this a story of disillusionment onto me.

THOUGH. For the amount of flack Jon gets, whether its my passive aggression, or any one of our shared friends’ overt pestering and bullying on the matter, things like “your such a nerd,” or “get off there! It’s a nice day dude” won’t cut it.  Won’t stir change. He plays the game because he wants to. It’s his tv. It’s his PS4. This is a story about disillusionment, because I grew to love a friend, and he grew to love his game.  Now we grow apart, and that’s sad but I’m actually ok.

Loyalty v. Business

As a fan you’re conned into thinking that there’s loyalty in sports.  In basketball, when a player is drafted by a team, the team and the fans of that team stakes ownership over that player.  They become a permanent member of the franchise, an irreplaceable element of the “family,” so much so that they themselves, the team, and fans across the board become emotionally attached to that player.  

If you think classically about basketball history, the greatest examples stay faithful to the franchise they were originally drafted into. Maybe I’m biased because I grew up watching the greatest player of all time, Kobe Bryant, stay strong for my hometown team the Los Angeles Lakers.  Through the hardships of 2007, during his tumultuous relationship with his co-leader Shaquille O’Neal, even through rumors he wanted a trade to the Chicago Bulls–Kobe didn’t go. He saw the headlines that called him the “legendary sidekick” that helped Shaq win our rings. He brushed them off. He knew that his skill was unparalleled to what anyone had ever seen before, and that the team couldn’t do what it did without him.  He stayed faithful to his organization because they stayed faithful to him and his abilities. He was three championship rings in, and there was still two to go. Loyalty was his destiny.

This rings true for other basketball legends that Kobe was even going up against during the finals. Tim Duncan for the Spurs, Dirk Nowitzki for the Mavs never left. This kind of allegiance to one’s own team set the standard for me and other basketball fans across the nation, thinking that the best, purest player, had one goal in mind: to be the hero of their city.

So when other players who I grew up watching, who are thought to be so essential to their team leave…all hell breaks loose! Kevin Durant, my beloved OKC Thunder small forward goes to the Golden State Warriors–makes a decision to get the easy championship with a team who is just a game away from being back-to-back champions, a team who is clearly the most dominant in the league, what am I as a fan, left to think? That loyalty is dead? That players don’t care about their roots anymore? Is basketball coming to a point where its no longer about facing losses and working hard to get to that sweet win?  When I hear about KD’s move, or rumors that LeBron is leaving his hometown Cleveland to “head west,” I am suddenly overwhelmed with a disappointment that players just want to combine powers and make a quick win.

But maybe this dualistic way of thinking isn’t good for me as a fan.  Its hard to swallow the fact that players leave, knowing that the best players in my eyes stayed in their lane.  But I can’t shame others for taking charge of their own destiny.  You think about players nowadays like Demarcus Cousins, who was drafted in Sacramento to play Center for the Kings, and who fell in love with the place. So much so, that he said his jersey will hang in the rafters after he “retires in Sacramento.” But the guy was traded after they told him they would keep him.  Same happened to Jimmy Butler on the Chicago Bulls.

The League, in actuality, is a dirty place. It’s one that despite it’s advertisement, puts business before family.  As soon as its bad business to keep a player, they’ll trade him without even saying a proper goodbye.  This leaves fans blaming the player for not being a Kobe, a Duncan, a Nowitzki.  If I’m going to continue to be a basketball fan, I’m going to have to learn that there really is no loyalty.  I can’t hold up these standards, because it limits my ability to appreciate what these players are fighting to do, in any city they can get.

Perfunctory Activism

“It is white America who invited them in, and it is white America who has the responsibility to see them out.”

Said by Black Lives Matter Nashville, in a statement about why the group decided not to participate in counter-protests to respond to White Lives Matter Counter Protests.

Not only does the action of taking part in counter protests distract from the “destructive ways systematic white supremacy rallies against the lives of black and brown folks in Middle Tennessee and this country every day,” but groups like black lives matter urge that just it isn’t their job to.

