The big ball's gonna drop! The big ball's gonna drop!

The new year is rapidly approaching and time and circumstance have once again brought me back to Bangor. Although I would have to rank Christmas 2011 as worst-Christmas-ever, we're all moving past it together, and I'm once again reminded of my place with my family here. As always, the promise of New Years Eve follows quickly on the heels of "the holiday season", and brings with it the hope for a better year.
This past year brought many changes for me, but not nearly as many as the next one teases with. I still get to spend a few more months living in Philadelphia; the city has truly captured my heart and imagination within the past four years and I will always consider it a type of home. Who knows, maybe Alyssa will hold down our Philly home for the next few years and I really will have a place to return to in my favorite U.S. city. I plan to attempt to have a few more Philly adventures in the midst of attempting to wrap up my academic career at Temple. With 2012 only days away, graduation feels even more imminent.
2012 will bring lots of changes including two drastic changes in location/residency, one change in career (as in starting one) and one long overdue addition of a vehicle into my life-this could come before new years too, I'd be fine with that. Being back in Bangor always reminds me of the things that won't change, and I'm happy about that. I'm grateful that no matter what happens, I'll always have lots of homes to come back to and a huge, wide spread family to love from near and far. I'm not going to post new year's resolutions because I don't feel like it, although I realize that's where this feels like it's leading. Feel free to comment with some of yours though! I'd love to read them.

Happy holidays!

Dueling Majors

Here's something a bit different, a post for my more literature-centric readers. You never get to hear from this side of my brain though, so enjoy this passage I stumbled upon in Wordsworth's Preface to Lyrical Ballads. I'm afraid of the implications it has for someone, such as myself, who is a Journalism/English major.

"For a multitude of causes, unknown to former times, are now acting with a combined force to blunt the discriminating powers of the mind, and unfitting it for all voluntary exertion to reduce it to a state of almost savage torpor. The most effective of these causes are the great national events which are daily taking place, and the encreasing accumulation of men in cities, where the uniformity of their occupations produces a craving for extraordinary incident, which the rapid communication of intelligence hourly gratifies."

...Story of my life.

The Stare

Saturday I attended my first event for my new job as publications intern at the Temple University College of Education, the Dean's Fall Reception. In order to get to the restaurant, I took the Broad Street line to Olney where a co-worker picked me up and drove me the rest of the way to Germantown- so nostalgic, by the way. On the train a crazy man decided for some reason to target me with his loony antics. He sat next to me and began loudly speaking gibberish, insisting that I acknowledge him. I glanced and then continued reading. This angered him so he reached over and tapped my arm. I'm not really a fan of being touched in general, especially by strangers and even more especially by crazy strangers. I snapped up from my book and said, "No!" very firmly. He just stared at me blankly. I held his gaze for close to a full minute, scolding him in my head and channeling my most commanding demeanor, while simultaneously praying that he would just move on to the next victim in his little game. Finally he looked down and sat quietly for the rest of the ride. When I got off at my stop, a guy who had seen this take place- like the rest of the passengers- came up to me and said, "How did you do that?"

I spent a month in Brooklyn one night

Once again I am guilty of shameless neglect of my beloved blog. I don't forego blogging just for the pleasure of having my ramblings requested, honest- I'm not waiting for a written invitation and I'm purposely not going to say, "Back by popular request." Cliches aside, here is my attempt to get back in the swing of things.
Two weeks ago I visited my good friend at PRATT in Brooklyn. It was my first excursion to said temple of hipster-hood and I must say it was everything I had hoped for and more. It was also my first experience with Megabus transportation, and I was most impressed. I for one am even glad that they allowed the nice couple to bring their adorable sick kitten on the bus, despite the regulation against it.
Upon arriving in Manhattan, Arline and I grabbed some victuals in the form of splitting a veggie burger in a restaurant called Trailer Park Burgers- don't let the name fool you, they were NYC priced burgers. After wandering around Chelsea a bit, it was time for another first: a journey in the Subway. An aside, I'm fairly sure I rode the Subway once before with my mom on a school trip in seventh grade, but this memory is so hazy that I'm really not sure it happened. Three transfers later and a hop a skip and a jump and we arrived at PRATT. The campus was beautiful and I especially liked the wicker tree huggers and the metal pillows (used as a fire escape, I believe). Don't let the prestige fool you, the best thing about PRATT is the aptly named Pratt-cats. Why was I treating Pratt as if it was an acronym? Is it? I'm going to desist until further research.
Arline and I then ventured to Pete's Candy Store. It is not, in fact, a strip club, but rather a very small, hip bar. We enjoyed free live music and slightly pricy beer and made some new friends in Hey Ana (check them out):

