September 27, 2012
So, the following is a fifteen minute free write describing Amsterdam's red light district. (This is totally un-edited, raw Lindsay writing so...be gentle.)
I don't remember Barbie looking like this. The box is too big, the outside edge is too dark or too bright, and the girl inside is too unhappy. Probably because she is too alive. The Barbie boxes are lined up; the collection twists and turns so that one is never sure where is the beginning or the end. Even though the Barbies are in good company, each one seems lonely in her encasement.
Their collector must have been very persistent and dedicated because their diversity is unparalleled. There is Sailor Barbie, Beach Body Barbie, Nurse Barbie, Texting Barbie, Healthy Eating Barbie, etc. There are even a few Kens dressed as Barbie, which were probably limited edition or something.
I used to think that Barbies were just for little girls, but these dolls are much more appealing to boys. Perhaps they like that they are more bendable, movable, and changeable than their plastic counterparts. The boys are drawn in by the clear glass and the bright red box. They want to rip open the packaging that separates them from ripping open another kind of packaging. The Barbies encourage the boys' curiosity, inviting them in to play. Some girls take part in the Barbies' games too. The Barbies are flexible, so they don't mind.
Even though the children are allowed to play with the Barbies, they must not disturb the collection. They close the package when they are done, walk away, and let someone else have a turn.
Thursday, September 27, 2012
Tuesday, September 25, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- iamsterdam
September 23, 2012
On a scale of one to Sleeping Beauty, I'm actually too tired to think of something clever to finish this sentence. After a weekend in Amsterdam, "exhaustion" is the word of the evening, and sweater pants is the style of the moment. (Tales of my latest and greatest fashion selection are in my next blog post.) I spent 72 hours in Amsterdam and came out the other end smelling like...well, not like roses, that's for sure.
Between the millions of similar looking canals, conspicuously placed street signs, elusive night buses, and rampant bikers, I'm actually quite surprised and proud that we made it out alive. The obnoxious Americans survived Amsterdam, or perhaps Amsterdam survived us? Jury's still out on that one, but boy did we have fun.
Our first day began with a walking tour of the city. Taking the scenic route, we meandered through the red light district. The prostitutes were kind enough to teach us some valuable lessons:
1. The attractive prostitutes do not work the day shift.
2. Don't take pictures of prostitutes unless you are prepared to buy them.
3. Even though the Netherlands is a super progressive country, some prostitutes are not fond of the idea of lesbian encounters and will express their distaste by hurling a half-full can of red bull at unsuspecting and stupid college kids.
(In case anyone is wondering, it wasn't me who took a picture of the prostitute. I was just behind the person who took a picture of the prostitute and got the shit scared out of me when she was almost hit by the red bull can. Along with the shot of energy, the prostitute had some other parting advice for us, which is too inappropriate to repeat, even on this blog.)
As a lover of walking tours, I was totally into the entire experience. However, even as I enjoyed and took in everything we were seeing and learning, I don't know how much of it I actually retained. Here's the thing about Amsterdam: it all kind of looks the same. There are dozens of canals and hundreds of bridges over these canals, which after a while just gave me the feeling of being on a really long, really dry ride at a water park.
Luckily, there were two large squares that we used as landmarks. One was Dam Square and the other was Rembrandt Square. Dam Square was the big tourist center of the city, probably because of its giant palace and access to the red light district.
Because we were in a huge ass school group of more than eighty people, Dam Square became our default meeting place. It was here that we were later separated into smaller groups to visit the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam's largest (and only?) art museum.
At the Rijksmuseum, we were guided by one of Emerson's professors who highlighted various pieces of art. She
explained their techniques, content, and history, which I found to be very interesting. A lot of people do not like to be guided around art museums, but, when it comes to classical art, I don't know how to appreciate it unless I know the biblical backstory and the artistic technique. I'm one of those people who judges art based on its amount of original content. In conventional art, there isn't a whole lot of this, except in technique. However, I am a painting ignoramus; so I really appreciated learning about the specific techniques of different artists.
Even with all the classical art, my favorite one was a piece of modern art that doubled as a lobby decoration. Called "Grandfather Clock," this piece was a literal clock with a man's face for the face. Well, technically, it was a video of a man's face, and the face itself was blurred behind the frosted glass. The artist, who I'm guessing is also the man "in the clock," would change the time by drawing a new arrow for the minute hand every minute (duh) and a new arrow for the hour hand every hour (also duh). I was taken in by the innovation, execution, and total concept of this piece. I kinda sorta fell in love with it. And when I thought about the time and dedication it must have taken to film those original twelve hours of drawing and erasing, my appreciation doubled. Eat your heart out, Rembrandt. (Of course, this is the one thing I didn't take a picture of, because I'm an idiot.)
