Toby, please don't kill yourself.

This weekend, while attempting to pack for The Move, I stumbled across a still-packed box from the last move (a year ago), which contained my photo albums from "The First 18 Years of Sheena" and "Sheena, the College Years." This was a delightful surprise, because for some reason, I thought these albums were somewhere between Switzerland and New Hampshire (via Antwerp).

Naturally, as I have but a week to pack up my few worldly goods (mostly books), I abandoned the packing enterprise entirely and spent the rest of the afternoon scanning selections from the albums. I look at is as important archival work. We need these things to be digitized, so that we may humiliate each other with the drop of an email. Join me for a trip down memory lane.

This is the photo that started it all. It's documentation of the fairly frequent toasting that happened on our hall. Do note Toby's trucker hat. Also, the arm in the foreground belongs to Seth. I have a picture. Of Seth. Before I remember having ever met him. This was very strange for me, as I tend to remember things like this. No matter. The gent in the red shirt is Gilhouse (before he was Gilhouse), and the yelling fellow in yellow is Josh.

Here is Young Sheena, hard at work studying Political Theory or French or some such. Look how fresh-faced and energetic she is!



Claire and I lived together in a giant double, Gilhouse lived next door (and gamely kept us in hours of Ninetendo 64 and Simpsons episodes on VHS) and Josh lived down the hall. Toby sprung fully formed from the head of Zeus. He was wearing this coat:

The boys are standing in front of my desk. Important to note (aside from the sexy pose being struck by the gentlemen) is the college decoupage decor (yeah, that's a photo of Kid Rock from Rolling Stone on my wall. I very much do not want to discuss it.)


Here is a Young Joshua, bringing me a gift of flowers. He found them in the trash, and proceeded to cavort around the room, spraying dead petals all over my carpet. He's such a thoughtful fellow.



This was taken at the end of freshman year. Me 'n' Josh. Awwwww...



Ok, so the chronology is all off. Here's a picture of Josh and Claire (when she was a smoker... gross!) dancing.


Susannah, Claire, me and Brooke before a semi-formal party of some kind. I think it was the one in which I had an entire beer poured down my back by some dude from my English class.



This is me. On Claire's bed with her teddy bear, Gunther. I am wearing overalls. That's all I've got.


Toby and I, before the primary colors parade, apparently. I used to have very short hair.



Sophomore year. One of the many physical assaults I endured from Claire. I'm pretty sure I was trying to distract her from a surprise party (Claire? want to confirm this?), so I took a beating for the team.



Susannah, on an especially idyllic Founder's Day (the annual Vassar bacchanal).


Claire pinched Jonathan's hand in the chains of the swing shortly before this picture was taken. What a jerk.



Charlie's Angels for Sophomore year Halloween. Three other girls dressed up as the "new" Charlie's Angels. We were way cooler.

Heavens to Bessy!

Sometimes I get some incredibly dull PR pitches at work. Sometimes I get PR pitches that don't have anything to do with our magazine. Sometimes I get things like this, from Endtime Ministries (seriously, that's the name):

" Press Release: The Prophetic Cow
For Immediate Release
August 21, 2006


THE PROPHETIC COW

The cow** that could blow up the world?



There is a prophecy in the Bible, which says that Israel will build her Third Temple just prior to the beginning of the Great Tribulation. Religious Jews believe that the temple cannot be built until a qualified red heifer is properly sacrificed. This belief comes from Numbers chapter 19 in the Old Testament.

Rabbi Chaim Richman, Executive Director of the Temple Institute in Jerusalem and a member of the newly reborn 70-member Sanhedrin, recently revealed to Endtime Ministries, “We now have a red heifer. Her location is being kept secret for security reasons.”

Israel now has a qualified red heifer! This is Israel’s first qualified red heifer since the Second Temple era nearly 2000 years ago! What a blockbuster announcement!