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=atT7fBRkDTA&feature=youtu.be

The next morning, I convinced Arline to lead a trek all the way to and across the Brooklyn Bridge. It was so worth it. For me, it conjured up images of The Newsies, for Arline, Kate and Leopold. We strolled along, heroines in our own big apple escapade, taking in the sights, sounds and smells.

I've always enjoyed visiting New York City. When I was 14 I asked my dad to take me to New York City to go ice skating at Rockafeller Center- more movie induced dreams no doubt. We walked all the way from 52nd Street to Greenwich Village to go to Trash and Vaudville. I always find myself wondering if I could ever live in New York. I'm still uncertain. I'm holding off on purchasing an I Love New York t-shirt though, just in case that's where fate leads.

It's Pippi, It's Pippi, It's Anika and Pippi!

Being the thrifty-liver that I am, I generally dig my heels in when it comes to paying SEPTA's rediculous fees for transportation. Literally that is. I dig my heels in, grind my toes and hoof it to wherever it is I need to go. This miniature form of protest was easier before my bike wheel was stolen, but even in the face of this unfortunate incident- which has since been resolved- I still chose to walk to and from work at The Philadelphia Inquirer.
Generally, I walk home along Broad Street, seeing as it is between 10 and 11 at night. Sometimes (*cough*all the time), I'm too lazy and forgetful and leave through the back door and then end up taking 15th Street- only one block off, but in North Philly, you'd be surprised at the difference this makes.
I never had an incident (knock on wood, since tonight is my last night there), however on one memorable night as I neared 15th and Poplar I saw a gaggle of young teen girls ruling the road and headed my way. As we neared the moment of truth, I braced myself. I know enough about gangs of ghetto girls to know that they could not let me pass without at least comment. One skinny, baby momma in training (literally...maybe) broke off from the group and approached.
"Can I have a dollar?" she said.
"No, sorry, I don't have one." I said.
"Well, can I have a cigarette?"
"Nope."
Tick. Tick. Tick. Step. Step. Step. The space between grew as I walked on, holding my breath.
Then, once they felt they were a safe distance away, they exploded.
"You can't give her a dollar?!?!?" "She really need it, she pregnant!?!"--hence why she really needs a cigarette, see previous "baby momma" statement.
And, a few beats later, the comment I will never forget:
"I hate to tell you white girl, but you aint got shit on Pippi Longstocking!"

Urban Farms Bike Tour

They say you never forget your first. I wrote my first paid piece of writing this past weekend, and it was definitely something I will remember for a long time. I will remember it first because having someone offer me $100 for 600-700 of my words was one of the most thrilling feelings I've ever experienced. I'm not the most humble person when it comes to my craft and my passion:writing. However, having a monetary value placed on each precious word did allow for a feeling of recognition and may have fluffed my pride a bit.
The Urban Farms Bike Tour will live on in my short-term memory due to the sore ass I took home as a souvenier. Biking from East Mt. Airy to North Philadelphia, to West Philadelphia and back over a 6-hour span on a day with temperatures around 100 degrees is not something my body will allow me to forget.
The experience itself was wonderful. Word spread slowly among the group that a dreaded journalist was in their midst. Cyclists began to ride up alongside me and say, "So, you're writing an article?" Everyone was more than willing to share their story, whether it was their family history with the a specific Philadelphia neighborhood, a love of farming or just an interest in biking- often a combination of all of these and more. You can hear all about the ride itself in the article.
Without further ado:
http://www.newsworks.org/index.php/neighborhoods/mt-airychestnut-hill-/item/23622-weekend-urban-farm-bike-tour-becomes-test-of-endurance

Are you still speaking to me?

