Shirley the elephant. Source: The Elephant Sanctuary

I’m a sucker for a heart-wrenching animal story. I mean, who isn’t? What kind of person doesn’t tear up at a sweet animal story? Take, for example, the story of Shirley (via Geek Culture): Part 1, Part 2, and an update.

Two things struck me about this video, and it got me thinking about animal stories, particularly in the” internet age.”

First, I felt moved by the relationship between Shirley the elephant and Solomon James, her keeper. It’s clear to viewers that he really, really loves that elephant. However, we don’t really know much about him, aside from his relationship with Shirley. Has he struggled in the same way Shirley has, or in different ways, or not at all? What happens after Shirley moves to the sanctuary? [1] What role does he play in the story of Shirley as Nature presents it?

Second, I found myself completely buying the arc of Shirley’s story as just so, well, familiar. It was easy for me to see Shirley as a person who experienced early enslavement and (probably) abuse in the circus, culminating in an attack from another elephant, then rescue and life in a small zoo with a loving caretaker, and, finally, the twin experiences of freedom and friendship in the sanctuary. Anthropomorphizing Shirley is a way to get us viewers to engage more deeply with her story and, perhaps more importantly, with the key themes the story presents: freedom, friendship, care, and love.

I also noted a subtle (or not-so-subtle) representation of the experience of slavery. If you’ve watched the videos, you might have spotted a moment when the camera focuses on James–an African-American man–setting down Shirley’s chains. One of the most touching moments is when James says, “I don’t know who put the first chain on her, but I’m glad to know I’m the last one to take it off.” What we are meant to experience as viewers is the feeling of freedom, the fact that Shirley has arrived there, but we aren’t meant to think about who perpetrated her original capture, or whether there are any lingering effects from those experiences. If we’re supposed to overlay Shirley’s story on the experience of race in the U.S., the message we get (intentional or otherwise) is: we’ve arrived at freedom, and we can all be friends now.

To be clear, I’m not suggesting that telling Shirley’s story is wrong, or that we shouldn’t feel happy or sad or angry about Shirley’s particular experience. It engaged me, and I’m fairly sure it has done the same for you. I’m not opposed to anthropomorphizing animals, as a check of my Facebook posts surely indicates. I am, however, raising the usual questions about how and why we tell stories about animals. In particular, I wonder:

• Do animals have emotions? I say yes, definitely, but, as a sociologist, the question that immediately arises for me is: how do we know? And what does the process of reading particular emotions into animal behaviors do for us as humans individually, as communities, as nations, and across the world?
• What kinds of stories are told and re-told, and what kinds of stories (or what aspects of stories) remain invisible?
• Speaking of nations, are there particular animal-related stories that resonate in an American context that simply wouldn’t work in other national contexts? Why and how? As a dog owner, I can’t help but think of Pit Bull rescue stories, in particular.
• Are there animals into which we wouldn’t read emotion? Sneaky snakes [2], perhaps? Why? What makes some animals worthy of our affection?
• What does “real” friendship mean? Freedom? Love and care? How do we identify it?
• What happens when we watch these videos individually? And what happens when we share them?
• Perhaps most importantly, for me, how do we think critically about stories that tug so firmly at our heartstrings?

To sum up, I (and others [3]) propose that emotions do something at levels beyond our individual experience. The question becomes: what do they do and why? It’s especially important to think about the social dimensions of emotions these days, given that affective experience can be shared so rapidly via the internet, social networking tools, etc. etc. I wonder whether there is something unique about this moment, given that I can post this video in whatever feed/stream/wall forum that works for me, and friends and I can nearly instantaneously feel a shared sense of warmth. I guess it’s worth framing (yet another) question: really, does technology [4] change the way we experience emotions?

I’d be interested to know: how did you feel when watching the Shirley story? Why?

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[1] Apparently, he retired in 2007.

[2] This story has been all over the news lately, and I can’t get “Sneaky Snake” out of my head!

