-If services are more your thing, check out Mishkan Chicago—this dynamic young spiritual community incorporates joyful song, yoga & meditation into its services. Plus, we can offer you discounted tickets (email firstname.lastname@example.org for the link).
Favorite online resources:
-The Sinful Goat (PostSecret style confessions leading up to Yom Kippur) from our friends at g_dcast
“Coaches and academic mentors alike, aware of his NFL aspirations, had always insisted that Rolle develop a second career in case the NFL didn’t work out. Turning down the Rhodes Scholarship would have been contrary both to that advice and to his own post-football career ambitions. Accepting the scholarship was, in effect, a “no-brainer.” Yet while everyone else encouraged him to have a “Plan B,” the NFL did not. In the NFL, what others saw as wisdom was seen as weakness.”—The Rejection of Myron Rolle: The NFL wanted him … until he was named a Rhodes Scholar - SBNation.com
“3. Books. If you are literate and still “believe” in paper books, get rid of some books today! Every week I like to cull my collection for books by misogynists, which I leave on my stoop for passers-by in Brooklyn tradition (I know, how quaint). Once I purged my apartment of Norman Mailer, the space indeed took on a new lightness, a special kind of gleam.”—
He was promoted to vice president in 1934 but declined all further opportunities for advancement. His colleagues knew of his poetry, but he avoided talking about it, and he earned a reputation as “the grindingest guy … in executive row”: Working diligently and largely alone, he came to be considered “the dean of surety-claims men in the whole country” and “absolutely the diamond in the tiara” of his company.
“I find that having a job is one of the best things in the world that could happen to me,” he once wrote. “It introduces discipline and regularity into one’s life. I am just as free as I want to be and of course I have nothing to worry about about money.”
This morning I took a cab to work, as I do sometimes, and in a very odd bit of role switching, we got harrased by a guy on a bike. I think people know that I’m a huge bike advocate, that I Divvy a lot and that I’m pretty fair in my “in line/out of line” judging of other cyclists. I will explain to my friends in cars what I thought a person on a bike might have been thinking, what I would or wouldn’t have done in the situation.
But this morning I was actually afraid of the guy on the bike and I was in a car.
It started at Green and Grand. We were southbound on Green. The cyclist was at a full stop at the corner, also southbound, because it is a very hard crossing to make during rush hour since Grand doesn’t stop. My driver did a rolling stop and then just boldly made his way through stopped eastbound traffic.
The guy on the bike (in a lot of lycra, which tells me he spends a lot of time on his bike) uses the cab for cover and gets across Grand with the help of the cab. But then we get to the next stop sign (Hubbard) and he rolls up to the open window and yells in at the driver about not stopping at Grand.
Weird and aggressive, but I let it go. Then we get to the next stop sign and the guy on the bike comes to a full stop and gets in front of the cab and won’t start again. Cabbie honks, guy on bike flips us off. After the guy on the bike starts, my driver seems to change his route, turns left on Kinzie and heads towards Desplaines. He wants to avoid the conflict (and get me to work).
We turn right onto Desplaines, stop in traffic between Kinzie and Wayman or Fulton Market, and then the guy on the bike is BACK. He’s now so angry that he’s left his route, followed us to Desplaines and is circling the car with a camera out, yelling out the number of the cab and taking photos.
My driver doesn’t honk, doesn’t yell, doesn’t engage which I honestly think shows incredible restraint. Traffic starts we start to move and we get to the next stop and the guy starts circling the car again and making fun of the driver’s english. He’s got his camera out, he’s yelling at us and my driver just put his hand up in a “stop taking my photo” gesture that celebrities use. Kept his hand inside the car, didn’t yell, didn’t honk.
On the next block the cyclist finally rode away and then the driver said under his breath, “they don’t even stop at stop signs.”
I was so angry for him and at the guy on the bike. That’s not how we get better treatment from drivers or cabbies. If I hadn’t seen it myself, I would have thought the driver was exaggerating, but I felt threatened and I’m sure he did, too.