Dear Blog,
I promise I was not neglecting you in vain. Much has happened in my life to keep me preoccupied, and the seperation has been almost too much to bear. It looks like, at least for the time being, it's just me and you now. Forgive me?
Love,
Emily

Here's what I've been doing (In case you missed any):

West Oak Lane: Author Writes About Neighborhood History
http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/2011/05/26/west-oak-lane-local-author-writes-about-neighborhood-history/

Germantown: Former Addict Receives Gearing Up Bicycle Ambassador Award
http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/2011/06/08/germantown-former-addict-receives-gearing-up-bicycle-ambassador-award/

Behind The News blog: Bargain Thrift Center Serves the Community
http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/behind-the-news/germantown-bargain-thrift-center-serves-the-community/

Germantown: Bicycling Helps Women Cope With Problems
http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/2011/06/13/germantown-bicycling-helps-women-cope-with-problems/

Behind The News blog: Restaurant Owner Wants to Spice Up His Block
http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/behind-the-news/germantown-restaurant-owner-wants-to-spice-up-his-block/

A Germantown Neighborhood Blossoms Through Community Gardening
http://www.newsworks.org/index.php/neighborhoods/germantownwest-oak-lane/item/20488-a-germantown-neighborhood-blossoms-through-community-gardening-

Related Video by my partner, Dan Koob: http://sct.temple.edu/blogs/murl/2011/05/28/germantown-plants-and-flowers-enliven-west-rockland-street/

Ghetto University

It's been a month since my last post. Lo siento blog. But the good news is, tomorrow is my last day at Campus Philly, so hopefully you will get a little love in the interim of that and whatever new adventure the summer brings.
Anyone who knows me knows that I don't like to complain (hopefully anyway). I have a good life, and I feel very lucky in the fact that I can take pride in what I have and what I have accomplished. I take pride in going to Temple and in succeeding here in this challenging academic and social environment. But, there are hard lessons that come with city life.
My boyfriend is one of the kindest people I have ever known. He has a heart for helping people and someday wants to be a cop. He's not the type of future cop who's in it for the glory and excitement- although he does want that too. He's also passionate about the side of law enforcement that would bring him to the doorsteps of people who are arguing with their spouses or who are dealing with alcohol or drug problems. That level of understanding of the job at hand and what it encompasses is truly rare- as is he.
This past weekend, I brought him to see an apartment that I had previously looked at and was considering moving into next year. At first, we were both trying our best to look at it positively and try to figure out if it was a possibility. We're both optimists for the most part. In the end, we both realized that this was a definite no go. All I need to say is that it was right by Temple Hospital and you'll know why it is so certianly a non-possibility.
Tonight, my roomate's car was broken into outside our house. It was parked only two spots up from where my boyfriend's car was broken into, literally, the window was smashed and his stuff was stolen. Joe and I are both from a small town. We are a product of where and how we grew up. But anyone who wants to talk about the cops disrespecting them, or being unfair to them needs to realize that when things are serious and you live in a place where you get worn down from the stress of having to look over your shoulder while you walk home from work at night, the cops are a true blessing. Of course I've seen "bad cops" and had semi-bad experiences with cops, I feel much safer having them around. Thankfully, the person who broke into my roomate's car was caught by the police, who were extremely attentive to the situation. If you want to talk about disrespect, try having your personal property endangered and violated by someone who, due to either their own selfishness or perhaps their misfortune in life, decides to take what you've earned.
Life's not fair and there is a lot of hate and pain in this world. At the end of the day, it's about what you do with these truths. Joe and I may be from a small town, but we've learned the facts of life through our years of experience with life in North Philadelphia. I am confident in the fact that neither of us brought racial biases or previous conceptions to the table. This long, meaningless rant is not representative of everyone's experience with city living, but it has been a part of ours. There's good and bad wherever you go, and the best thing you can do is make sure that you're part of the "good." Sure it may seem "cool" to be bad, but trust me it's not. Joe's response to all of this is further fueling of his goal to become a police officer and do something about it. For me, it's about finding good people and telling their stories and getting the message out there. This is just a small part of the story posted on a small blog that no one may ever read, but it's here and its real and that's all I've got to say about that.