And it isn’t.

This is a sentiment I have heard plead by many African Americans, especially in the wake of Trump’s election of 2016. The notion that confronting racism, calling it out, advocating for “its end” should not be the job of the marginalized group.  The words “Allyship isn’t enough” seem to echo.

With their statement, BLM Nashville asks for their well-meaning, antiracist allies to renounce from their comfortable distance.  BLM takes pride in expressing themselves, themselves, but when it comes to the distracting, derailing, and often dangerous counterparts of racist White Lives Matter groups, it is up to the species of its same kind to prod them away, and potentially keep black lives safe and existing from the menace of this anti-black supremacy response.

Many white activists I see on social media and in opinion editorial writing take acceptance in this grant issued by black activists.  They hastily oblige– though with caution and questions to follow.  They don’t want to say too much.  They don’t want to say to little.  Most of all, they don’t know what to say.  But how Collier Meyerson, a black contributor to the opinion website Splinter News puts it, that is more in the right direction than nothing at all.  Because, “there’s no clear path or prescription for how white allies should operate in a movement led by black and brown people—that’s part of the work.”

Part of the work.  The same work BLM Nashville mentions needing, when attempting to juggle their own issues of injustice, toppled over by the counter protesting of White/All Lives Matter groups. The work of responsibility, accountability, the work of sacrificing comfort.  The work of asking less questions, and taking more cues. The work of taking orders, but not relying on them for more. The work of stepping into the unknown, the work of attempting to move in the right direction.  Meyerson says, “It’s not the usual order of things, but it’s the way forward.”

This spoke to me, the idea of this not being the usual order of things. There isn’t a right way yet, but there are surely a lot of wrong ones, and that is the duty of the white ally.  To be in limbo, to dodge the errors of their contemporaries and be better than their predecessors.  This “not the usual order of things,”–this uncertainty–reminds me that we’re in the wake of something new. This isn’t how activism has always been.  That something new actually evokes excitement to me. Lowercase excitement.

So, I’d say, that this is the call to end perfunctory activism.

Bloody Mary

I tried my hardest to recollect a time where I was particularly adventurous, or motivated to take a risk.   I’m not much of a whimsical person, I don’t usually venture out of my way to seek artistic payoff.  Maybe I just haven’t had that experience yet.  But this prompt instead took me immediately to a memory of my childhood.

When you’re a kid, theres not much to gossip about, or maybe theres just a lack of curiosity about whats going on in other people’s lives.  Theres a selfishness that kids have, it stems from their inherent innocence, but also an aloofness and unconcern for whats going on around you.  Thats where the recess talk is less about you and I and whats been going on in our lives, and more about games, and stories.  Things that are way more fun to talk about because they’re magic and play, way more entertaining than the monotony of the day. Scary stories especially circled around like rumors.  They were contagious to tell and to hear, but so terrifying, that they were at times unlistenable.  I have memories of asking friends to finish the story of the “Girl with the Green Ribbon Around her Neck” for another time, because I was getting too spooked.  That way we could also have something to talk about next lunch.

Anyway, one of the most famous stories going around was that of Bloody Mary and her game.  If you dared: that is, if you were strong enough, brave enough, or curious enough, you could summon Mary herself.  This would require going into the bathroom, turning the lights off, looking into the mirror and whispering “Bloody Mary” 3 times.  A boy in my summer camp Evan would always say, “you have to whisper it slowly and clearly to make sure she hears you.”  I’d also heard that you had to stare at yourself in the mirror, and not look away.  The thought of doing such a routine alone still sends shivers down my spine.  My 9 year old self was peeing her pants.  But oh the temptation!  The sheer wonder of whether or not she would appear by completing that simple task.