So how could a cow potentially blow up the world? The offering of a qualified red heifer will clear the way for the building of Israel’s Third Temple on the Temple Mount. Israel’s Prime Minister Ehud Olmert has openly stated that he intends to establish Israel’s final borders with the support of the international community. That’s what the present war in the Middle East is all about. Once this is accomplished, the only remaining issue in the Israeli-Palestinian conflict will be the status of Jerusalem, and, more specifically, the status of the Temple Mount.

When religious leaders in Israel previously thought they had a qualified red heifer, reporters suggested that this could result in WWIII. Why? Because they knew this red heifer would pave the way for the building of Israel’s temple. They asserted that Muslims around the globe would unite on the Temple Mount to stop this development.

That red heifer of ten years ago developed white hairs in her tail, causing the Jewish rabbis to determine that she was unacceptable. Those same rabbis have now ruled that the present red heifer meets the Bible’s requirements and could be sacrificed at any time.

Get the full story about the red heifer in the newly released issue of Endtime Magazine. In this blockbuster issue, Endtime Ministries President Irvin Baxter reveals the details in the article, Red Heifer Ready Now. "

Of course I was hoping that the release would detail what the subtitle indicates; that there was in fact some kind of explosive cow that could be detonated and cause beefy destruction. Sadly, it's the usual crackpot business of bringing about the apocalypse. Which, I really think deserves a wider vote, you crazy people. I will give credit, though. In spite of the content of the release being nuts, the way it's written is quite lucid. You even provide the information I need to pursue this story about the explosive cow.

I am redacting all the standard PR contact info here, because I'm not about to go encouraging these people, but I'd like to note that they have, not only a magazine, but a website and an online shop as well.

I must say, you End Time people may want to reconsider this "shotgun approach" to pitching. We certainly do not cover this kind of news (much as I'd love to, mind). May I recommend "Hey, Let's Bring About the Apocalypse!" Quarterly? Rolling to Jerusalem Weekly? The Religious Zealotry Picayune-Times?

Either way, I'm getting nervous. Perhaps I should invest in some Armor of God PJs.

___
**For this post's hidden track (if you will), do click on the picture for a Wikipedia entry on what I may do for entertainment during my New England sojourn.

Please Excuse Our Appearance While We Overhaul Our Lives

As you may have noticed, my bloggy productivity has been way down these days. Preoccupied, I guess, with the impending Big Move to NH.

Yessirree. If you hadn't read the news elsewhere, be aware of it now, the Sheena Train will be leaving NYC for a goodly amount of time. Much as it pains me to leave a city and job (not to mention gang of friends/brothers-in-arms/enablers) that I quite enjoy, it is time to forge ahead, save a bit of money, and with any luck, attend culinary school next fall.

Granted, those who know me by the blog won't find this heart-wrenching at all (just know that instead of subway incidents, I'll be writing about my growing road rage).

Next month, Gus and I head up to the wild yonder. I'm hoping he can realize his dream of becoming a real cat (with a barn in which to hunt mice and stalk chickens) who eschews a litter box for the outdoors and sleeps in the nighttime rather than busying himself with putting his head in my trashcan.

We'll be joining the likes of Tobs and Ol' Muddy as denizens of "Not-New-York." It's a wild and crazy place, so you can expect documentation of our antics and reassimilation into the Mohan clan.

The blog will likely change around a bit, but don't be escurred. It's still me. Unsolicited Advice & Opinions 'R' Us. Expect pictures of Gus, gushing missives about darkness at nighttime, and lengthy treatises on spanking new kitchen in the family homestead.

In the meantime, I'll do my best. But it's hard to sit down and write cleverly when you feel numbly sad and generally anxious.

Ooh. Bringing down the mood. Sorry about that. Here, watch this silly video (note: I do not sanction the amount of time in the pan/level of heat he uses when he cooks these pancakes... they are overdone, by my standards).

Sit down and eat something. You're all skin.

