Thursday, March 15, 2007

As Holly Golightly would say Quel day.
Up and running at crack of the dawning hour to see the smattering of snow.
I do not complain about snow, never - notez bien.
Skipped out to Park School to document a great keynote talk by brain and learning researcher (and pal of Tom Wolfe's, a point that perked up my small ears) Dr. Mel Levine who, apparently, has been on some of those self-help or book-help television shows.
Then onwards to park in the Hallwalls lot and catch the above-ground subway where it's gratis at West Tupper. I heard the helpful ringing bells that are rung maniacally to warn potentially off-kilter drivers, I presume, who are on verge of driving/diving down into the tunnel. This does happen periodically and Yours Truly follows these tales with intent, much like the stories of the bodies that turn up in the East River.
So on the above-ground subway I was.
Standing. Eavesdropping.
I heard a man at the back of the stench-ridden car telling a rapt femme about Lackawanna, how Lackawanna is a District of the Middling City.
And then his thoughts drifted to Converse Chuck Taylors the colour of pollution, deep black. And then he rambled about Bethlehem Steel and inter-racial strife.
I was on this stinkbomb, lest You wonder, as I was forewarned by those at the big U that, due to the NCAA proceedings, parking was nil.
I arrived and shot the heck out of the annual Match Day, an annual fav, whereby med students discover (via envelopes and computer print-outs) where they'll be jettisoning off to for the following year (definitely) and beyond.
There are squeals of delight, some grimaces, many draft pints of beer.
I was at the podium awaiting the onslaught and helped thee Dr. Nancy Nielsen shuffle all the envelopes so that they were no longer alphabetical as all the matchees are asked to drop a dollar in a basket and then the final matchee collects all the dough.
It is serious business. Maybe not as serious as the matching at hand. But really.
Traditions exist on all planes of import.

I am merrily chained to the laptop, editing like there is no tomorrow.
Tomorrow and tomorrow and tomorrow, happy Ides of March.

Watch your back, Love.

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