[3] Most famously in sociology, Arlie Russell Hochschild coined the concept of “emotional labor,” which is worth considering the next time you visit the checkout at the grocery store.

[4] It’s interesting to think about what we mean by “technology.” I’m increasingly weary (and leery) of folks decrying the death of everything at the hands of technology. Technology isn’t a new thing, people. For example, I wonder how the collective experience of emotion changed with the advent of the telephone. Electricity. The printing press. Paper. Heck, even the wheel. What’s different about technology today (perhaps) is the speed at which things are changing, and that, I think, is worth exploring. [5]

[5] Although I’m not totally convinced that every era doesn’t consider itself a time of rapid technological change. What about the 1920′s? Post-WII? Weren’t those also times of accelerated technological development?

10 abstract things for which I am grateful

1. health care: by which I don’t mean health insurance (although I suppose that’s a handy thing to have, as minimal as it is). If I had my way, health insurance would be provided by the government, like it is in other, saner countries. Political fist-shaking aside, I’m grateful for the human quality of caring for each other. I appreciate the kindness with which the best health care professionals treat people in difficult, vulnerable circumstances. This comforting quality is by no means a sure thing; I’ve experienced health care professionals who treat their clients little better than cattle, or machines on an assembly line. This year, though, I feel I’ve seen the very best of human caring and dignity in the way that people work to improve the health of others.
2. embodiment: After 30 years on the planet, I’m finally moving toward an uneasy peace with my body. It’s an ongoing process, to be sure, but I feel I’ve more or less effectively fought off the self-loathing that seems to come packaged with being a woman in America. I’ve started to enjoy experiencing the world through my body, through those five senses they teach you about in elementary school. Remember those? Brilliant sight? Beautiful sound? Glorious taste? Underrated smell? And provocative touch? This whole Cartesian mind-body separation business, I’m coming to realize, is crap. Took me long enough. And, now, I’m beginning to revel in experiencing the world around me through my own mediating mechanism: my body.
3. dreams: Yes, it’s true, I have dreams. Big dreams for the kind of research I want to do, the kind of teacher I want to be, the kind of social citizenry I want to enact. I’m thankful for their motivating power, for their grandiosity, and for their ability to generate a sense of hope. I’m also talking about the sleepy-time dreams, the ones that creep in and allow my brain to work through whatever it needs to work through. This year, I’ve had some crazy, complicated, confusing dreams, some apocalyptic, some scary, and all extremely vivid. I’m grateful for those, too, even though I don’t understand them all. I sense that I’m not meant to, and sitting with this tenuousness, this uncertainty has been strangely productive for me this year.
4. music: Who isn’t grateful for music, really? I know I’m unremarkable for being thankful for the existence of music in the world, but it’s how I feel. Music is pure bliss, therapy, anchoring, emotional, and ultimately life-changing, moment by moment. I think I can honestly assert that there isn’t a single genre of music I actively avoid (contemporary country is even growing on me, like a saccharine kind of tumor). I’m even grateful for Wham’s “Last Christmas” and the horrible, horrible covers therein, broadcast seemingly without cease in every public locale… although I’ll be equally thankful when the holiday season is over, and that Eminem/Rihanna song makes the rounds YET AGAIN.
5. friendships: Before moving to the midwest, I had a vague idea that I’d be forming new friendships, but I had no idea how that process would occur or what they would look like. I also knew I’d be leaving behind some strong relationships, and that those relationships would be unavoidably altered by the change in physical proximity. This year, I’m thankful for friendships on at least three levels: first, I’m grateful for the friendships I’ve enjoyed, ones that may well fall by the wayside as we move into separate directions. I admit that I feel a little guilty at my inability to maintain every wonderful friendship from my previous life, but I hope my friends realize that it’s not for a lack of love that I haven’t been in touch as much as I should. Second, I appreciate the friendships that we maintain, admittedly in altered states, for their continuing power and affection. Finally, I am so very thankful for the new friendships forged seemingly out of nothingness, out of air, into something solid yet malleable, warm, and light-giving, like the birth of a new star. And I apologize for the astronomical metaphors. That’s what you get in a friendship with me.
6. resilience: When I think of resilience, I think of shape-shifters, which makes me think of a character from Star Trek: Deep Space Nine. Yes, I mean Odo. Now, I haven’t watched much of DSN (relative to TNG, anyway, and if you need to ask about the acronyms, it’s best if you just skip ahead to item #7), but Odo’s ability to physically adapt to given environs and situations seems to be an apt metaphor to my and others’ ability to morph in/around the very different and difficult circumstances in which we’ve found ourselves this year. We’ve been able to persist in some kind of consistent form, albeit slightly changed each time, and the fact that we’re still breathing is nothing short of remarkable.
7. humility: This year, perhaps more than any other, my wee ego has taken quite a wallop. Not that I had the strongest ego prior to this year, mind you. But I think there’s something to be said for extreme life changes and their ability to remind me to be humble in my orientation toward my work, my relationships, and my world. This is not to say that I think I should be filled with self-doubt, on the one hand, or convinced of my abject greatness, on the other. Rather, perhaps there’s a kind of “middle way” of humility where I feel certain of myself yet open to the possibility of being wrong, of changing.
8. process: “Process” is certainly an over-used word in academic environments. Yet I’ve found much comfort in the power of process: that is, letting change happen the way it’s going to happen. It’s following the steps, in a sense. At this point, I can’t imagine exactly what my professional life will be in the next decade, but I think that, if I remain attentive to the process, things will work out as best they can. I’m thankful for the rotating gears of process, for the idea that, if I can turn this one cog one click forward, the momentum of the great, complicated, unpredictable machine in which I’m enmeshed will move me along to where I’m supposed to be. Process reminds me that I both am and am not in control of my life, and that ends are achievable only by taking the smallest measures in the here and now.
9. technology: Speaking of complicated, unpredictable machines, I’m grateful for technology. Sure, I’m thankful for technology as a tool of communication, but I’m even more in awe of the idea of technology as future. Technology seems to be one way in which we project ourselves forward–for better or worse–as we grapple awkwardly with the elements to make connections. When I say I’m grateful for technology, I mean I’m really grateful for the ongoing project of building better futures together.
   