Ugh… I should have gotten my own camera out and taken a photo of his kit. I didn’t recognize the team or the bike shop…
“Licensed to Ill changed everything. In those days, this was really before samples clearances. Nobody even knew how to do that stuff. During the making of Licensed to Ill, the sampler got developed. In the earlier songs for the album, there was no sampler, and everything where it seems like a sample is either DJ’ed in with records, or a tape loop around the studio, which was kind of cumbersome and complicated. Sampling didn’t really exist yet. So the idea that you could clear a sample, or a sample was something you could use on a record, that all came later. So they’re very renegade records”—http://www.vulture.com/m/2014/03/rick-rubin-interview-hip-hop-movement.html (via extraface)
(noun) This wonderful, untranslatable German word describes the feeling of homesickness for a far away land, a place you have never visited. Do not confuse this with the english word, wanderlust; Fernweh is much more profound, it is the feeling of an unsatisfied urge to escape and discover new places, almost a sort of sadness. You miss a place you have never experienced, as opposed to lusting over it or desiring it like wanderlust. You are seeking freedom and self-discovery, but not a particular home. (via mirroir)
One of my close friends and I keep a Fictionary of words that we create when there is no english word suitable for the situation, which is where this faux-German word comes from.
Ausländischeheimwehgefühl: Homesick for a place you’ve never lived. Literally: foreign homesickness feeling
There are few things more humiliating than shopping for clothes as an overweight woman. We hear the statistics about how obesity is a major problem in the United States and still, there are a handful of stores where we can buy clothes. At most of those stores, the clothes are hideous and if you are under fifty, the hideousness increases by a factor of ten.
I hate clothes shopping and have for years because I know I’m not going to find anything I actually want to wear. I don’t like patterns. I don’t like appliqué. I don’t like bright colors. Fat girl clothes designers never got this memo.
I have many dreams about the clothes I would like to wear—maxi dresses, tailored slacks, sexy camisoles, whatever. I lack the courage to wear such things. Jeans and dark shirts it is.
Today I went to a clothing store. I wanted to find a few nice things to wear for someone I want to look nice for when I see them soon. I am caring about my appearance. I am caring about myself, maybe. This is new and I think I like it. It’s embarrassing. Nothing makes sense anymore. I am blushing.
I was at this store, looking for things when a young woman came out of the dressing room crying. I won’t get into the details of it because it’s her story but she was so upset and her mother was treating her in quite a humiliating manner and I wanted to sob right there in the store because I am not having the best day and it was just too much to see such a familiar and painful scene.
I’ve been that girl, too big for the clothes in the store, just trying to find something, anything that fits, while also dealing with the commentary of someone else who means well but can’t help but make pointed, insensitive comments. I cannot even get into the details. It’s too much.
I hate shopping.
People try all manner of tactics to make us lose weight—tips and “help”, diet and exercise advice, nagging, harassment, shaming. There is this idea that if you shame a fat person enough, you will somehow move them to discipline their body. That is not how it works. What you see is the fat. What you cannot see is so far beyond what you can understand.
I am not a hugger but I wanted to wrap my arms around this girl. I wanted to protect her from this world that is so unbelievably cruel to overweight people. There was nothing I could really do because I know this world. I live in it too. There’s no shelter or safety or escape from the cruel stares and comments, the too-small seats, the too small everything for your too big body.
But I followed her to the dressing room and I told her she was beautiful. And she was indeed beautiful. She nodded and tears were streaming down her face. We both went on with our shopping. I wanted to tear her mother’s face off. I wanted to call my person and hear a kind voice. I wanted something to pull me out of the spiral of self-loathing I felt myself tumbling into. I wanted to burn the store down. I wanted to scream.
When the young woman left the store, she was still crying. I cannot stop picturing her face, that look in her eyes that I know too well, how she was trying to fold in on herself in a body that was so visible. She was trying to disappear and she couldn’t. It is unbearable to want something so little and so much.
“Even if you’re moving to an apartment that turns out being OK, like last time, which was only four years ago, if you have 10,000 books, it’s a difficult undertaking. The more that you mention this to people, even if people know about it, the more you are criticized for having 10,000 books. I finally said to somebody the other day, “You know what? They are books. It’s not like I am running an opium den for children. There’s nothing wrong with that — you may not want to have that, you may think that’s crazy, but you cannot have a moral objection to this.” Even real estate agents would say to me, “If you got rid of the books, you wouldn’t need such a big apartment.” And I would say, “Yes that’s true, but what if I had four children? Would you say, ‘Why don’t you put them in storage, because you can’t really afford an apartment for them?’” Basically my whole life, I’ve paid for these books. Buying them is nothing, but housing them is hard because they need a giant apartment. People say, “Why do you need such a big apartment — do you throw a lot of parties?” No. It’s for the books. I believe books to be the perfect companion.”—Fran Lebowitz (via derasso)