"In vacant or in pensive mood..." I am: Bekah; 24; Law Student / Favorite Things: Carbs (so there!), Johnny Damon, Smiling at babies, Grilled cheese, Comfortable silence / Favorite Supreme Court Justice: Brennan / Favorite Wilson: Owen by an inch / Today's Special: Song: Elliott Smith, "Bled White"; Quote: "You know, there's like a butt-load of gangs at this school. This one gang kept wanting me to join because I'm pretty good with a bowstaff." Please love me: mmbekah@yahoo.com

 
(Brotherly) Love and Basketball

I watched the Kansas game tonight and cried actual tears of joy. My tears were not shed because it was such an amazingly good game (which it was), or because the Jayhawks came through like champs (I did want them to win, but only because my roommate had money on the game). I cried because I was overwhelmed by the sheer wonderfulness of the players hugging each other and the intensity of the emotions in college ball. Now, I don’t consider myself to be an overly sentimental person. Movies don’t often make me cry (although Dead Man Walking had me hysterically sobbing—maybe it was just a bad day), and human interest stories don’t usually affect me deeply enough to generate tears. Nevertheless, I do tend to cry when male athletes hug. There is something so powerful about ballplayers helping their opponents stand up or embracing after a big shot. I honestly believe it brings out everything good in humanity. Love of the game is just the beginning. These players love each other. And if our society is at a stage where heterosexual men only feel comfortable showing their love on the court, so be it. We’ll take things one step at a time. All I know is that the ball court (or field) is one place where men don’t have to smack each other on the back and say, “I’m huggin’ ya, but I’m hittin’ ya.” No side hugs or impersonal fisted thumps here. Just full frontal hugging with no apologies. Beautiful, adorable, sweet, inspiring...and definitely not "gay."
posted by Bekah at 9:26 PM :: |

 
Annabreviation

I have a lot of friends with fun and amusing eccentricities, and my friend Anna is one of the cutest. Anna likes to copy random lines that she likes from this site and send them to me over IM. Then she’ll add a little comment like “so f’n true!” or “omg, i def feel you about the futon!” You see, Anna is the master of the abbreviation. If there is a possibility for short form, Anna will find it. Her emails are like e.e. cummings poems:

bekah -
where are you?
miss!
tell me ev. about school
omg, is it f’n hard? ick
def write me
love
miss
- anna

A few days ago, Anna and I were chatting on IM, and the conversation turned to my futon (the love endures). Anna asked me if I was sitting on it at the moment, and I answered, “Yeah, you know I’m on the –ton. That’s futon.” Anna just said, “i know. no need to use a dash with me.” Rebuffed. I had underestimated the powers of the abbreviation goddess and had dared to attempt her art. I looked quite foolish. I am sorry Anna; I will def try harder in the future. This f'n MM’s for you. (That's Mixtape Marathon for those not in the know).

posted by Bekah at 8:51 AM :: |

 
A few weeks ago, I wrote a general guide to quoting. Now I want to address something even nearer and dearer to my heart: The art of the mixtape. I cannot stress my seriousness about this subject enough. The mixtape and its modern incarnation, the mix cd, are two of the most constant joys in my life.

Several attempts have been made to describe the essence of a good mixtape. Most memorable for me is the scene in High Fidelity when Rob suggests that you have to start off strong to catch attention, then take it up a notch, and then cool it off a notch because “you don’t want to blow your wad.” The Promise Ring also offer some insight into the subject in their aptly titled song, Make Me a Mixtape: “Make me a mixtape / Something old and something new / Something I said or that we did that reminds me of you / Make me a mixtape that makes me yours / Don't leave out Husker Du / Put something on that The Cars did in 1982 / It makes me yours.” This explanation is even more effective than the one in High Fidelity because it vividly describes how personal mixtapes should be. (Incidentally, this song makes a good, strong addition to a mix in its own right. I used it as the second song in a cd I made for my sister in order to give the mix an energetic punch right at the beginning. When she was listening, she probably thought, “Hark! I should pay attention now, for this shit is going to be good.”). Keeping these foundations in mind, I will now unveil my somewhat comprehensive guidelines for making the perfect mix.