10. wonder: Finally, I’m grateful for a sense of wonder about the world. I think the death of wonder signals the death of the soul and, conversely, inculcating a sense of wonder in the simplest, everyday experiences has enriched my soul over the course of the year. I think all of the aforementioned abstract “things” for which I’m thankful can be folded into this overarching concept. I’m hopeful that the process of making an academic out of me doesn’t flatten this sense of wonder into something automatically empirical. I intend to continue approaching research questions, relationship questions, and Big World Perspective questions by starting with the simple, reflective phrase: “I wonder…”

10 concrete things for which I am grateful

1. Melanie: for being my strong, loving, brilliant partner and joining me in this crazy, life-altering leap into the great unknown.
2. Netflix: for making such awesome classics as Carl Sagan’s Cosmos and episodes of Buffy available at all hours.
3. the state of Massachusetts: for allowing #1 and I to legally marry.
   
4. Northwestern’s Gender Cluster Fellowship: for exhibiting belief in my ability to be successful by giving me money.
5. zencast: for helping me roll with the punches.
6. Bon Iver: for producing simultaneously searing and uplifting music that has, at times, felt as sustaining as my own blood.
7. the el: for allowing me a physical space to think, observe, and travel.
8. Hecky’s: for BBQ.
9. Raewyn Connell: for reminding me that becoming entrenched in your disciplinary perspective is dangerous, and for continuing to create spaces for intellectual openness and the ability to change one’s mind.
10. my cohort: for being intelligent, sassy, hilarious, supportive, and challenging colleagues and friends. I can’t wait to hear what you have to say in the coming years. And maybe I’ll even hug one or two of you before we graduate.