I've been told that my balls are too big for my britches

I got off the El at 52nd Street. I had planned to get off at 40th, but I kept saying one more, one more, one more. Suddenly I found myself deep in West Philadelphia. Hey, my assignment was to get a good feel for the University City/West Philadelphia neighborhood and write blurbs about different locations and businesses in this area. As I began my walk though, something told me that this wasn't quite the Oz I was looking for (and Toto, I definitely wasn't in Kansas anymore). My first planned stop was at Malcolm X Park, which was actually even further West. So, I started hoofing it. Unfortunately the more I walked, the more I stopped telling myself that I was just experiencing the initial apprehension typical to entering a new neighborhood and started legitimately looking over my shoulder and taking precautions. For those of you who don't frequent the city, there are specific "bad neighborhoods" and situations in which you face a sort of double-bind. You simultaneously realize 1 that you're lost (or, worse, you don't realize you're lost, but strangers begin to point it out) and 2 that pulling out your map/directions or calling a friend would put you in further danger. Luck was on my side in more ways than one. First of all, it was broad daylight. Even though I was collecting stares like Pokemon cards, 1:30 in the afternoon is not exactly a high-crime time, if you catch my rhyme. Second, I have a very good natural sense of direction, which, combined with an overdeveloped self-confidence has served me well in my various endeavors. As I walked, I noticed a pattern. My impression of West Philly was that it is a sort of patchwork quilt type neighborhood- if I may be so bold as to make a blanket statement. Blocks of beautiful old stone homes with gardens and artwork were interspersed with no apparent rhythm with...those other kind of blocks. Okay, I'll admit it, I asked someone for directions. And, since I'm confessing, yes, I intentionally asked a white person. Call me racist if you want. I'll tell you what, had I seen Will Smith, I would gladly have asked him, but, no such luck. Anyway, I found Malcolm X Park, immediately realized it wasn't a place I could in good-faith recommend to college freshman as a good place to check out since I myself wasn't even going to walk through it, and kept going. Now I was looking for Baltimore Avenue. Again, thanks mainly to the fact that I'm pig-headed and refuse to believe I could have been mistaken in my notion of direction, I found it. My walk back towards University City from there was quite enjoyable. Baltimore Ave. had the same patchy pattern going on, but there seemed to be a large hipster population slowly putting down roots. Most of the places I stopped at support this impression. I went to Mariposa Food Co-op, The A-Space (an anarchist community center), Firehouse Bikes, a disappointing thrift store and a store called VIX Emporium that sold artwork/gifts/cat toys? I think? Finally I felt ready to tap into my allotted $10 spending money and headed to Milk and Honey Market. If you don't believe me about the hipster thing, go to M&H. I had a smoothie, which was very good despite the fact that it contained arugula- some people just can't leave well enough alone. Before I knew it, I was back, smack-dab in the middle of University City and all things UPenn and Drexel. I grabbed a sandwich from a joint called Hummus- bet ya can't guess what I ate here- cast a few wistful glances at the ivy covered walls, humming "How the Other Half Lives," and headed back to the office.