1. Tape or cd? Make an educated choice. Although cds may appear to have completely taken over the market, there is a strong subculture of nostalgic, die-hard tape fans. The decision for the mix-maker is one of purpose. If you are making a mix for someone who is a little earthy, drives an old station wagon, or hasn’t gotten into “the whole cd thing,” go with the tape. If you are making a mix for a tech-savvy hipster, a “sound quality” snob, or someone who doesn’t remember what a walkman is, go with the cd. These are just general rules: sometimes a tape is more personal; sometimes a cd is more practical. Go with your instinct. Personally, I make tapes when 1) I don’t have the means to make a cd, 2) I am making a road trip or exercise mix (see rule #7), or 3) I am in high school. Note: The third category is no longer viable.
2. Live by the three F’s: Fusion of Form and Function. A mixtape should be a cohesive unit. There are no requirements as to what type of music to include (as long as it doesn’t suck—see rule #4), but it is important that the songs you do choose fit with each other, and that they uphold the function of the mix. This is not to say the mixes cannot be eclectic, including both Blackalicious and Whiskeytown, Radiohead and Hot Water Music, or even The Shins and Jefferson Starship. I merely remind you that if you do choose to illustrate your varied musical interests, do so tastefully. The rules that follow will elaborate on this basic tenet.
3. Visualize a craggy mountain range. A good mixtape is not a plateau or a gradual incline. We are not climbing Mt. Everest here: no one wants to wait until the end of the tape for the climax. A good mixtape is like an interval workout. It has anywhere from 5 to 10 summits, all interspersed over the duration of the tape. I usually think of summits as what I feel are the strongest songs on the tape. This doesn’t have to mean loud or upbeat—a strong song is one that you have solidly adored for some time, or that would cause an acute ear to perk up. These songs anchor the mix, and allow for some underdogs to make safe appearances. A balance of slower and faster songs is also key, although it should not be a predictable alternating pattern. I usually like one or two slower songs at the end as a little bit of a fade out, but I wouldn’t go so far as to make that a black letter rule.
4. Do not include bad songs. Seems simple, right? Wrong. Sadly, most mixtapes and mix cds violate this rule in anywhere from one to all of the songs. And sadly, this is the one rule that is hardest for me to articulate without operating on a case by case basis. If you have to think about it, the song probably sucks. If you wish to procure some advice, I or one of my trusted colleagues would be happy to inform you as to strength or suckage of your particular choices.
5. Tone down the ego. This rule is only true if you’re making your mixtape for someone else (which really should account for most of your mixing time). A mixtape should always give the recipient an idea of the maker’s personal musical atmosphere. The all-important caveat, however, is that the maker should always anticipate what, within that musical atmosphere, the recipient would enjoy. You want to appeal to what you know they like, and introduce them to songs you think they would or should appreciate. News flash kids: It’s not all about you.
6. Never guess or lie. You know the drill. Everyone’s talking about a particular song or band. You want to be in on the action. So even though you don’t really like a song, you put it on your mix to look artsy and cool. Bad idea. People will realize quickly that there is something off, and believe me, one off song can ruin the whole thing. Also, never ever think to yourself, “Well, I don’t like this song much now, but maybe if I put it on the mix I’ll grow to like it.” You’re not fooling anyone.
7. Embrace thematic mixes. Themes can be a welcome source of inspiration for a mix. They can refer to the activity the mix is for (e.g., a road trip or exercise), the topic of the songs (e.g., songs about rain), or the person/situation occasioning the mix (e.g., “senior year” or break-up mixes). I’ve been known to make R.E.M.-themed mixes, which are obvious exceptions to rule #8 below. Working with a theme narrows your song options, but still allows for a good deal of creativity.
8. “Re-mix” sparingly. Re-mixing refers to two distinct practices. The first is using the same artist more than once on the same mix, which is rarely acceptable. If the band has had a long and diverse musical career, it is sometimes ok to put a representative song from two different periods. Also, if the lead singer of a band goes on to do solo work, it is ok to represent both phases of his career (like Pavement and Steven Malkmus or Old 97’s and Rhett Miller). The second meaning of “re-mixing” is giving the same cd to two different people. Making a cd for one person and then giving it to someone else later is sneaky and impersonal, but if you’re careful you can get away with it once in a while.
9. Avoid most live recordings. This rule has several exceptions, but I list it anyway because there is nothing more disruptive on a mix than a two minute long interview or long, drawn out applause. The songs need to flow, and live songs can be a huge distraction. If the applause and talking are minimal, it is ok to use a live song on occasion, especially if it is a better or more interesting version than the original. But a 20 minute version of Phish's Dog Faced Boy is totally unacceptable.
10. Remember that there is a huge learning curve. Don’t be ashamed if you feel that your mixes are less than stellar. I don’t like to admit this, but it wasn’t so very long ago that I included The B-52’s and Shania Twain in my mixes. (Think of those tapes as Bekah: The Lost Years). I am still honing my craft. The perfect mix is a moving goal: You may never reach it, but if you keep improving, you can get pretty damn close.
posted by Bekah at 9:59 AM :: |

 
Retraction (Or “In Traction”)

Yesterday, I reported that my guardian angel got her wings in the Dillard’s shoe department. After the day I’ve had, it’s taking every ounce of restraint in my body not to go back there, pin her, and rip the wings off of her loathsome, trembling carcass.

Today was my oral argument for my appellate brief. I woke up early this morning to get dressed in my new suit and new shoes. I walked from the parking garage to the law school building, noting that my heels hurt quite a bit, but not thinking much of it. When I got to Con Law, I noticed a small dark patch on my pants. To my (and my friend Kate’s) extreme horror, I lifted my pant leg to find a pool of blood. Actually two pools. My feet, which until today included useful things called “heels,” were reduced to gory, mangled stumps. Kate, bless her, helped me clean up and gave me her flip-flops. I spent the rest of the day proving that plastic turquoise footwear is the best complement to navy pinstripes. How, might I ask, am I ever supposed to be an intimidating trial attorney? What am I going to do, bleed on opposing counsel?

A Long Day’s Journey into Fright

The shoe debacle was just the beginning. Today was one of the longest, most emotionally challenging days of my life. You see, I have a morbid, clinical fear of public speaking. The fact that I was in danger of bleeding out in Con Law didn’t even faze me in comparison to the thought of giving a five minute oration in front of a panel of professors and writing fellows.

There is absolutely no rational explanation for my phobia. It’s hard to explain the severity of performance anxiety to people who don’t have it. Basically, when I am faced with the prospect of speaking publicly in an academic setting, I actually want to die. I am not exaggerating. In my panic, the entire universe caves in, and I feel like the only thing to do is crawl into a hole and hide until I am safely out of the spotlight. The fact that I can’t hide or run away makes me feel scared, angry, and out of control. Life becomes an impossible responsibility. So bloody heels are a walk in the park. Except for the whole not being able to walk part.

Deliverance

When 4:30 finally rolled around, about 200 years after my fateful hike from the parking garage, it was time for the argument. I gently slid my shoes onto my poor feet, promising them a nice soak if they could just make it through the next twenty minutes without getting bloodstains on the floor. I sat and listened to opposing counsel give their arguments. Then my co-counsel gave hers. When it was my turn, I somehow made it to the podium, but I don’t remember the walk. The words just came. I felt like I was channeling someone; like I was looking in on the room from the outside. I answered the judges’ questions and tied them to my argument. I said “Thank you, your honors.” And then it was over. The minute I finished speaking, I felt like a wet blanket had been lifted from my body. The universe was no longer a stifling, hateful place.

As I walked home in those turquoise flip-flops, I held my head high. I had conquered a first year rite of passage, and had the battle scars to prove it. Law school, no matter what you take from me (including my heels), you can't take away my dignity.
posted by Bekah at 8:02 PM :: |

 
Ooh, Heaven is a Place…Called Dillard’s?

For me, being forced to buy a suit for interviews and oral arguments is at the top of the law school trauma-meter. I do not enjoy being told that my daily uniform of jeans, flip-flops, and band t-shirts is unacceptable attire. I also do not enjoy the prospect of speaking publicly under any circumstances. Thus, a suit has always been a physical manifestation of all that I fear and abhor about law school.

That being said, buying my suit was surprisingly painless. My friend (and fashion guru) LaCosta accompanied me to Ann Taylor, where the first suit I tried on was perfect: a navy pinstriped pantsuit. Professional, yet stylish. Practical, yet not frumpy. Delightfully tacky, yet unrefined? Wait, that’s something else...Anyway, needless to say, I was pleased. But the shoes, I knew, would be an issue. That night, my friend Melissa asked me what kind of shoes I would wear with my suit. “I suppose I’ll have to find some navy pumps,” I heard myself say.

“Can I please quote you on that?” she asked in amused disbelief. She too sensed the sheer absurdity of the situation. Pumps, indeed.

Yesterday I drove out to the mall (cringe) to begin my shoe search. There I was, in my favorite jeans and a t-shirt, conspicuously inspecting a table of designer heels. It was painfully obvious that I had no idea what I was doing. I felt everyone’s eyes on me. Even the 4 year-old boy playing dress up in pink stilettos was passing judgment. I picked up a Liz Claiborne shoe that seemed like it could be navy, and eyed it inquisitively.

As I was considering how close the distinction between royal blue and navy could really be, I heard an angelic voice ask, “Sweetie, can I help you with something?”

I turned, and there she was. A petite Asian woman with cute glasses and a bun with a pencil through it. She was looking at me, not reproachfully or condescendingly, but with genuine concern. I said, “See, I have this navy suit—“

“It’s not that color navy, is it honey?” she asked, glancing disapprovingly at the shoe in my hand. “It’s black-navy, isn’t it? Follow me.” And so, as if in a dream, I followed her as she glided between the tables and shelves and led me to a lovely collection of professional shoes, including a beautiful black-navy pair of heels. She saw the joy in my eyes (I had been in the mall a total of 10 minutes at this point—bliss!) and immediately set out to find me a size 7. When I slipped the shoe on my foot, a heavenly choir burst into song.

And so it came to pass that yesterday, in the shoe department of Dillard’s, my guardian angel got her wings. And I bought my first pair of grownup shoes.

posted by Bekah at 12:40 AM :: |