/*holiday cheese-fest complete*/

I’m finding that gender is expressed way, way differently out here in the midwest, relative to my old home in Maine. It may well be the places I’m hanging these days, but there seems to be a serious lack of genderqueer or at least andro people in my immediate environs. I really miss seeing people whose gender challenges those assumed female/male binaries. Gender is just so much more extreme here, and it feels like most people have located themselves firmly in either the chick camp or the dude camp. I don’t like camp. I never went to camp.

That said, I don’t challenges folks’ right to express their own gender any way they durn well please. Maybe I just miss my friends. But I think there’s something more to it than that. I think there may well be something different about the way people express gender here.

For my part, I think I’ve committed to a fairly butch gender expression because it’s closest to feeling “right” to me, on most days. However, choosing a particular gender expression and sticking with it is fraught with all kinds of issues, too. I think I’ve historically chosen a fairly middle-of-the-road kind of gender presentation, in the past. Still, at least two kinds of comments have plagued me since I started presenting in a more gender-neutral way. I’ll outline them briefly.

The “you have legs!” phenomenon

Shocking though it may sound, I do indeed have legs, and folks occasionally see them when I’m wearing a [gasp!] skirt. I like my legs, and I occasionally like to wear skirts, which allow my legs to have some exposure to the actual air. In and of itself, this wouldn’t seem to be a problem. But people in my life seem to have grown accustomed to seeing me present my gender in a particular way, and when I make a choice that challenges or tweaks this presentation, someone always makes a crack. “Oh, you have legs!” or “Don’t you look nice!” are comments that make me feel like a) people don’t generally think I look nice when I’m presenting toward the butch end of the spectrum, b) wearing clothes that match my biological sex is the only way to look like I “should,” and c) people shouldn’t comment on my GD gender expression, anyway.

The “oh, I don’t really think of you as a woman” phenomenon

This kind of comment has really bothered me, and, interestingly, it always comes from my guy friends. What does it mean? If I’m not a woman, what am I? A man? Are those the only options afforded to me? In some ways, I think they mean it as a kind of compliment, suggesting that they don’t think of me as though I’m a [lowly] woman, but the effect is seriously insulting and a shade shy of misogynistic. The fact of the matter is that I am a woman, I’m comfortable with myself as a woman, and I do indeed want people to see me as a woman, regardless of whether I’m wearing a suit and tie or a miniskirt.

Note to self: purchase more ties. And a miniskirt.

Now comes the whiny part: why, people?!? Why can’t I have unfettered access to a range of gender expressions? I want to be seen as beautiful and handsome. I want to be seen as cute and hot. I want to wear a suit and tie one day, a skirt the next, and not have anybody blink. I want to feel right when I’m wearing androgynous clothing, as well as butch and femme clothing, too. I recognize that this is not entirely possible in the kind of gender system I inhabit, though.

Perhaps the solution is to wear what makes me feel awesome and to hell with how people respond. Maybe it really has taken me until now to kinda figure that out. Which sounds strange, for someone who studies gender. Maybe I’ll mull it over and try playing with my gender expression a little more, because it’s fun, and because it feels right to me. And just to be clear: I do want people to tell me I look nice, I just don’t want it to be limited to the days when my presentation matches my biological sex.

One thing I refuse to do, though, is to wear heels. That would just make me freakishly tall. Plus, I care way too much about comfort to teeter around on those things. That said: anyone want to buy me these boots? I think they’d look really hot on me, don’t you?

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This video is part of what got me thinking about gender expression today. It’s well worth the watch, if you have 8 minutes or so.

Knitted brain by Ben Cuevas, via Craft magazine

Wooden Hubble telescope by Peter Hennessey, via Craft magazine

Beaded mathematical models by Bih-Yaw Jin, again via Craft magazine

I don’t have much of interest to say really about any of these items beyond a simplistic How cool! On the other hand, there must be something to be found at this intersection between science and art. Why is the idea of a knitted brain just so fascinating–not just to me? Maybe it’s about the process of making the ordinary (or extraordinary) visible, or maybe it makes me think about the underpinnings of scientific knowledge in a new way.