My free time was eaten up with the desire to go into the bathroom, shut the lights, and whisper “Bloody Mary.” I’d think, “what if I did it during the day when I wasn’t scared?” but the possibility alone would petrify me; talk me out of it.  Soon this impulse reduced from being alluring, desiring, to just frightening.  The rumors I’d hear of my friends seeing Bloody Mary, the sheer thought of being in the bathroom in the dark, the thought of what she might do to me! It was all too much.  The thought of her and this game began to haunt me.

One night, I was having a sleepover at my best friend at the time Tia’s house. We used to have flashlight time before lights out, and flicker plastic flashlights around her room while talking before we went to sleep. This flashlight time, we used to talk about our biggest fears.  Naturally, Mary herself was brought up.  Tia lamented that she shared my fear, as well as my yearn to just know.  After a lot of thought and deliberation, we decided together to set things straight.  With the strength of each other, we could finally venture off the beaten path, and see for ourselves if Bloody Mary would show.  If not, we could relieve ourself of this nightmare.  If so…well her dad was in the next room.

As so, we scuttled into the bathroom, hearts beating fast.  We turned the lights off, and shrieked uncontrollably.  I was so nervous, my heart beating so fast, I could barely contain the words down to a whisper.  But we completed the task, whispered her name 3 times. Nothing happened. Silence.  Well, not silence, our giggles, our high from the summon.

Nevertheless my curiosity paid off, and in that moment, I knew Bloody Mary wasn’t real.

Gallo

I felt like I was going to start off this piece by neurotically excusing why I love Vincent Gallo so much.  Like yeah, he isn’t good guy, he treats the people he works with like shit.  Or, he has a foul mouth.  Or yeah, Roger Ebert famously called his movie Brown Bunny the “worst film in the history of Cannes” (I agree it isn’t good).  Or maybe just that this guy Vincent Gallo is an egotistical maniac that isn’t in touch with the real world.  All of these things may be true, and I may be an asshole myself, but I can’t deny that Vincent Gallo is my hero.  

Sometimes we feel that way about our creative inspirations. Defensive. Its feeling self conscious about the things we truly love out of fear that others would disapprove.  Especially if those inspirations have lived long and eventful lives, and were not necessarily the best versions of themselves the whole way through.  Though, maybe that struggling-artist quality is why we’re often drawn to them.  Except that I would hardly say Gallo is a struggling artist.  I think he’d say he was the best artist to ever roam the planet.  In fact in his early career as a painter, he said, “I stopped painting in 1990 at the peak of my success just to deny people my beautiful paintings, and I did it out of spite.”
There are many reasons why I find Gallo to be absolutely legendary.  I find his obsessive, performative nature as a person (outside of acting) to be both hilarious and amazing.  He takes everything he does extremely seriously, and with passion.  He thrives on conflict and drama in all aspects of his life.  Gallo loves to test the waters and speak his mind, especially if it’s a contentious opinion.  It always is.  Gallo is enamored with the aesthetics of Hollywood, he says “I never wanted to be an actor. I never want to be an actor. I want to be a movie star. The whole idea of having to act is too gruesome. It’s too ambitious for me.” Yet he never needed hollywood press to promote his celebrity.  In fact, an interview with Gallo is so provocative it can cause a publication lot of trouble.  

I love Gallo for more than just his personality.  His self-conceived, written, directed, starred-in, score, and soundtrack-ed film Buffalo ‘66 (1998) will continue to be one of my favorites.  To me, is the essence of cool. This movie is the quintessential independant masterpiece, and remains distinctive and thrilling, mixing worlds of reality and fantasy.  The themes of the movie are of revenge, an ode to America and blue collar-life.  The way it looks alone, containing some of the best looking images shot by another personal favorite Lance Accord.  It will always be one of my favorites.

Vincent Gallo isn’t always right, he isn’t always sensible, and he’s honestly rarely telling the truth.  But it doesn’t stop him from being an unforgettable influence on my mind.