Anyway, I'd like to tell you more about my trip but you've read a lot already...and this is the internet. Some stories are not meant for the internet. Whatever happened to the oral tradition? I make a formal motion to bring it back. If you're also in favor, you know how to reach me. And maybe, after a long discussion about the importance of rhetoric, we can initiate our new practice with a couple of stories...
On a scale of one to Sleeping Beauty, I'm actually too tired to think of something clever to finish this sentence. After a weekend in Amsterdam, "exhaustion" is the word of the evening, and sweater pants is the style of the moment. (Tales of my latest and greatest fashion selection are in my next blog post.) I spent 72 hours in Amsterdam and came out the other end smelling like...well, not like roses, that's for sure.
 |
 |
| So. Many. Bikes. |
1. The attractive prostitutes do not work the day shift.
2. Don't take pictures of prostitutes unless you are prepared to buy them.
3. Even though the Netherlands is a super progressive country, some prostitutes are not fond of the idea of lesbian encounters and will express their distaste by hurling a half-full can of red bull at unsuspecting and stupid college kids.
(In case anyone is wondering, it wasn't me who took a picture of the prostitute. I was just behind the person who took a picture of the prostitute and got the shit scared out of me when she was almost hit by the red bull can. Along with the shot of energy, the prostitute had some other parting advice for us, which is too inappropriate to repeat, even on this blog.)
As a lover of walking tours, I was totally into the entire experience. However, even as I enjoyed and took in everything we were seeing and learning, I don't know how much of it I actually retained. Here's the thing about Amsterdam: it all kind of looks the same. There are dozens of canals and hundreds of bridges over these canals, which after a while just gave me the feeling of being on a really long, really dry ride at a water park.
 |
| You see what I mean? Beautiful, but similar... |
Luckily, there were two large squares that we used as landmarks. One was Dam Square and the other was Rembrandt Square. Dam Square was the big tourist center of the city, probably because of its giant palace and access to the red light district.
 |
| This is the palace. I don't know how to take straight pictures, apparently. |
 |
| This is either the backside of the palace, or a completely different palace altogether. I'm really bad at this. |
Because we were in a huge ass school group of more than eighty people, Dam Square became our default meeting place. It was here that we were later separated into smaller groups to visit the Rijksmuseum, Amsterdam's largest (and only?) art museum.
 |
| A self-portrait of Rembrandt |
 |
| I honestly don't remember the historical event portrayed in this painting or the identity of the artist responsible for it. |
At the Rijksmuseum, we were guided by one of Emerson's professors who highlighted various pieces of art. She
explained their techniques, content, and history, which I found to be very interesting. A lot of people do not like to be guided around art museums, but, when it comes to classical art, I don't know how to appreciate it unless I know the biblical backstory and the artistic technique. I'm one of those people who judges art based on its amount of original content. In conventional art, there isn't a whole lot of this, except in technique. However, I am a painting ignoramus; so I really appreciated learning about the specific techniques of different artists.
Even with all the classical art, my favorite one was a piece of modern art that doubled as a lobby decoration. Called "Grandfather Clock," this piece was a literal clock with a man's face for the face. Well, technically, it was a video of a man's face, and the face itself was blurred behind the frosted glass. The artist, who I'm guessing is also the man "in the clock," would change the time by drawing a new arrow for the minute hand every minute (duh) and a new arrow for the hour hand every hour (also duh). I was taken in by the innovation, execution, and total concept of this piece. I kinda sorta fell in love with it. And when I thought about the time and dedication it must have taken to film those original twelve hours of drawing and erasing, my appreciation doubled. Eat your heart out, Rembrandt. (Of course, this is the one thing I didn't take a picture of, because I'm an idiot.)
Anyway, I'd like to tell you more about my trip but you've read a lot already...and this is the internet. Some stories are not meant for the internet. Whatever happened to the oral tradition? I make a formal motion to bring it back. If you're also in favor, you know how to reach me. And maybe, after a long discussion about the importance of rhetoric, we can initiate our new practice with a couple of stories...
Friday, September 14, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- Checking In
September 14, 2012
Today, I arrived in the Netherlands and moved into the castle. (See how I slipped that in there, so nonchalantly?)