I think there’s a connection here to my love for sci fi films and TV shows. By exposing the creative possibilities of science and art, new understandings and conceptualizations of our current world emerge–for me, anyway. When I look at that weird-looking knitted brain, for example, I have yet another way to visualize the brain that runs my own little world. When I watch an episode of Star Trek: TNG (aside from swooning over Patrick Stewart), I glimpse the current status of humanity. When I see a wooden replica of the Hubble space telescope, I find myself thinking: maybe our future isn’t quite as bleak as it seems. Because someone, somewhere finds science beautiful, and they choose to spend their limited time on this planet helping other people see its beauty–and, perhaps, the broader beauty of human creativity.

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UPDATE: another crafty hubble!

You can get used to pretty much anything.

Recent Events have highlighted both ends of this “anything” spectrum.  On the one end, one thing that’s really different about Chicagoland vs. Portland, Maine is the number of murders and other horrible things that occur on a daily basis. Granted that Chicago is much larger than Portland, and the relative infrequency of murders in Portland kinda blinded me to the fact that murders are happening elsewhere in much, much larger numbers. Oh yes, they’re happening. I know because I see them in my various news RSS feeds several times a day. But here’s the point: it only took me a couple of weeks to start tuning them out. Initially, I’d read each news item carefully and note the characteristics of each. Where did it occur and to whom? Why? What are the implications for community, for society, for basic humanity? As Marvin Gaye (and the 4 Non Blondes, incidentally) so aptly put it: “what’s going on?”

Then, for reasons that remain obscure to me, I started to tune them out. I’d see a murder and think, “ho hum, another murder. On the south side. Shocking. Oh look! Another unitasker on unclutterer. How droll.”

Now, I’m not claiming that this “tuning out” phenomenon is either exclusively a Good Thing or a Bad Thing. It’s both, really: Bad because the murders are still happening, and my ignorance of them doesn’t make them disappear (and, one could argue, actually inhibits their ability to disappear); Good because it allows me to remain sane.

At the other end of the spectrum, the following news item trickled into a news feed recently: apparently, a U of Chicago law professor blogged recently about the negative impact the expiration of the Bush-era tax cuts would have on his family. His $250K-household-income family. Outrageous, I know! My first question (and I’m sure others shared it) was: how can anyone in that position think that they have anything to complain about vis a vis financial hardship? And the only (admittedly unsatisfying) answer I could give (while maintaining as charitable frame of mind toward said law professor as possible) was: well, you can get used to pretty much anything. Including the painful luxuries that come with a six-figure annual salary.

Still, there must be a happy medium in there somewhere, some way to remain just a little bit uncomfortable with one’s social position, no matter where it falls on the economic spectrum. Heck, we all need to make it through to the end of the day with our egos, for the most part, intact. But don’t we also simultaneously have a responsibility to the communities that, visibly or not, sustain us each day? And how do we recognize and honor that responsibility without wanting to launch ourselves off the nearest cliff?*

All I can say is that, if I ever find myself earning a six-figure salary, I may spend a little more time putting it toward reducing the conditions that produce murder and a little less time complaining about taxes.

*Another difference between Maine and Chicago is that there are no cliffs in Chicago. Fortunately.

Kinda upsetting:

• The results of a survey (conducted by a Christian website) about modesty in girls, via Sociological Images. Something about these survey results reminded me of The Handmaid’s Tale, although I’d like to note that, obviously, the survey itself was fairly self-selecting (and not exactly a “representative sample” of anything other than the guys who chose to take the survey).
• An open letter to Michelle Obama about inadvertently stigmatizing fat kids, via We Are the Real Deal. It’s well worth the read, particularly if you start by reading the embedded quote and wonder, “well, what’s wrong with that?”