 

(If anyone is interested, my favorite Gallo interview is with Howard Stern https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=aW9LMFgrqek)

 

Viral Food is Disgusting

I began writing this with an intention that seems to be common in most food writers who try and attack the idea of “viral food.”  Many blog posts and food reviews I have read tend to beg the question, “how is viral food possible?”  Living in NYC, a place that is both one of the biggest food hubs of the world, and simultaneously one of the trendiest places out there, I feel like I could take a stab at the world of trendy foods (even if I don’t partake in eating them).  But as I began writing out my curiosities among how food trends came to be, I scrapped my writing, because it seems so uninteresting.  If you think about it, it’s perfectly possible that food can become viral, because we’ve seen that “being viral” isn’t so unthinkable after all.  After we accept that the internet and all its craziness is a thing that exists, we can realize that virality is just the internet’s way of expressing a common interest.  Popularity!  “Going viral” is just something online that trends.  And, since everyone has access to everything nowadays, whatever looks the prettiest or most unique simply gets looked at (and probably copied) by millions of people. If you really think about it, this system seems like the perfect one for food, something that humans have always had a natural affinity and devotion to.  

So, instead of cheaply wondering how is this possible? I’ll skip ahead and just critique the idea  of viral food by saying its gross.  Every food trend I have seen looks gross. Like a terribly unpalatable thing to put inside one’s mouth.  Food culture has advanced so greatly, and I would even say with the help of online virality.  But doesn’t this mean food should be tastier? In most cases yes, but in more cases, somehow, no.  


Here are some of the words viral food trends: 

  1. Combining food items: Sushi Burritos, Cheesy Taco Pasta, Pizza stuffed Burgers…They can all go straight to the trash.  I feel like I can occasionally let the meshing of cultures slide, such as dashing a little Sriracha on your bacon/egg/cheese,  but I’ve seen this step taken way too far. There is this stoner mentality that two cravings combined creates the ultimate delight, however this couldn’t be farther from the truth. Leave cravings be.  Separate but equal mentality can work here. No Guacamole stuffed Onion rings.  
  2. Rainbow stuff: Making something colorful does not make something delicious.  In my opinion, it literally sucks the deliciousness out of the food item.  “Unicorn colors” is a trend, but what is even crazier than that alone, is the fact that it is seeping into savory dishes.  Colors like blue, purple, and pink are already unnatural, so we usually associate them with sugary, processed desserts like cotton candy or ice cream.  A rainbow bagel with scallion cream cheese, is however, blasphemous.

Instead of a third pick, I’ll rapidfire name a few shocking crowd favorites:
Huge stuff like jumbo burgers and a lb. glob of cheese over a plate of food, jiggly pancakes, microbreweries, cookie dough raw? Savory stuff that isn’t supposed to be savory like corn ice cream, food with weed in it, gold flakes, massive pizza slices with anything from tacos to pasta to chicken wings used as toppings, purple food, “show-stopping” sundaes, and pitch black food items such as ice cream and water.  

 

Ball

Everyday I hear a new friend talking about the new TV show they’re onto next, or why reality TV is so addicting, and what I take from the national need to binge watch is that it’s all for the drama. Drama is pure entertainment.  It’s the surprise of it, the twists and turns it entails… Most importantly, its the idea that you can invest into someone else’s life and try to predict what is going to happen in it.  It makes people go crazy!  But of course, I too, am a victim to it.  These kinds of tactics implemented on television are undeniably amusing.  But what I feel like most of my friends sitting in their apartment on a Netflix bender don’t realize, is the fact that these tactics also happen to be the DEFINITION of sports television.  

Oh, the drama!  

Basketball is my favorite.  You can theorize all you want, and root for one team all you want, but nobody truly knows the outcome of the game.  What is going to happen in between those four quarters, let alone in the season, let alone in the Championship Playoffs, is a complete mystery. And being invested in your special team makes all the difference when taking part in the journey of each season. Growing up in LA, I can reminisce on the glory of having Kobe Bryant on the Lakers.  The memories of success for our team in the 2010 Finals when we gruesomely battled the Boston Celtics. I want to remember it like it was yesterday.  This game–Game 7–meant everything, because it was yet another Lakers-Celtics Finals battle, one that Kobe was more desperate to win than ever.  He needed to win to stick it to the Celtics team that had embarrassed him two years earlier with a 4-2 series win, and a brutal 39-point victory in Game 6.  He also needed to show that he could beat his personal demons and hatred of the Celtics by winning it all himself.  No Shaq, no nothing.  Black Mamba only…he was such a devil.  Nobody has ever before seen such power, motivation, control, driven by such a force of hatred and evil.  He wanted to be the bad guy and he was.  

But despite this drive, the Lakers were struggling in the first half.  Kobe especially, with a horrid 6-for-24 shooting performance.  Los Angeles needed an answer and we needed it fast.

And there, in the blink of an eye, with only 60 seconds left in the final round, we saw a fucking miracle.  In what I would call a defining moment of my childhood, and simultaneously the defining moment of Ron Artest’s career, he rescued Kobe like Hercules and SUNK a 3-pointer over the outstretched hand of Paul Pierce. This was everything we needed to secure our second straight championship. 79-73. 

Moving to New York makes watching the game different. This is because moving from home to anywhere for that matter, sort of just makes things different.  But of course, a natural and necessary part of life is adjustment.  With adjustment comes a familiarity to the new, and with this familiarity comes a comfortability.  

Now, the Lakers are the third to last standing in performance this season. Have been for a few now.  

Now, I have to watch west coast games at 10pm because of the time difference, which makes for a 1 AM night, depending on overtime.

Now, the city that I live in represents two of the least interesting teams in my opinion.

But! I wouldn’t change a thing. Things just might change for me…and that’s okay.  

 

Luis

He’s somewhere between 4’11 and 5’2.  He has a shiny bald head thats contrasts his long, grey and white beard, frizzling outwards as if he accidentally put the whole thing on a candle, and it almost all burnt up, but not quite.   I’d actually say that I like his style, it’s kind of cool if you’re into giant loose t-shirts where the sleeves are so large that they pass as long sleeves. Usually a cap is thrown on his head, or a ratty jacket around his shoulders.  He wears glasses but they’re thin and clear… the real kicker are his eyes.  His eyes are huge and so very wide open at all times. His facial expression is pretty relaxed but his eyes are alert and looking everywhere, often making eye contact for long periods of time.  He almost looks like he’s frozen and he can’t move, but somehow isn’t freaking out about it.  Just sort of calm and collected, but physically frozen solid.  He stands like this, a gnome-y statue, in most every corner of the building.  He stands inside on the bottom floor and lingers near the elevator, he stands outside holding the door open (for no particular person).  Often he stands even farther away outside, leaning on a stoop or fire hydrant but not even smoking a cigarette or anything. Just hangin’. Standin’.  One time I was walking down the stairs from the 7th floor to the bottom one, and I passed him on the 3rd floor, sitting on the narrow hallway windowsill.  I said hello, to which he said nothing. Another time, some friends came over to eat Chinese takeout, and on our way out the door, a friend that had come with a friend saw him outside, leaning against the wall of the building.  I guess he tried to do a good deed, and held up his chinese takeout, with “here man, you want this?” Luis (that’s his name) looked at him in silence for a few seconds and said “No–in fact I live here,” clearly and rightfully offended.  But it isn’t being truthful to say that he doesn’t look exactly like the quintessential homeless man of your nightmares.