Saturday was quite possibly the most gorgeous day of the whole summer. Lots of sunshine, but dry, cool, and breezy. Claire and I biked down to Sahadi's on Atlantic Ave. If you live in Brooklyn and you've never been there, I highly recommend it. Their chickpea flour is excellent (no dead flies like the place across the street... though you should always sift it anyway), and they have lots of interesting snacks and nuts and flours, and good prices on coffee beans.

Once back from the market, I spent the rest of the afternoon cooking. It was glorious.

Then it was off to Gil's for some BBQ-ing and drinking of Schaeffer. Also, all of the mosquitoes in the Brooklyn area came by to sample the blood from my ankles and feet. An excellent vintage.

At about 10pm, we were off to Melody Lanes, site of past exploits and diplomatic outings. Can you believe that Gil had never experienced the beauty of Melody (replete with the Numa Numa song on the jukebox)? Surely you can see why we did it. We did it for Gil.



Josh enjoys a Rolling Rock, the local specialty.



What bowling night photo set would be complete without a picture of Claire's guns?


Josh closes his eyes and wishes for a spare.


Claire has a good vantage point for some of the best bowling we've ever seen.



As you can see, Seth rolled a masterful 300. This was especially impressive because he was not there for most of the frame.

Ok, in reality a computer glitch was recording every turn as a strike.


Here, Gil demonstrates the proper reverse-bowling procedure.



Claire emulates his form.



I lodged the ball in the gutter. It was pathetic. I was trying to get there.


Oh, the humiliation.


Later, Claire gives the internation hand signal for "Congratulations, you rolled a fake strike!" And Gil tells me to steal third.



Hershfelder tries to get there with a patented "overhand" manuever. Followed by a knuckle and a pinch. It didn't work.


Gil and his new friend, Big Black Ball.


Once again, victory in Sunset Park.



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Also: "Christ, what an asshole."

Found this via Gawker and threw up a little bit in my mouth.

Peter McBride can take off his polo shirt and maintain his preppy image. McBride, 22, has a Polo pony tattooed on his chest. The idea came to him as he was waiting in line behind a man at a D.C. tattoo parlor: "I noticed his polo shirt and made my decision."

Before I read the article, I thought perhaps that this young man works or models for (which doesn't make it better, just slightly understandable. a wee bit.) Polo. No, he's just a douche, is all.

While the piece sorta manufactures a trend wherein people are getting logo tattoos, the fact that anyone does it is pretty disturbing. I mean, really? Who's going to have sex with this man with that thing on his chest? He has the logo of a thing to be purchased and worn with the collar popped.

I mean, sure. Plenty of people get idiot tattoos (a young man with whom I went to high school made up a nickname for himself, then had it tattooed on his bicep in Gothic lettering. He later had the Superman logo tattooed on his other bicep.). But he can look like a douchebag for a fraction of the money and none of the pain.

Since I read Until I Find You, and became the only of-age member of my immediate family to remain un-inked, I've been pondering what I'd put on myself indelibly. A line drawing of James Joyce in profile? Angel wings on my shoulder blades? Calvin peeing on the face of Derek Jeter? Some kind of "tramp stamp?" Or just some kanji whose meaning I don't know?

In all honesty, I've been thinking about a drawing of the Brooklyn Bridge.

One of the benefits of summer is the tattoo-watching. Seen any good (or terrible) ones lately? I swear, you can't swing a dead leprechaun in this city without hitting a tattoo of Celtic knotting.

Reading is FUN-damental (to "getting there")

This is a full week old now, but I've been drawn away from the bloggy-verse lately, busy melting into the sidewalk. Anyway, forgive me, but I felt this appropos of our discussion on picking up young ladies, though this could certainly be useful for we women looking chat up men (or other women... whatever you're into). Many thanks to Seth for the reporting on this one.

The Guardian's Culture Vulture blog has an entry about judging/smiling/hitting on people based on what you see they're reading.

For those of you troubled by the lingering idea (instilled in youth by parents obsessed with the benefits of "enjoying the sunshine") that a life spent reading is a life half-lived, your worries are over. Not only does sitting with your nose in a book positively influence others' opinion of you, it could actually - get this - lead to sex. A third of those surveyed said that they "would consider flirting with someone based on their choice of literature". It's finally official, people. Reading is hot.