Good for the eyes:

• On the lost art of handwriting and “flourish art”, via Design*Sponge
• Because I love crafty things that challenge gender norms, an interview with a “manbroiderer” via Feeling Stitchy
• This one’s been making the rounds: Jane Austen’s Fight Club, via Feministe
• Yet another reason to love Leonard Nimoy, via The New York Times
• Look, I know that this is an advertisement, but I still loved watching it, via swissmiss

Good for the soul:

• It’s frustrating to me that this is still something people don’t get, and this video (produced by students at the University of St. Thomas) about eliminating the “r-word” in your conversations is a great reminder of why this is important (via Ann).
• A brief segment from Rachel Maddow on why we don’t vote on rights, via Sociological Images.
• Up for a little light reading? Check out the full Prop 8 decision by Judge Walker. Comments and interpretations can be found, like, everywhere, but some of my favorites are available over at Alas, A Blog

I decided to hit the local coffee drive-thru (yeah, I know. But I was in a Mood!) for my iced coffee, which was a pleasant enough experience. I continued on my way to work, reaching down for my iced coffee to take that first glorious sip. And…

…no straw.

This is the moment at which my Mood was about to turn into a full-fledged Rant (as Moods so often do). I hoped against hope that I had squirreled away a spare straw in the glove compartment of my car. At the next stop light, I fished around in my glove compartment with no luck. No straw! Ack!

I sat for a minute in my car, thinking: “it’s going to be ok. No big deal. You’ll just carefully sip your coffee and *not* spill it on your shirt. Hey, at least you *have* an iced coffee to sip.” Etc. But my Mood was stubborn. It stuck to my brain like… something really sticky.

I was desperate. I thought I’d give the glove compartment another try. At yet another stop light, I dug even deeper into the depths of old travel documents, sugar packets, receipts, and ancient fast-food napkins. At the very bottom of my glove compartment, shining like a Harry Potter wand enacting a patronus charm, was a single, white, paper-covered straw. I didn’t remember putting it there, and I swear it didn’t exist in that space moments ago.

In that moment, my Mood simply evaporated. Clearly, the universe saw fit to bend the space-time continuum and transport a straw into the space of my glove compartment in my exact moment of need. It was a simple, everyday object conveyed from some moment in the past, forgotten by history and out of its element, into the present.

Even as an agnostic, I feel I can call that some kinda miracle. It’s a miracle brought to me by the laws of physics, of action and reaction, of the flow of time and the weight of space. And, most importantly, it induced a moment of wonder about the workings of the world. And it allowed me to drink my iced coffee.

• A few of you may know that, a few years back, I wrote a paper about the meaning of Jell-O in American culture. Continuing with the Jell-O theme: check out these fascinating Jell-O creations from Craftzine.com
• How is it that this news item hasn’t received more attention in the blogosphere? Perhaps I just subscribe to the wrong blogs. As the title suggests, apparently clinicians are attempting to find ways to prevent homosexuality in the womb. There are so many things wrong with this idea, I’m not sure where to begin, so I’ll just start by posting the link.
• For the Mac-ophiles: 30 years of Macs in 2 minutes
• Hey, how do you feel about Wonder Woman’s new makeover? I kinda like it, myself.
• A surprisingly fascinating post from Worn Through about the history of zippers
• If you find yourself driving near Presque Isle, Maine this summer, you’ll definitely want to check out the scale model of the solar system arranged along a portion of US Route 1.
• A thoughtful post about why Walmart may not be so bad in Chicago. If you’re having a strong reaction to that idea, I’d strongly suggest reading the post. It’s from our friends at Change.org.
• File this one in the Whoa! How cool is that? folder: The Worshipful Company of Broderers. If you’ve ever embroidered anything (that includes you, Dad), check it out. They support the Royal School of Needlework (!), among other things. Anyone else want to get a foundation degree in hand embroidery with me? Seriously, if this sociology thing doesn’t work out, I’m SO moving to London.