Serious amounts of nothing

Since I for the past few weeks I've given you basically nothing, and I still have nothing for ya, here are some notes on a story I've been working through. Why? Good question. Oh well, it's something. Feel free to give me your thoughts. And, yes, I realize it's like all my other stories. I swear I tried to do something different! Oh, and sorry about the formatting, it was hard to get it from Word to Blogger for some reason. Shutting up now. Can you tell I get nervous about people reading my short stories? O-K. Mum's the word.

“You ever hear of a thing like that? A man being built into a house?” Sarge asked.
“Well now, I heard of a man bein bilt nto a football star and a scholar and even a soldier. But, I aint never heard of no man bein bilt nto a building,” Jed replied with more than a hint of scoff.
Sarge didn’t crack so much as a smile.
“Certainly, certainly. Cuz a man aint made out of the right materials for a building, like he is for an athlete or scholar- now, I don’t know about no soldier. Seems to me man aint mad out of the stuff for that neither.”
“You and me don’t agree, sirs,” the man said in that quiet, detached voice, his eyes two blue voids.
The two men slowly turned, pivoting on the man’s glazed stare. Then, they shut off the generator and walked to Jed’s truck. As the headlights swept back over the skeletal structure they blinked on the vision of the man standing, still and straight, an outline against the night sky. He was positioned between two of the exposed vertical beams, holding rank with them; preparing for war.
That night, laying in bed, contemplating the meaning of life as only those drifting between wakefulness and sleep can do, Sarge’s subconscious inserted a new, unfamiliar question into the usual list. Who am I? What’s the point? How will I be remembered?
What do I want to be built into?
------------------------------
The camera zooms in on the man’s face, moving in on his left eye in those jumpy clicks typical to low-budget, documentary films. It shakes, blurring his cold gray gaze, and zooms out again, as if struggling to focus on the subject.
Jim Searth knows his way around the camera. His film student naiveté is deliberately affected.
A microphone suddenly jump into the shot, thrust into frame.
“Tell us, sir, what exactly are you doing here?” a disembodied voice asks.
“I’m being built into this building.”
“Why? Let me clarify, why here? Why now?” the voice is eager. He came to this site to expose something groundbreaking.
“I’m being built into this building so my family will have a place to live, a place of our own. I’m providing for them because I want to and because I always knew I would.”
“Are you aware that what you’re doing is considered trespassing and is illegal?”
“No.”
“What do you think of the current housing shortage? What’s the affect on our community?”
A full minute of silence. The man stares straight into the lens.
Click. Jim looks at his partner, the voice from the film.
“We got nothing.”
“That asshole.”
--------------------------------
The construction crew arrived each morning at 4. They drank their coffee, smoked their cigarettes and began their various tasks. They talked and joked, they ate the lunches their wives or mothers or sisters had packed in their igloo coolers. Some days they listened to the radio and reviewed blueprints and charted revisions and plans. Some days they made their own music, a symphony of hammers, drills, backhoes and machinery.
They were aware of the man, sometimes working in the same room as him. He never moved on their account, and they never interacted.
“What do you think of what he’s doing?” Jim asks the foreman.
“It’s strange, we’ve had intruders on sites before. Racoons, rats. We made friends with those.”
-------------------------------

What March 17, 2011 is like

A Better Day

There is now a cat outside my window.

RatGirl217

A movement outside my window caught my eye. I thought it was two squirrels playing. Although these two creatures were easily the size of squirrels, they were, in fact a rodent that I normally am much more drawn to. In this case, however, I was horrified as I watched the two rats scurry around the alley beside my house,exploring nooks and crannies, sniffing garbage; all in a way that made me feel helpless against a future attack on my home, should said pests decide one was in order.

The love between a girl and a cow

I probobly should have taken a few pictures of my best friend, the fabulous Ms. Alyssa A. Glueck and I in our fierce night-on-the-town outfits, her with her boyfriend Mr. Tim Bendik, the beautiful scenery in Wilkes Barre, Pizza Perfect (so I could enhance my fantasies about the amazing flavors and sensations it causes with images of it's pizza perfection), Curry Donuts, Alyssa's theater where she does the amazing singing, dancing and acting, her cool friends, the kid with the naughty Toy Story shirt, the apartment the Polish people are trying to hide in the Wilkes University Library (we're on to you), the symbolic man in his trench coat and hat, the many alleys, side-streets, parking lots, etc. that Alyssa is scared to walk by at night.

