the things you have to find [23 Jan 2008|10:30am] [ music | the greatest music station ever! ] A freshly made face and a steaming cup of honeyed lemon tea keep me company as I prepare to sign a contract that will help my search for gainful employment. The chance to use my latent legal background fills me with a silent thrill, more than preparing binding documents or drafting affidavits ever did. It’s good to know my education still sits within me, even if I don’t always use it. The other day, I had the hardest time remembering three types of white wine. The little catastrophe reminds me to keep reading and expanding my mind. As Augustine of Hippo says: “Take up and read, take up and read.” That was the single most influential piece of advice for my entire life, other than “Don’t whiz on the electric fence” (Ren and Stimpy) and “Be nice to nice people to people and punch the ones who aren’t” (Dad, misguided, but well-intended). My goals: read and hunt for employment, be industrious and inventive, exercise my body, make new friends and go on as many outings as possible, keep my house as kick-ass as it is, be a dangerous beauty now that I can wear whatever I want without fear of it being destroyed or causing jealousies, and listen to music always. I’ve discovered the greatest little radio station that segues from playing “Cry” by Dan Wilson to “The Bends” by Radiohead to “Southern Man” by Neil Young and Crazy Horse to “Stuttering” by Ben’s Brother to “Think I’m in Love” by Beck to “Solsbury Hill” by Peter Gabriel. It’s a beautiful little stew of sounds and influences, which is how I like my music. I’m not hip or particular with my tastes; I just know what my body likes. My body likes music the most. Music, my constant companion and teacher, has been with me longer than any other influence, except perhaps my parents. My mother would argue this, as she played music for me in utero. She says I gave a little wild-pony kick when she played the Beatles. I still kick around when JohnPaulGeorgeandRingo work their psychedelic magic (“She’s So Heavy” is particularly notable for this). Another discovery is my favourite pierogi place. I’ve been told finding a pierogi joint is instrumental to becoming a Philadelphian. In the Southwest, it’s all about fry bread and Navajo tacos; in Chicago, it’s the Vienna hotdog; in Seattle, it’s vegan baked goods; and in Virginia it’s seafood bisque. Some would say that Philadelphia’s claim to epicurean cultural fame is the cheese steak, but I say boo on that. (The spirit of every grandpa that ever said, “Youse” for you has just come to haunt me for the duration of my stay here.) The pierogi is where it’s at. The pierogi is more complex and nutritious than a hoagie or cheese steak (and what’s with this city’s love for foods that possess the ee sound?). It is harder to make well. It’s got a blurry history, one that Polish babas and Czech grannies both claim. Me, I like anything with wheat flour, potatoes, and sour cream. Plus, it's got a lot of similarities with the Italian ravioli or the gyoza that I like having as an appetiser when I go for sushi. This particular pierogi place has won awards and looks like the type of nondescript joint that ends up being five scoops of awesome; they had boxes and boxes of fresh cabbage in the front window, as if to say, “We are so good that we don’t give a damn if you see what we use in these here pierogi.” I tried to go there for about a week, but it was closed. Then, there was the pesky way I had of forgetting its name (Pierogi Heaven was a favourite mistaken appellation). But last night, I finally found my pierogi place, and guess what? I’m going to walk on down there for lunch—after I sign this contract, lasso a job, do my pretty dishes, take out the recycling, and listen to twenty songs that aren’t by Oasis. Life to pierogis everywhere! J-cat 7 comments|post comment

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