So far, so good.

Now, I knew the weather was going to be a little iffy, so I diligently checked with the whale watch company about their weather cancellation policy. I tend to get a little sea sick and am sensitive to anti-nausea medications like Dramamine, so I researched other sea-sickness options. After reading the reviews of Sea Bands,* they seemed like a good option (if a little unfashionable). I found a (relatively) cheap parking option, knew where the nearby public transportation could be found, was wearing comfy walking sandals. In typical me fashion, I had controlled for every possible scenario. I was even picturing how I might swim my mom and I to safety in the event that our boat capsized. I was ready!

But my body wasn’t.

About a half-hour into the trip, I started feeling slightly queasy. It didn’t take long for my breakfast to make its second appearance of the day, and my mom (unfortunately) had the same experience. Ugh. Poor mom.

The good news is that I was able to pick my head up just long enough to see a couple of humpback whales doing their whaley thing in the ocean nearby. I caught a glimpse of the trickster calf that was flip-flopping all around the boat, too. I hope my mom was able to get in a little whale voyeurism before she became sick; she briefly commandeered my camera, and she took the following photo, which I think exemplifies the trip rather nicely.

You can see my head at the bottom right, and you can get just a peek of a whale’s tail entering the water beneath that black handbag.

I’ve been attempting to draw little “lessons” out of my recent, quasi-traumatic experiences. I can say yesterday’s “adventure” taught me two things, things that would seem obvious to others, I’m guessing:

1. I cannot control everything. This is an important thing for me to remember, as I’m plowing through a time in my life when very little feels under my control. I was able to survive the physical turmoil of that awful trip, and I was never quite so thankful for solid ground as I was after disembarking from that calamitous craft.
2. Speaking of which, it’s really, really worth appreciating the simple things in life, because you never know when you’ll miss them. Horribly. Like the relative stability of land. I’ve been reading a bit about the history of the planet Earth, as well as the other planets, and I truly appreciate the accident of nature that produced solid land on this sphere.
3. Even in the most traumatic times, it’s possible to have fun.** I really enjoyed spending time with my mom, reminiscing about other sea and sea-like adventures (like the time my poor little bro became seasick after a cruise around Lake Superior) and hearing about her family. We were both more than a little frazzled at the end, but I feel a little bit closer to my mom after having suffered through that humbling sea experience together.
4. I know now that the following careers are no longer an option for me: lobster boat captain, deckhand, marine researcher, and pirate. No sea-based sociology for me, either.

And now a brief (not sea-related) programming note to the Mystery! series fans among my dinky handful of readers: if you haven’t watched the latest Poirot, Murder on the Orient Express, do yourself a favor and find it on your local PBS station or watch it on the internet. It was stunning, glorious, dramatic, and just what I needed after losing copious stomach fluids.

*Ultimately useless. I’ll have a hard time trusting the reviews on Amazon again.

**For example: check out the things my mom and I saw as we rambled over to South Station so Mom could catch a bus home:

a monument to the Hungarian Revolution of 1956

a view of Post Office Square, bedecked with white orbs for some kind of movie that was to be filmed later that day

It’s worth mentioning that my only prior experience with OOB was seeing it in the late fall–specifically, on or around Thanksgiving, when my family would make the trek to Maine to eat at turkey at the former Valley’s restaurant and attend the oft-frigid Friday-night tree-lighting ceremony. In the late fall, OOB may best be described as… well, as empty.* In the summer, as I learned last night, OOB may be described as full–beyond full, really. Overwhelming. Bursting at the seams.

Last night was a lovely, cool summer night, and OOB was (as expected) mobbed with throngs of interesting-looking people doing interesting-looking things. Like chowing down on unidentifiable fried Things From the Sea. After parking, food was a first order of business, at least for me, and we made our way down the narrow Pier to purchase what we knew wouldn’t be the most healthful meal of the week. I scored a one-dollar “hot dog and a Coke,” the latter of which came in a cute little paper cup the size of a shot glass. I’m not complaining; in fact, the size of the Coke seems to be a kind of metaphor for the whole OOB experience. It may have been small, but it sure was SWEET and SYRUPY and BUBBLY!