But, alas, I went to Wilkes Barre and all I got was this picture of a cow.

It's been awhile

"No my friend, darkness is not everywhere, for here and there I find faces illuminated from within; paper lanterns among the dark trees."
-Carol Borges









Photo by: Arline Rasely

I was born at 11:11

Happy birthday to me! My 21st birthday is good news for you readers who are interested in my bar/club reviews...or possibly just more entertaining rants. Stay tuned, and watch out Philly.

For anyone interested, my article about the "Till Death Do Us Part" tour is up on CampusPhilly.org along with my other blog for the week. Intrigue. See, now you have to click the link to find out what my mystery blog was.

Life, Death and Love

Today I got to go to Laurel Hill Cemetary's "Till Death Do Us Part," Valentine's Day tour. I'm writing an article for Campus Philly about the event, which will be published this coming Thursday. But, I also wanted to share my personal experience at the cemetary. I got there early and took a few hours to walk around the historic site.

I took a few pictures, but am nowhere near the level of photographer to even come close to capturing the place- if anyone could. And, my camera battery died. I know, some journalist, huh? I beat myself up about that lack of preparation, but then I realized that I'm more of a writer than a photographer anyway. My camera may have failed, but my pen was working just fine. If a picture is worth a thousand words, I could write volumns about this place and still not capture the feeling of being here. What I discovered is that you don't explore Laurel Hill, you experience it. The following is my "picture" of Laurel Hill:

I'm sitting on a small set of slate steps at the western edge of the cemetary. Down the embankment to my right is Kelly Drive, winding it's way along the Schulkyll River. Across the river, slightly obscured by trees I can see Route 76 and the cars rushing along, into or out of the city. Walking along the path here is like stradling two worlds. The people in those cars are so caught up in living: going to work, coming home, talking, eating, tuning their radios, GPS, I-Pod, Bluetooth, McDonald's, billboards, toll booths, worries, hopes, stress. None of that matters here though.

In fact, many of the 100,000 plus people whose final resting place looks out over this living world didn't even have electricity or running water, let alone telephones, cars, etc. And, they certainly don't have any worries, hopes or stress now.

When I said before that it was like stradling two worlds, I was, of course, referring to life and death. But this place is not really a place of death. It lacks all the darkness, sadness and fear usually associated with that word. Cemetaries are built by and for the living, not the dead. Liing people create tombs, monuments, obelisks, sculptures-whole cemetaries full of them- to memorialize their loved ones and their own legacy. There are so many different ways that they do it. Just in my view from where I sit now, I can see two mosoleums, housing families of dead bodies. A great stone lion sits on top of a grave to my right, guarding the body of Robert Patterson (1792-1881). My backrest is a granite wall that forever entrenches the Bernett family, who, like many others, were so desperate to cling to their family ties, even in death, to insist on a burial place that distinguishes them and their loved ones and unifies them for eternity. These graves show what the surviving family members thought of their dearly departed. This is where they came to remember them. True, they were often sad when they came here; sad for their loss, for the ache of longing for one last hug, one last moment. But, their grief does not linger here. There is an incredible peace at this site.

78 acres of graves, tens of thousands of bodies burried here. People. Dead. Never to laugh or smile or kiss or feel, ever again. But how many more living people have walked here among them. People who have come here to study the history of the site or the people interred here. People come here to take pictures and sight-see and take it all in.They come here to cry and mourn. Dressed in black, they come to lay a flower on a grave. Whatever their reason, they come here and breath life into the field of stones. They, the living, carve names and dates and inscriptions, and carve meaning into this grassy hill site.