I also wrote my parents an e-mail to let them know that I was alive. I wanted to express how much I loved my room (IN THE TOWER OF THE CASTLE), so I began the letter in the vein of one of my family's favorite musicals. Then, I realized that once I finished my e-mail I would have to do real work, so it evolved into this:
Dearest darlingest Momsie and Popsicle,
Today, I arrived in the Netherlands and moved into the castle. (See how I slipped that in there, so nonchalantly?)
I also wrote my parents an e-mail to let them know that I was alive. I wanted to express how much I loved my room (IN THE TOWER OF THE CASTLE), so I began the letter in the vein of one of my family's favorite musicals. Then, I realized that once I finished my e-mail I would have to do real work, so it evolved into this:
Dearest darlingest Momsie and Popsicle,
There's been no confusion over rooming here at Well
But of course, I'll care for my health
But of course, I already love it
For I know that's how you'd want me to respond, yes
There's been no confusion
For you see, my room is an
Unusually and exceedingly beautiful
And altogether quite impossible to describe
QUAD.
What is this feeling?
So sudden and new
I felt the moment
I opened the door
My floor is wooden
My bed is lofted
They gave me flatware
What is this feeling?
Fervid as a flame
Does it have a name?
Yessssss
LOVING
UNADULTERATED LOVING
For the walls
The floor
The windows
Let's just say-- I love it all
Every little trait however small
Makes my very eyes begin to bawl (with tears of joy)
With simple utter loving
There's a strange exhilaration
In such fulfilled expectation
It's so pure, so strong!
Though I do admit it came on fast,
Still I do believe that it can last
And I will be loving
Loving my room
The whole semester long!
Love,
Lindsay
Thursday, September 13, 2012
#LINVASION European Edition -- My Apology Letter
September 13, 2012
Dear Europe,
I would like to take this moment to formally apologize for all the future incidents that will occur on your soil. I truly am sorry for the ease with which I will take advantage of all the new legal things that I can do. For example, we both know your alcohol policy and my alcohol tolerance. Consequently, I sincerely regret all the times that I will drunkenly jaywalk. I express remorse for peeing in all the places that I'm sure say in another language that you're not supposed to pee in them. And I know that if I ever get in trouble for doing this, I'm going to plead the ignorant fifth and act really cute and dumb, even though I knew what I was doing the entire time. I'm especially apologetic to all the beautiful, foreign boys who will (hopefully) buy me drinks and receive nothing in return. (Okay, I'm not really that sorry about this one.)
I'm also really sorry for breaking and/or otherwise ruining nice European things, which will probably happen on a daily basis. (I have a dishwashing job at the castle, and I hope to God they use plastic.) I should also probably say something to all of the restaurants for putting up with my weird, veghead requests. I know the language barrier isn't going to help, but at least I can spit out "Je suis vegetarienne" pretty coherently.
This apology letter should probably be longer, but I've got a trial and error enthusiasm. I'd like to give you time to guard yourselves against all the trouble that I am going to cause, but you just can't plan a shit show. Hurricane Lindsay is coming to Europe, and if the Eiffel Tower is still standing after I leave...I've done us both a great disservice.
Yours Truly,
Lindsay Marion Geller, The First
Dear Europe,
I would like to take this moment to formally apologize for all the future incidents that will occur on your soil. I truly am sorry for the ease with which I will take advantage of all the new legal things that I can do. For example, we both know your alcohol policy and my alcohol tolerance. Consequently, I sincerely regret all the times that I will drunkenly jaywalk. I express remorse for peeing in all the places that I'm sure say in another language that you're not supposed to pee in them. And I know that if I ever get in trouble for doing this, I'm going to plead the ignorant fifth and act really cute and dumb, even though I knew what I was doing the entire time. I'm especially apologetic to all the beautiful, foreign boys who will (hopefully) buy me drinks and receive nothing in return. (Okay, I'm not really that sorry about this one.)
I'm also really sorry for breaking and/or otherwise ruining nice European things, which will probably happen on a daily basis. (I have a dishwashing job at the castle, and I hope to God they use plastic.) I should also probably say something to all of the restaurants for putting up with my weird, veghead requests. I know the language barrier isn't going to help, but at least I can spit out "Je suis vegetarienne" pretty coherently.
This apology letter should probably be longer, but I've got a trial and error enthusiasm. I'd like to give you time to guard yourselves against all the trouble that I am going to cause, but you just can't plan a shit show. Hurricane Lindsay is coming to Europe, and if the Eiffel Tower is still standing after I leave...I've done us both a great disservice.
Yours Truly,
Lindsay Marion Geller, The First
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