Melanie found a fried dough vendor, and we shared that sugared, messy mass while gazing over our shoulders at the beach beyond the pier. It seemed like the thing to do. I have a feeling that, if I ever had the equipment to make fried dough at home (namely, a vat of boiling oil), it wouldn’t quite turn out the same. But perhaps that’s part of the magic of a place like OOB: it’s the power to transform items you would be horrified to cook in your own kitchen into location-specific delicacies.

We were determined to ride on the Palace Playland ferris wheel, which is, sadly, the only ride in existence that doesn’t give me motion sickness. What happened to me? I used to be able to ride such hair-raising machines as the carousel and the teacups with reckless abandon, nary a worry about what kind of grossness was churning in my stomach at the time. I think it has something to do with the development of my inner ear. In any case, we purchased tickets for the ride, handed them to the operating dude, and were ushered into a round carriage thingy that held us aloft despite the laws of physics. I was initially terrified that a machine seemingly held together with paperclips, twine, and moonbeams wouldn’t be able to hold my bulk for an entire revolution, but I’m pleased to report that the wheel did not come crashing down off its axle, did not roll us into the adjacent fun house, and did not impale me on a purple spire and fling Melanie into the flume chute a few yards over. All of which I imagined as we made our first turn. No, by revolution number two I was able to relax and enjoy the moon rising over the beach, the light receding behind pinkish clouds to the west, and the tiny-looking pier (which, Melanie informed me, has existed since the 1890′s). By the end of revolution number four, I was sad to leave the view.

We also took the requisite walk on the beach, during which we had the requisite sit and cuddle in the sand, and we listened to the requisite 70′s music cover band (not by choice) that was playing in the requisite beachfront hotel nearby. I don’t mean to be so glib; it was, by turns, nice and giggle-making.

I think my favorite OOB activity, aside from spending time with Melanie, was people-watching. Sure, the lights were flashy, but, for me, it’s funner watching them reflected in peoples’ faces as they attempt to win stuffed purple monkeys by flinging rubber lobsters onto (incongruous) rotating lilypads or brush fried dough powdered sugar off of their shirts. Their moments of exhilaration are brief and fleeting, and, in the downtime, they’re just doing the things human beings like to do to each other: children are poking fun at their younger siblings who are too short to ride the scrambler; young, dating couples are alternately cuddling and arguing; older, overly-tanned retirees are kindly but pointedly ignoring each others’ complaints. I wonder what they saw when they looked at the two of us.

I doubt I’ll be visiting OOB again in the next decade. I’ll be interested to see how it compares to the Navy Pier in Chicago, though; my guess is that the Navy Pier is a little less slapdash, a little less temporary, and a little more formal. I’m not sure what “formal” means, though, in the context of the carnival atmosphere.

OOB, like other seasonal carnivals and fairs, is a place of ambivalence. The flashy lighting feels both alluring and repelling. The greasy food is delicious and disgusting. The juxtaposition of the waves on the beach against the aforementioned hotel cover band is relaxing and disturbing. But perhaps OOB is just a more garish, extreme riff on the ambivalence of everyday life.

We didn’t stay long, really–maybe two hours. I’m glad we made the trip, though, and I would suggest a visit to OOB to anyone visiting in the summertime, if only for the people-watching. And for the sweet deal on a hot dog and a Coke.

*As someone who calls Maine home, I’m cognizant of the perspective of tourists invading/inhabiting spaces they/we see as “empty.” Of course, spaces like OOB aren’t empty in the fall and winter; they’re occupied by the year-round residents who, like me, breathe a sigh of relief when the out-of-state license plates vacate the state and life becomes a little less frenzied and parking is again available.