There is no border between life and death. The walls of this cemetary don't keep death in, and they don't keep life out. The two are one, they mingle, they're part of the same cycle. Walking along this path, I'm not stradling two worlds. I'm living, I'm dying. But, as I stand up, stretch and, without thinking, glance at my reflection in the glass window pane of the mosoleum nearby, though my body is aging and deteriorating by the second, right here, right now, I'm mostly living.

My "other" blog

Well, my first blogs are up on campusphilly.org. I'm fairly pleased with the results, and already hard at work on next week's articles. Stay tuned.

Thought of the day

You can't know where you're going if you forget where you're from.

(Photo By: Mindy Heller)

What have you been doing lately?

Hey friends,
School, work and my internship have been keeping me from my beloved blog. But, fear not, you can check out what I'm doing with Campus Philly. Any updates to the Facebook page (http://www.facebook.com/pages/Campus-Philly/16730430853?ref=ts#!/pages/Campus-Philly/16730430853?v=wall) or Twitter (http://twitter.com/#!/Campus_Philly) between 2 and 5 pm Mondays, Tuesdays and Thursdays are most likely me.
Also, keep an eye on the website, campusphilly.org where I am constantly posting events to the calendar and will be posting blogs beginning this coming weekend.
Miss y'all, more soon. (xoxo)

My Walk to Work

For anyone who is not yet aware, it snowed last night...

Snowy tree tunnel

Hi Temple, don't worry, we'll all be in our classes today!

Clearly the most efficient way for a shoveling crew to work is to all do the same spot at the same time.



I hope you guys don't need your cars anytime soon.


Sun's coming up.

Shout out to mah brotha'

I just downloaded Easy Like Sunday Morning's new EP and you should too!

http://easylikesundaymorning.bandcamp.com/album/easy-like-sunday-morning-ep



Friend them on facebook too: http://www.facebook.com/?ref=logo#!/pages/Easy-Like-Sunday-Morning/105388352864459

Asian things

A few sights in Chinatown, Philadelphia

Dear undercover police

Allow me to preface this story by saying that I am not a chicken, a baby or exceptionally paranoid. I will, however, admit that I can get a tad jumpy when I'm home alone at night; a circumstance I have found myself in for the past two weeks as my roomates are not yet back from winter break. The fact that I don't live in a particularly safe neighborhood works in my defense here.
With that being said, the other night as I was watching a movie, getting ready for bed, there was a loud banging on the door to the upstairs apartments. I could tell that it wasn't my door, so I ignored it for about ten minutes and then finally decided to investigate. I peered through the peep hole and saw two middle aged men in the foyer, talking about why no one was answering and looking for a bell. I was wondering how they had even gotten through the front door when I heard the one say, "What about this door?" They knocked on my door and as I was standing right on the other side (awkward) I just said, "Who's there?" They said, "It's the police, open the door."
While I may not be paranoid, I'm also not stupid. I asked (through the door) what they wanted and they held up their badges. I was still too wary to turn the bolt, so I just stood there, and then they started to get really rude. The one said that if I didn't believe them I should just call 911 and they would wait and that I would cause a huge scene. Okay, good way to build trust here. By that point I was so not going to open the door- call me ridiculous if you want.
Anyway, to make a long story short, another guy came in who was visiting someone upstairs and when I saw him, I answered the door and spoke to the police about the girl they were looking for who lives in my building. The plain-clothes officers made it clear that they were annoyed with my behavior, but better safe than sorry.

My favorite place

Ever since we crawled out of that primordial slime, that's been our unifying cry, "More light." Sunlight. Torchlight. Candlelight. Neon, incandescent lights that banish the darkness from our caves to illuminate our roads, the insides of our refrigerators. Big floods for the night games at Soldier's Field. Little tiny flashlights for those books we read under the covers when we're supposed to be asleep. Light is more than watts and footcandles. Light is metaphor. Light is knowledge, light is life, light is light.

-Diane Frolov and Andrew