How to Win Friends and Influence People

1. Start drinking beer in the afternoon because you can. Wonder vaguely about how you're going to get dinner that night.

2. When your roommate, whom you've just met, comes home with her bf and a chum, drink more beer with them in an effort to make friends. Note that the beer is awfully filling, and that you might not need solid food after all. Celebrate this discovery with more beer.

3. Walk with your new friends, open beers in hand, to a party to which none of you have been invited. Bring random foodstuffs--a pineapple, a bag of Cheetos--to guilt the hosts into letting you in, and thereby exacerbate the awkwardness.

4. Drink more.

5. Watch the two girls that are in the pool--in their swimsuits--and ask if you can jump in too. Then, take off your jeans, and jump in in your shirt and underwear. Ask someone to bring you more alcohol so you can drink while in the pool.

6. Splash random people.

7. Once you've had enough, jump out of the pool, put your jeans back on, inside out, hugging your hips but completely unzipped. Take care not to notice this state of affairs until several people point it out to you.

8. Walk home, pants askew, with roommate and other party-crashers. Somehow stumble into a conversation where you learn ENTIRELY TOO MUCH about your roommate's love life, and a few minutes later ask the bf several embarassing questions about the secrets just divulged.

9. With your brain soaked in liquid philosophy, discuss circumcision.

10. Pass out at ten o'clock.

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Thank God Almighty, I'm Free at Last

After the BF said "It's over," we had another conversation that wasn't too promising, and then he said, "Let's talk on Saturday." I suspect that he's putting it off b/c he has dissertation stuff to do, but I also think he's going to a.) say he overreacted, apologize, and still somehow try to find a way to blame everything on me; or, b.) stubbornly say that everything he does is fine, and demand that I apologize or make some sort of promise to be perfect, on the threat that he'll break up with me otherwise. I, however, have decided that I'm tired of this, and I hope he finds a perfect woman that can wait on him, hand-and-foot. He said it's over, so it's over. He got what he wanted, so I hope he's happy.

This decision has made me feel very free, hence the MLK Jr. quote. I thought that posting a pic of the man himself--and thus drawing a parallel between the Civil Rights Movement and my personal life--would be self-aggrandizing and tacky, so instead you're looking at a stately Lincoln Memorial. If you haven't visited DC, the Lincoln Memorial is probably one of the few things that will surpass your expectations (just don't go on a weekend--tourists will be under your foot like maggots). The White House is disappointingly small, the Smithsonians have too much info and will make your eyes glaze over, the Washington Memorial says nothing about Washingotn, but the Lincoln Memorial is bigger than you can imagine and has a dignity you generally associate with Abe. Boyfriends come and go, but Abe is, as the kids say, my boy foreva. Not many railsplitters could turn a phrase like Abe.

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Compartmentalization

Okay kiddies, I'm telling y'all this to get it out of my system, so I can get on with the work I have to do: Yesterday the bf sent me a wonderful present, a picture of two otters. He knows that I love otters, especially after watching that YouTube video where the baby otters hold hands in the water. Anyway, this morning he and I got into it over somehting relatively minor--he was trying to micromanage how I study, I told him to back off, he didn't--and then he said that "it was over." I'm not sure how I'm supposed to take this. Is it really over or did he say something he didn't mean? I have no idea. He said it to me a couple hours before my class, and I didn't have time to argue or get upset. I had to get my reading done. I have resolved not to answer any phone calls from him until I get home to Nashville. If he's sorry and wants to atone, he can wait.

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You Kant Always Get What You Want

So I've been at this academic conference at Vanderbilt University, discussing, (believe it or not) the "Souls of Brutes and Stupid Things." We're essentially studying the difference between a "person" and a "thing" and how these boundaries get blurred. Anyway, I'm sure that Kant has plenty to say about this, but, alas, it's KANT, which means I CAN'T UNDERSTAND A DAMN WORD. So, for any of you thinking that I'm spending my time exploring Nashville, buying Western-style kitsch, think again. I will buy kitsch before I leave (yay rhinestones!), but for now, it's all Kant all the time. Sigh.

(Ten points if you can figure out the connection between the title and the picture that accompany this post.)

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The Parrot Cage

In my latest effort at finding nice restaurants on the South Side, I happened upon the Parrot Cage Restaurant. It's located on 71st and South Shore drive, an otherwise dreary intersection, in the South Shore Cultural Center. (When the BF and I took the 6 southbound at 7 pm, one nice black lady said, "You know you're going south, right? Take care!") But forget the inauspicious surroundings--once you walk past the topiary gardens in the driveway, you can admire the pastel-colored opulence of the building. Its elaborately painted woodwork makes one think of a ballroom in a Southern cotillion. When you walk inside the Parrot Cage, the same old-fashioned fanciness is appealing but intimidating at the same time; the hostesses were very nice to us though, and assured us we were not underdressed.

The food was good, though I had the filet mignon, and generally I'm happy with any piece of meat served rare with peppercorns. The BF was less impressed with his rack of lamb, and while the raspberry tart was nice, the mango sorbet was, well, mango sorbet. The food is prepared by students from the Washburne Culinary School, which is one of the reasons why when you order a filet mignon, the Parrot Cage will charge ten dollars less than would a place downtown. On the whole, though, our dinner was on par with what I've had at La Petit Folie in Hyde Park, and slightly less expensive.

Our server was charming and helpful, though sadly he was not versed on the restaurant's history (online restaurant reviews are fond of saying that it's called the Parrot Cage because of the monk parakeets that have taken roost in Hyde Park). On our way out one of the hostesses claimed that the parakeets were "Mr. Farrakhan's parrots. He set them free." I think that this is an apocryphal explanation for the Hyde Park parakeets, but the story was still entertaining.

When I talk about restaurants on this blog, I tend to dedicate very little space to the food. I love food, but i'm not a foodie, and when I visit a new restaurant, the most fun aspect of it for me is the process of finding a place my friends don't know about. I'm happy I found a restaurant that is not only a level or two above what we have in Hyde Park, but also relatively close by. Who needs to trek to the North Side when the 6 Southbound can take you somewhere nice?

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