At this point, it probably sounds it sounds like I hate him.  However, what I have gained from observing this person from afar, is an acceptance of them, and ultimately a tolerability.  I would even go as far as to say an appreciation.  Not that I know Luis’ personality, and can name any qualities about him that seem appreciation-worthy.  Also, not that I think his complete silence and creepy eye contact as a response to my polite good mornings are appreciation-worthy, either.  I just think I have learned some things from living in New York since my move from LA. Sure there is such thing as a commute back home, but it’s primarily a solo one, to which you can get away with successfully not seeing another person in the flesh for an entire day if you wanted to. NYC is so different.  You can’t get away from anyone, let alone in the privacy of your own building.  However, it’s up to you if you want to be a miserable person, constantly annoyed by the presence of the inherent regulars in your life.  The thing about Luis is he’s creepy, but he brings no surprises.  Every day he has acted the same way, and I don’t believe he’ll ever change.  Luis will continue living his life the way he is and has, and it’s up to me to accept it, tolerate it, and possibly learn to enjoy it if I want to save myself from insanity.  I won’t say that Luis rocks, but I will be sure to give him a hello tomorrow morning, and don’t not look forward to it.

Response to Rosie Schaap

Of course I wasn’t here this past Tuesday where we discussed this Podcast portion in reference to the Danovich essay and the Danler excerpt, but I do have my two cents to put on this piece.

As for the beginning of the “Tough Room” podcast (although we weren’t supposed to listen to the whole thing) I started from 00.01.   Whether or not about Rosie Schaap or food all together, the central theme of this piece that echoes throughout is that notion of a meal being categorized by the way in which our emotions heighten it during the time in which we eat it.   In other words, its almost as if the food being eaten doesn’t matter how good or bad it is, but rather it is painted by the emotional experience we have eating it.  Although it isn’t mentioned for this assignment, the beginning of the piece talks about a “tough conversation” being had admits thanksgiving dinner.  The conversation regarded the outer appearance and possible generic features that led Osama Bid Laden to be considered attractive.  But, nonetheless the central theme rings true. In Rosie Schaap’s piece about her experience in the Bar Car as years younger than her peers, she speaks about her experience drinking painting the way she realizes others drinking in that very car.  While she tries to create her own business reading tarots in order to score herself a beer, it ends up nipping her in the butt the way that life does to an adult.  Her way of entry worked, “cultivating a look” that reached her audience, but the success of her idea darkened when she actually had a chance to talk with some of her clients.  The last client she speaks of is a man that is obnoxious and ultimately unimpressed by whatever she claims she can get out of her tarot readings.  However, when his tarots read negative and hit on tragic themes of life, the client breaks down and reveals certain parts of his life aren’t going smoothly.  Here, Rosie is able to realize that she isn’t cut out for this job that she is cutting herself out to be made for, and that she in fact isn’t ready for this adult world of confronting the hardships of relationships and reality.  Though they loved her youthful present and jokes, and though she loved to sound smart in front of stranger grown ups, she wasn’t ready to confront this world herself, and she never saw it again after that day, until she became an adult herself and reflect on her similarities to those people’s experiences.

*”It was gross but my kind of place”

What is a Meal?

A meal is most simply a food item or food item(s) that is made to eat, but more complexly (or more commonly) thought out to be a preparation of foods, usually accompanied by a setting.  By setting, I mean had with a group of other eating individuals that should be satisfying or fulfilling in some way. This is what separates the word “food” from the word “meal”. There is more of an element of satisfaction that should be involved in my opinion.  Food is a necessity for a living thing to continue on living, while a mea tends to be more of a luxury that does, however, contain food.

I like the idea of a meal being part of entire experience, often being painted by the way you feel the day or particular moment that they eat their meal.  With food, there is really no two cents about it: you eat it for survival– there isn’t much else to question.  However when you sit down to eat a meal, it can often be associated with many other feelings.  Such as reminiscence–conjuring up old memories or feelings of when or where you were when you last ate that meal.  Or, if you’re in a particular sour mood the moment that you’re set to eat your meal, its possible (probable) that it might not be that great.

While food is a necessity to eat, no qualms about it, a meal can often bring more baggage (good or bad), more emotional attachment to the setting in which you’re eating it.