But before you trip off to the park clad in your most fetching sun hat and clutching your copy of the latest Jilly Cooper - be warned. Not just any book will do. Erotic fiction, horror, self-help books and the dreaded chick-lit were all, in fact, deemed turn-offs when it came to love between the covers. The genre most likely to help you pull - the itsy-bitsy-teeny-weeny yellow polka dot bikini of the books world - is the classics, followed by biography and modern literary fiction (think Zadie Smith and Sebastian Faulks, rather than Dan Brown and Martina Cole). Forget the gym: if you want to raise your dating game, head down to your local library and start borrowing.

Too true. Nothing leads to romance faster than brushing hands with someone reaching for the same Camus novel at the library. The brilliant thing about cruising the reading populace of a city like New York, is that you have a built-in conversation starter AND a sort of gauge of what kind of person they are. While I don't know that I've ever been hit on with my reading material as the impetus for attack, I'm intrigued by what my reading material says about me.

For instance, would the cute boy across the subway be intrigued/moved if he saw me weeping quietly over the first chapter of The Teammates, or just weirded out? No, no, don't answer that.

Of course, it all leads back to the theory that you are what you like. When invited to a person's home for the first time, you peruse the bookshelves, look at the DVD collection, examine the CDs. Though you couch this vetting as a friendly self-tour, really you are trying to determine if your new friend or paramour is some kind of wackjob or sap or a fan of Jewel's poetry.

It's all very unfair. Some of us may not have seen many seminal works of popular cinema, and some of us may think that The Time Traveler's Wife sucked ass. That doesn't make such a person a social pariah.

So, what books are total dealbreakers? What ones have you stripping your clothes off on the spot?

I'll start.

What gives me pause: A Million Little Pieces (ew. Who can tolerate that style?), books about the Yankees (obviously), anything by Jack Kerouac (again. ew.), and while I'll not brush aside readers of Safran Foer or Franzen, I'll think, "well, you read, that's good... but that's a bit, you know, obvious." Most poetry (I do like poetry, just not in a bring it for the commute, sort of way. And, if you can concentrate on a Wallace Stevens collection for that long, you may well be just a teense too serious for me).

What I find endearing: Harry Potter (I hate myself for it, but it's true), C.S. Lewis, The World According to Garp, Vonnegut, Sedaris, Chabon.

What'll likely have me gagging for it, if you will: The Cider House Rules, The Dubliners, ANYTHING by Flann O'Brien (The Third Policeman and At Swim-Two-Birds especially), Halberstram's books on the Red Sox, J.M. Coetzee, Chabon's Summerland. Steinbeck's Travels with Charley.

We'll all pretend that this post isn't a non sequitur.

Photo representation of the weekend's activities, as captured by Seth:


That's right, people. Marty and Tera know how to party, 'cause they supply h-o-t headgear for their guests' sartorial pleasure.

We danced late into the night like wood nymphs on Coors Light.

But before that, we grilled at Will's. He has a wonderful backyard that is full of bugs who want to eat me alive. Here is a video of Will lighting the grill. Next time, I think a little less liquid oxygen.




In other news, I'm feeling a little guilty about my love of air conditioning in the face of this tuggy weather.

Take these broken wings and give up first place....

The Red Sox suffered a disappointing loss yesterday. And it's that part in the season when we long time fans succumb to anxiety, depression, and rage. It's the latter half of the season, we picked up exactly nothing in the way of pitching before the deadline, the heart and soul of the team is due to be out for at least a month. The Hated Ones picked up Abreu and Lidle for a pittance.... need I go on?

But, we're not going to self-flagellate quite yet. Because we Red Sox fans do indeed find solace in little distractions. Observe (note that the voices you are hearing are those of my beloved NESN announcers Don Orsillo and former Red Sox Jerry Remy... Jerry's the one with the thick NE accent):