You've Got a Friend in Pennsylvania
June 21, 2005
I started this blog entry outside. It went something like this:
I am writing this outside. Therefore, this entry will have an entirely different character than if it were written inside. For one thing, I am writing it freehand, as opposed to typing. I had this writing class a few summers ago, "Releasing the Writer Within," and the teacher believed that really pure stream-of-consciousness writing only comes when pen hits paper. Typing is some how cheating. Whatever. I much prefer to spell check my consciousness, thank you very much.
That is as far as I got. I started staring off into space, literally, as the deep, blue heavens are very distracting. So, distracting, in fact, that it usually takes me a good half an hour before I noticed the roar of the exhaust fans from the Gorgeous New Gym sounding in my urban paradise. (But I digress.)
I firmly believe the blog entry would have a different character were it written outside, however. It's just nicer out there. The breeze in your hair, your bare feet on the (industrial, carpet-like) grass, the roar of the fan, it's city Zen, man.
Maybe I should get a laptop.
Anyway, I didn't have to accept rides from strangers to make it home to Boston. I did become acutely aware of my failings as a human being on the trip home, however. I think it had to do mostly with the airport delays. I sat in my hometown airport for an extra two hours, and then I sat in Pittsburgh for another 5 or so. Jolly good times. A bigger person than I would have been grateful that I flying out at all. But I, a small, angry person, was not. What pushed me over the edge were those "people mover" things. You know--they are like escalators, only flat.
I feel people should have to take a quiz before they are allowed to ride these. It would consist of a mere three (but telling) questions:
I am writing this outside. Therefore, this entry will have an entirely different character than if it were written inside. For one thing, I am writing it freehand, as opposed to typing. I had this writing class a few summers ago, "Releasing the Writer Within," and the teacher believed that really pure stream-of-consciousness writing only comes when pen hits paper. Typing is some how cheating. Whatever. I much prefer to spell check my consciousness, thank you very much.
That is as far as I got. I started staring off into space, literally, as the deep, blue heavens are very distracting. So, distracting, in fact, that it usually takes me a good half an hour before I noticed the roar of the exhaust fans from the Gorgeous New Gym sounding in my urban paradise. (But I digress.)
I firmly believe the blog entry would have a different character were it written outside, however. It's just nicer out there. The breeze in your hair, your bare feet on the (industrial, carpet-like) grass, the roar of the fan, it's city Zen, man.
Maybe I should get a laptop.
Anyway, I didn't have to accept rides from strangers to make it home to Boston. I did become acutely aware of my failings as a human being on the trip home, however. I think it had to do mostly with the airport delays. I sat in my hometown airport for an extra two hours, and then I sat in Pittsburgh for another 5 or so. Jolly good times. A bigger person than I would have been grateful that I flying out at all. But I, a small, angry person, was not. What pushed me over the edge were those "people mover" things. You know--they are like escalators, only flat.
I feel people should have to take a quiz before they are allowed to ride these. It would consist of a mere three (but telling) questions:
