Say It Like That

Stadium Style Lighting

2011-02-06T16:02:00.000-08:00

note: since I've been spending so much time on these bad boys this winter, I figured I'd post them - my J-school application essays. Also, pictures from this winter.

Stadium Style Lighting

I felt my editor lean over the cubicle wall, but I could not peel my eyes away from the computer screen. “Alexis, are you okay over here?” he asked kindly. With some effort, I broke my gaze.- “I feel like I am walking in a dark cave with only a candle to light my path,” I said. Surprised at my own imagery, I added, “But, yes, I’m fine. Thank you, Kyle. I appreciate it.”
He smiled. “Welp, seems like you got it covered! Let me know if there is anything I can do to help.”
I turned back to my work. There wasn’t much he could do. He knew as little about my assignment as I did. But although I am sure Kyle could have helped me through writing the script, the truth was, he was on a deadline too. With only my candle for a light, I forged on late into the night.
Looking back, my journalism training has largely come through practice and experience. I emulate what I hear and read, pay attention to editorial criticisms, and, when all else fails, I use trial and error. Relying essentially on my own instinct to get to the crux of an issue feels daunting at times, but, when it comes down to it, the process of deliberate analysis and contextualizing ideas supplements the way I have always perceived the world.
As an undergraduate at the University of California, Davis, I majored in English and Managerial Economics. While topically disparate, the majors build on similar principals of formulaic problem solving - working through minutiae in order to uncover some resolution. On a fundamental level, journalism builds on the vary instincts that drew me to both of my majors - instincts to pinpoint specifics in a world of information, and then to contextualize the result as a means to expound a larger narrative.
Attending Berkeley School of Journalism would help me deepen my reporting instincts and also refine my journalistic writing. A professional journalism school, Berkeley mandates mastery of fundamentals while pushing students to reach further into reporting. In doing this, and one of the most established school of its kind, Berkeley sets the bar for journalistic integrity. I look forward to the discipline classes like J200 will demand, in which professors impose strict deadlines and expect high-level work from students. While, I have experienced the pressures of fast-paced newsrooms at NPR, Marketplace, and WAMU, once a story has aired, the time for instruction passes. I welcome the structure of an academic environment in which the curriculum allows space for reflection and deconstruction while imposing challenging newsroom pressures.
The roots of my passion for journalism extend well into my childhood and begin with radio. In my childhood home, the voices coming from talk radio were so constant, they could have constituted a sixth family member. The influx of media had a notable effect on my worldview, and, when presented with the option, I hungrily pursued broadcast journalism. Starting at my college station and then moving to Sacramento’s KQED, D.C.’s WAMU, Marketplace, and finally, to NPR, several years later, I have eventually wound up back where I started: hungry to learn more about a field that inspires me. Radio once represented a connection to an entire world of stories and perspectives beyond the hills of my remote hometown. I now know all deliberate journalism has the power to connect and lessen potentially isolating informational gaps.
I am excited by the idea that as a student at Berkeley I could advance my radio journalism proficiency and also delve into other reporting mediums. I hope to develop my voice as a print journalist and become well versed in the exciting (and practical) language of new media. With these tools, I want to re-enter the field as broadcast reporter who can push journalistic norms and communicate in a way that enlivens worldviews.
As technology and communication continue to evolve, I believe journalists, not only face an incredible opportunity, but the responsibility to expose new perspectives. As always, journalists must make themselves topical experts and, also, masters of communication. I would like to attend Berkeley Graduate School of Journalism so that I will have the tools to innovate in and contribute to this growing exchange of information. When it comes time to forge new territories, instead of a candle to light my path, I hope graduate school will equip me with more of a blowtorch.

A Practitioner

“Alexis, this is a train wreck,“ Meymo hissed. My breath sank into my throat. Meymo’s thickly lined eyes leered at me from underneath a dark halo of hair. Unable to respond and desperate to avoid furtive glances from the rest of the newsroom, I looked down. My cheeks burned.
“How can you call yourself a journalist?” Meymo growled, pinching my half-page script on Advanced Placement testing. I looked back up, a little surprised.
“A journalist?” I thought. “I’ve never called myself a journalist.” I was an intern, a student— a journalist aspirant, at best. Head reeling, I considered my career path.
It was winter quarter of my fourth year at UC Davis when I first stumbled into the journalism world. I had space in my schedule and so signed up for the introductory course. A week in A.G. Block – a director of University of California Center in Sacramento - came to promote his training program for aspiring journalists. Block spoke curtly but passionately about journalism, calling the journalist “not an academic, but a practitioner.” As he pushed through his PowerPoint, explaining journalism’s multifaceted social role, I found myself scribbling down nearly every word he uttered. After years of entertaining elusive career goals, I felt Block – a bald, coach-like, and ostensibly haughty man in his fifties - had aptly put words to a profession that embodied my core instincts: the instincts to listen and contextualize narratives as a means to better understand the world.
I was accepted to Block’s program, which hosted a brief “boot camp” before releasing its interns into the field. I shadowed my new supervisors at KQED radio as they masterfully turned out daily pieces. I began helping with assignments. My supervisor commissioned me to gather sound for a piece on the California Lottery. I asked one woman why she bought into the lotto. The woman replied plainly, “It’s something to hope for.”
Finally, it was my turn to do a piece. I discovered a program called the “crop-swap” in Sacramento – participants gathered weekly to trade homegrown produce. The program built community, promoted sustainability, and helped people eat more healthily. As I began to investigate, I quickly learned that the crop-swap had a hard time finding participants - especially in neighborhoods where it could benefit most.
I tracked down a food-systems professor at UC Davis. She explained that often people don’t feel empowered enough to plant their own gardens – even in a place like Sacramento, which has the most fertile soil in the world. She lamented the senselessness of Sacramento’s “malnutrition epidemic,“ philosophizing that people need to believe they can nourish themselves.
A week later, the crop-swap hosted a potluck at a low-income apartment complex. I cornered a kid pushing strawberries into his mouth. He pointed at his cucumbers growing outside the front door. He said he and his mom gardened every day. As he proudly grinned, a strawberry stuck in his front braces made him look sort of like a renegade pirate.
I didn’t plant a garden after my story, but I did seek more journalism opportunities. Securing an internship at WAMU – D.C.’s local NPR affiliate - I finished my last college quarter remotely. My first day, I waited in the News Director’s office for two hours. He finally sauntered in, listened to a few minutes of my work and handed me a press release. I then reported to my new supervising editor - Meymo. She held my hand for a day or two and then, to my horror, released my hand entirely.
Two weeks later, I stood in the middle of the newsroom, witnessing Meymo curse my script on AP testing and feeling surprised at her reference to me as a journalist. As she clawed at the last vestiges of my self-doubt, exposing my burning cheeks and disoriented expression, something clicked. I am a journalist. Block’s declaration, my honeymoon summer in Sacramento, the proud kid with home-grown cucumbers, and now, my fear of failing at a profession that I find so noble all came together. I fumbled back to my desk. I smoothed my script and placed it above my keyboard.
When I finally looked up from my research, I was alone. I switched off the computer. Gazing into an empty newsroom, I felt strangely grounded. Although the devastation from the afternoon’s assault still hung heavily over me, I could feel an equal force of determination rise within me. I now knew more about AP testing than, probably, any other reporter at WAMU.

The Practitioner Part II

     Orlando Tisum’s voice faltered -“Many of us never tell anyone we have been tortured.” His gaze drifted toward his clasped hands. Tisum had spoken fluidly up to this point, his feet dangling lightly over his yellow armchair. Without looking up, he continued softly, “I still have never told my family about what happened to me.”
     In the three hours I spent talking to Tisum, he rehashed four years of imprisonment in the Philippines, his battle with PTSD, and his current work as a counselor for torture survivors like himself. As I began to piece together the interview, I grew anxious. I only had a minute and a half of airtime. Tisum had taken a risk in telling me his story. I felt that I had to get it right.
    My interest in storytelling extends well into my childhood. The voices of radio journalism were so constant in my home growing up, they could have constituted a sixth family member. As a kid, the stories on the radio provided a connection to a vast world of people and perspectives beyond the remote valley where I lived.
    Despite my esteem for radio, it was not until my fourth year at UC Davis that I chanced upon taking an elective journalism course. A week into instruction, AG Block - the director of the UC Center in Sacramento - came to promote his "journalism boot camp” program. Block asserted the journalist as “not an academic, but a practitioner.”   As he pushed through his PowerPoint, I found myself scribbling down nearly every word he uttered. Aspiring toward elusive career goals for most of my life, I felt like Block had aptly put words to a profession that embodied something I have always pursued: the instincts to listen to and contextualize narratives as a means to better understand the world.
    I completed Block’s program and then found an internship at KQED – Northern California’s Public Radio. Eager to reach further, I moved to the nation’s capitol for an internship at WAMU - DC’s NPR station. A few weeks in, I came across Tisum.
    I agonized as I felt Tisum’s story slipping away with my edits. After hours of rewrites, I went back to the tape and listened again.
    The writers that influence me to tell stories like Tisum’s - understand the strength of authenticity. Writers like Peggy Orenstein avoid the lure of conflating issues, caricaturing or loaded word choice. These writers write with graceful discernment. Recently, Peggy Orenstein wrote a piece for the New York Times Magazine entitled, “Think About Pink.” She illustrated how the hype of breast cancer campaigns - making “sexy” something serious - renders its sufferers invisible. While Orenstein spoke as a breast cancer survivor herself, she evoked no self-pity or personal agenda. On the contrary, through her keen account, Orenstein conveyed a universal message: casual acceptance of social phenomena serves an injustice to all.
    From the glass ceiling to xenophobic policy, oppression often exists in forms that are outwardly innocuous or well intentioned. As a supervisor at Marketplace once told me, “ The strongest stories are often right in front of us, and hardest to see.” At NPR, WAMU, Marketplace and KQED I have learned to scrutinize the mundane for story ideas.
    Institutions like the Cultural Reporting and Criticism Program at NYU prize the art of deliberate writing - and thereby preserve and innovate storytelling. In a recent article for the NY times, Roiphe, dean and professor at CRC asserts, “The secret function of the critic today is to write beautifully, and in so doing protect beautiful writing.” I find myself reading through Roiphe’s pieces over and over again. I read them aloud to friends and forward them to family because they are written so poignantly. In graduate school, I would look forward to mastering journalistic fundamentals and developing my voice under an instructor as motivated and skilled as Roiphe.
    As journalism migrates to the web, it faces a world of opportunities. One of my favorite film critics, A.O. Scott reports for the New York Times and has begun to produce video pieces to accompany his movie reviews. While I have always enjoyed Scott’s work, his multimedia supplements are more participatory and less didactic than his written reviews - creating more of a discussion and less of a lecture. At NYU I look forward to learning the language of new-media and taking advantage of technology's capacity to spark interest and stimulate discussion.
    After graduate school, I intend to have the skills I need to contribute to publications I admire like the Daily Beast, The Atlantic, The New Yorker, NPR and the New York Times he Daily Beast, The Atlantic, The New Yorker, NPR and The New York Times. Publications like these prize the individual’s right to information. These outlets organize information as a way to create discussion and interest, without misleading their audiences. As a result, I believe these outlets produce stories that engage because they are fair. Conversely, journalists who fabricate for the sake of engaging one-liners evoke little from me. For example, Maureen Dowd – a regular New York Times columnist – I find, reports inconsistently, often sacrificing hard facts for caricatures.
     Through my writing experience at WAMU, NPR and Marketplace, I have learned what it means to be a practitioner. With enough research and attention, stories and arguments do not need added flare. As I went through Tisum’s tapes again, the script finally came together. I listened to the story air the next morning from my bedroom radio. As it ended I turned the volume down, looking back toward the dusty sunlight that striped the wall next to my bed. “I liked it,” I thought. It was short, not extravagant - but it was a fair account, and it was Tisum’s story.
     At CRC, I hope to become more conscious of my writing and reporting by developing the skills I need to aptly frame stories and contextualize information. In and out of grad school, my intentions will always be to challenge norms and enliven worldviews – just as writers and publications I admire have enlivened mine.

oh, no you didn't

2011-01-11T11:58:00.000-08:00

The snow glimmered like stars blinking in the night sky, as it piled atop the hills of old pines. My brother turned up the heat. I rolled up my window.

My brother then explained to my cousin that he had learned a new way to get slow cars to move over. "You just flash your lights at them, and they move over. It totally works," he said.

He came up behind a car that traversed cautiously through the windy mountain road. He gave his lights a flicker and the car in front of him moved into the right lane.

"Woah!" my cousin excalimed.
"Yeah, totally works" my brother said with a nod and a grin.
"And instead of flipping people off who drive slow I now just make eye contact with them and wave my finger - like, 'Oh no, you didn't.' Way better."

I chuckled from the backseat and buckled my seat belt.

Deadlines

2010-11-19T11:32:00.000-08:00

I missed the apple season
You missed the Giant’s winning the world series-
the leaves beginning to change and cars on fire.
You missed voting for Prop 19 and a weekend disaster for Dems. I missed that too.
You went missing in the crowd when I missed your calls that day,
I had fun but I missed you.
I missed the other one and you missed that.
You missed me being a drag while dragging a boy in drag-
a cloud and a myth with grapes on his head. I missed what he said.
We missed four exits driving back to my house after you missed the last metro
And your last night, you missed three trains, two buses and one free ride home.
On my last day, I missed my flight home because I missed you too much
And, perhaps, you missed me too much too,
because maybe
I just missed it.

Swim

2010-10-26T11:13:00.000-07:00

The heavy, red curtains that the landlord left at your house, block any light from the street but also block any fresh air. And so, I lie in the dark, without any covers, listening to a domestic dispute across the street. They are screaming and throwing things. I sit up and pull the shade back and watch a man run down a flight of stairs, furiously mutter something to himself, and then run back up the stairs. He disappears into the apartment. I lie back down and consider my obligation to call authorities. Finally the shouts fade and my mind drifts- loosely remembering this morning.
My parents and sister had left for continental breakfast and, being a straggler myself, I hung around with my nephew- who slept soundly on a bed near the window.
I finally called my sister to tell her I was ready to leave and she came back to the room and gently opened the curtains.
The Eastern sun flooded between the heavy Best Western drapes. She released the draw string and reclined onto his bed.
She gazed as the light washed over her baby- spilling over his face and into his sleeping eyes. He began to roll and splash in the sun. He stretched his hands and chin away from his body and then back toward his knees. He twisted and yawned.
As his stretch came to a close and his swollen eyes widened, he planted his feet, bent his knees, shrieked and then leapt onto her- landing flatly on her chest- and then catching his balance before he bounced back onto the wrinkled white sheets.
With her face as relaxed and soft as I had ever seen it, she cooed at him and took him in her arms and kissed his face.
I curl out of your bed over your quiet legs- kissing your sleeping lips and
You tug at my hand.
I didn’t make this to share it.

They have a new album coming out this week and I'm very glad.

"Noveltyies"

2010-10-22T18:21:00.000-07:00

When I looked back he was bent sideways over the comforter he had taken from his parent’s house- right from one of the beds-but his feet still sat squarely on the car floor. His right hand lay on his chest over a Sunday Crossword and still loosely grasped a ball point pen.
I looked forward at the road and then twisted back around again. I poked the blanket a few inches from his head. “Matttt” I cooed. He did not respond. I felt a tinge of disappointment. “He’s asleep” I said to Liz.

Liz and I had to break our sing-fest about an hour later because I had downed two diet cokes and a water bottle, and when I made any noise or movement at all, I felt like I was going to be sick. We pulled over at a truck stop to use the lady's room and Matt sat back up, "Your guys' music sucks," he said.

I jumped out of the car and stiffly jogged inside, pausing briefly to notice the "Cool Beans" banner that hung above the doorway. Following signs, I found the bathrooms next to a group of washing machines.

I sighed and walked out of the restroom feeling elated. Nearly strutting at my physical relief, I leisurely began to make my way to the door, when I noticed a pair of sunglasses laying humbly upon a poorly organized rack- the frames looked glow-in-the-dark. "Glow-in-the-dark frames," I thought to myself, "That is very cool." I looked closer at the yellow lenses and read allowed, "Great for night time driving." I picked them off the rack and then reached to give the dusty plastic a spin. Another cool pair.

Thinking that I should hurry, I absently turned my head to find the cash register. My eyes wandered upward. "Wait, that air brush jungle cat painting over the Emergency Exit is awesome," I noticed in alarm. I looked to the left and became aware that the roof lifted up into the next room and beyond me natural light shed upon an entire ware-house size barn of stuff. I absently released the two other pairs of sunglasses from my left hand (kept to the two in my right) and walked toward the light. "Wait, is that a clothing section full of straw hats and leather jackets? Are those flutes? What is that in back? Is that a shoe section?" I thought about Liz and Matt waiting in the car and then thought to myself as I began to scour the long aisles of treasure "Thank me later, guys."

An hour and $34 later, we left the truck stop (we were going to leave after, probably, half the time, but then we realized there was a second story). As we walked back to the car, Matt pointed at a sign that hung next to the "Cool Beans" banner. "Noveltyies," it read.

One Art

2010-10-22T10:24:00.000-07:00

The art of losing isn't hard to master;
so many things seem filled with the intent
to be lost that their loss is no disaster,

Lose something every day. Accept the fluster
of lost door keys, the hour badly spent.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

Then practice losing farther, losing faster:
places, and names, and where it was you meant
to travel. None of these will bring disaster.

I lost my mother's watch. And look! my last, or
next-to-last, of three beloved houses went.
The art of losing isn't hard to master.

I lost two cities, lovely ones. And, vaster,
some realms I owned, two rivers, a continent.
I miss them, but it wasn't a disaster.

-- Even losing you (the joking voice, a gesture
I love) I shan't have lied. It's evident
the art of losing's not too hard to master
though it may look like (Write it!) a disaster.

Elizabeth Bishop

I wrote this a year ago- I think as a response to a NPR Intern Edition blog prompt, but it was too long or something. The prompt was "Where did you come from" (as indicated in the first line). I've come far since then, but I think my general feelings are the same- as I am at yet another stage of transition.

Where did I come from?
I came from California… from a house with a screened in back porch and a small dog. The dog’s name is Molly and when I was a kid I used to watch her leap down the hill next to our house like an antelope. The grass was high and so between leaps she'd disappear.
My older sister and I set up a slip 'n slide during the summer on this same hill (and sometimes during the winter…the slip-n-slide was actually an all year activity for the two of us). We placed the long, blue tarp (slip 'n slide) at the steepest part of the hill. This happened to end in a line of rose bushes and so, conveniently, adding to the challenge and excitement of the sport, was the pre-rose bush-collision-roll.
My brother came around when I was three. When he became old enough to talk he and my sister would gang up on me (in my opinion) because he was, obviously, the cutest child of the family and she was the most advantaged. I dug my fingernails into my brother’s soft forearms. He would dig back and we would stand there with fingers digging, frozen, with our jaws clenched and staring into each others grimacing eyes in a battle of strength and obstinacy.
When we got older, we started liking each other more. At parties people would tell my parents, “It’s so nice that your kids like each other.” I always felt a little uncomfortable with these remarks. I would think,“ I think we look like we like each other more than we actually do…” I would take my hand off of my brother’s shoulder and brush my fingers over the permanent scars left from long afternoons of forearm mutilation and then scoot away from him a little.
But we did like each other, mostly because my parents liked us and, in my opinion, were really good to us. They were fair and kind. They got us to do things we didn’t want to do… and not do things that we wanted to do but shouldn’t. I remember listening to Billy Joel’s “In the middle of the Night” and dancing around the kitchen while my dad and I put away the dishes.
I was ready to move out by college, but I wasn’t ready to leave my two best friends- who are still my two best friends. Although we have yet to agree on a design that is all three funny, attractive and timeless, we are so invested in each other that we talk about getting a best friend tattoo. When the two of them both left for college a couple weeks before I went to college, I was so upset that I couldn’t get out of bed for three days. My sister finally came up to my room and lay next to me. She told me that I would see them again soon and that they would always be a part of my life. This was the first time I had to deal with loss.
Since then, I have been in, what seems like, a constant state of transition and loss. I have lost boyfriends, friends, jobs, and many cities. Through this loss, I have gained my entire life.
My friend’s sister recently died and he has two twin siblings with MS who are on their way out. He told me that when he went back home to England to say goodbye to his sister, his dad told him how nice it was to have him back. He could not look his dad in the eyes.
One night just after he returned to D.C., he and I sat outside of a bar and he recalled to me his recent trip home and the conversation he had with his best friend. Their conversation went something like this (told from his voice):

“You know, I’m never coming back here,” I started crying and he started crying. “I know,” he said. I kicked the gravel in front of me with my head down and my thumbs looped in my pockets. The cool London evening settled upon us but I caught a glimpse of his damp face, his flushed skin.

I am here because of everything I have lost which keeps me moving.

This a picture of my sister at Disneyland looking hilarious.

2010-04-02T10:04:00.000-07:00

Between the palm the basket

Old men lounged in the sunny park chairs like cats and chirped to each other like birds.

This morning was that kind of spring morning.

Between the higher and the pleasant.

On the good and before the rising.

2010-01-13T19:23:00.000-08:00

as it swept before us

islands of washed-out plane rides and calico-ed corners
our friends embraced on the front doorstep behind the blankets of fresh snow and
speedy dinners.

we thought this would never end.

Magnolia

2010-01-13T13:23:00.000-08:00

I realized I had forgotten everything,
I had forgotten
my dirty fingernails and your healthy habits-
I just needed a few days to settle in.
So, we drank our coffee that morning trying not to think about all of the things we didn't do and couldn't say.

Within the tunnels of the steel colored office buildings,
you talked to purple bellied pigeons, trying to tame them, I assume.
You bent toward them and twirled your hands-using your fingers to translate.
You used your soothing voice and smiled, patiently.
They just squawked at you.

I waited for the light to turn.

I slid my ring off my swollen index finger and placed it on the honey-colored floor.
It sparkled from where I stood.
I wished you would come visit me here. It would make me more comfortable.

Thank you aliens for giving my kid brother something to believe in

2009-10-22T12:06:00.000-07:00

I looked out at the dimming summer landscape below us
Marveling at our height and at the town’s planned lines
As my brother gazed at the cloudy sky.
“Did you see that?” he swung up from his position of repose.
Startled, I grasped the red, chalky rocks on which we perched.
“That light! There it is again!”
Regaining my balance, I responded, “It’s probably an airplane, Bruce.”
“No, it’s not moving. There it is!”
I wondered how we could have possibly come from the same family.
“Bruce, we gotta go. We are never going to be able to climb down in the dark.”
“Just wait a few minutes. I want to see if this thing moves.”
We waited for another thirty minutes. Sporadically, he would yelp at another sighting.
We climbed down just as it was getting too dark.

Yesterday I got a message from him.
“Remember those lights we saw? They were airplane reflectors.”
I wrote back “haha.”
He wrote, “How boring.”
"Boring?"I questioned. I’ve never thought of it like that before.

Hello Fall

2009-10-05T18:55:00.000-07:00

Maybe it’s because I am from season-inept California, but fall always catches me off guard. It hits me like a familiar song that I should know, but just can’t place. Finally, I ask what we are listening to and someone in the car says, “Dude, Alexis, this is the Velvet Underground,” and I feel really uncool for asking. As the cool breeze and coppery light gently greeted me yesterday afternoon, I kept thinking to myself, “How do I know this feeling?” Finally, as my roommate and I were walking back up our stairs after a long bike ride home from a record sale, it hit me. It feels how Thanksgiving feels in Ojai. This is the air that makes my family unsure if we should eat outside with a heater on or inside with the door open. This is reminding me of that giddy feeling I get before Halloween and how much I love Hot Toddies on Sunday and the weird urge I get to go pumpkin picking (which I find kind of boring, but, for some reason, do every year).

I took my helmet off, unzipped my hoody and unbungeed our new records from my bike rack. Our cheeks turned even pinker as my roommate and I entered the sunny house. “Which record do you want to listen to first?” my housemate asked. He had bought The Count Counts, two Bruce Springsteen’s and a Les and Mary. I bought a Melanie Safka, Dire Straits and Neil Young. I couldn’t remember if I had heard the Dire Straits before, but he told me it was his favorite album and so we sat down on the screened-in porch to give it a listen. As the needle began to drag across the popping vinyl, memories of my dad wearing a Bull’s tank top and roaming in out of the house between flipping records and doing yard work rushed back to me. After a few songs, my roommate and I stood up to do other things. He started his laundry and I went inside to read.

For a moment, fall was everywhere as it seeped into my pallet with its maroons and yellows. Before we notice, its brisk air and stray leaves will have reminded us of winter's imminence and then will be gone. Dire Straits played on, and before I had noticed it had stopped, my housemate switched in The Count Counts.

Drama Couch

2009-09-25T13:35:00.000-07:00

My friend and I had a conversation about phone voices and how we find ourselves doing them and it's funny. This got me thinknig...

My mom has the most ridiculous phone persona. First of all, her voicemail: back in the day, it used to be, probably, a full two minutes long. She included her full name and title, and, like, all six of the other numbers where one could reach her. Just in case she couldn’t be contacted, she directed people to 911. I guess this last recommendation may have been offered, mainly, for her clients or whatever, but, I think it was a little bit geared at her family. She wanted us to just take one more second to ask ourselves, “How bad is our situation right now? How much of an emergency is it that mom comes and picks me up from school right now? Is it 911- dire?” I would think to myself, “I need a ride home SO BAD… I don’t want to walk the mile home from school SO MUCH” and then imagine calling, “Uh…hello? Um, police? Are you really busy right now?… cause… it’s really hot out.. “and then, contemplate how awesome it would be if the police did nice things like that.

In fact, as a kid, I think I had this idea that the police kind of were there to pick me up from school whenever my mom couldn’t. I saw them more like a mentor or something, just there, you know, to help you out whenever you were a little unsure of what else to do.

This made me a little 911-crazy. At overnight tennis camp (yes, I went to overnight tennis camp), an instructor passed out mid-tennis match (I, later, learned that this was no big deal; kids and instructors pass out all the time at overnight tennis summer camp. People treat passing out of fellow tennis players, much like, how I imagine, celebrities treat tabloids…) Anyways, my friend and I were the only ones around when this instructor collapsed mid-backhand and it dawned on me, as he was falling to the ground, that this could be my first, of what I hoped to be many, calls to the police. My heart started pounding and my friend and I ran to the girls dorm to call 911, leaving the passed-out tennis instructor on the court. A few minutes later, an ambulance arrived. By then the dehydrated instructor had come to and scolded us for jumping the gun. Apparently, the tennis instructor had no health insurance…I had no idea what that meant… we grumbled away and, when out of ear-shot, agreed we had done the right thing.

The second time I called the police was in high school. My friend and I returned to my empty house one weekend night and saw that all of the lights were on. Sure that this was the robber’s signature house-robbing trick, we called the police and our male friends. We waited outside, trembling, hearing strange noises, and huddled close together until everyone had arrived (the boys and the police showed up right around the same time…which was awkward…for all parties). They entered together, awkwardly and took a look around. Minutes later they exited the house, saying that they had found nothing. We muttered our slightly embarrassed, “That’s weird. I guess you can never be too cautious. Thanks, anyways?” and then entered the house where we were bemused that we were still kind of drunk even though we hadn’t drank since we left the house earlier that evening. We, then, remembered that we were so drunk when we had left, that we had to run back three or four times to get things that we had forgotten. We had to fetch items from upstairs and downstairs and in my parents room. We, really, had to cover the whole house looking for forgotten purses and makeup and cell phones. We, then, realized that, we had needed the lights to better look for these items and that, we were in such a drunken rush that we had left the doors open for the animals to get in. My cat, then, gently laced around my ankles and jumped onto the counter with a quiet but distinct, “thump.”
But that whole situation is still pretty spooky to me….

Being fat is hip... Finally, God!

2009-09-09T11:40:00.001-07:00

http://www.nytimes.com/2009/08/13/fashion/13POTBELLY.html

2009-06-24T19:56:00.001-07:00

Here are the links to some of the pieces I have been working on. They are kind of after-the-fact.
Even so, here they are.

Also, does anyone know how to upload audio? Is it possible?

D.C. Students Come Together for Showcase

2009-06-24T19:54:00.001-07:00

June 17, 2009 - More than 150 kids from after-school programs in under-served neighborhoods around D.C. will take the stage tonight at the Atlas Theatre in Northeast for a performing arts showcase.

Alexis Kenyon has details...

http://wamu.org/news/09/06/17.php

Community Rallies to Support Struggling Food Banks

2009-06-24T19:47:00.000-07:00

Community Rallies to Support Struggling Food Banks

Sat, 20 Jun 2009 00:06:00 -0400

Today, the community of Frederick, Va., will help feed the hungry as part of the annual Juneteenth festival in Mullinix Park. Guy Mutcher, director of food services at Frederick's Rescue Mission, says the Mission noticed recently that its shelves were looking barren.

Alexis Kenyon reports...

http://feeds.wamu.org/WAMU885LocalNewsPodcast

Housing May Be Therapeutic For Homeless

2009-06-24T19:39:00.000-07:00

Housing may be Therapeutic For Homeless

For 7 years, 60-year-old, Walter Douglas Brooks trudged through the streets of D.C., looking for a bed and a free meal. Today, off the streets and into an apartment funded by the Housing First program, Brooks says he has regained a sense of purpose.

Alexis Kenyon reports...

http://wamu.org/audio/nw/09/06/n2090615-27038.asx

orrr

http://wamu.org/news/09/06/15.php

Educators Discuss Ways to Keep Students In School

2009-06-24T19:27:00.000-07:00

June 24, 2009 - In Maryland, graduation rates have stagnated during the last decade, and educators are looking for new ways to keep students in school. Education officials convened the Dropout Prevention Leadership Summit in Baltimore this week. Bill Rinehart is with the Maryland State Department of Education. He says reaching students while they are young is crucial.

Alexis Kenyon reports...

http://feeds.wamu.org/WAMU885LocalNewsPodcast

2009-06-03T16:11:00.000-07:00

A few Art Beat write ups.... I write these and someone reads them on the radio... I think some of them are kind of funny... some people don't think they are that funny...

(June 6) You may be in Denali

Since 2007, do you have a loss of appetite? Are you tired all the time? You may be experiencing signs of depression that rock band Denali broke up. Lucky for you, Singer Maura Davis will reunite with the rest of the band members of Denali tonight at the Black Cat. Also playing will be Ki:Theory and Pygmy Lush. Show starts at 9.

(June 10) Aha! I found gold for Christmas, Santo.

Santogold will play at the 930 club tonight. Santogold’s sound falls somewhere between 1980’s go-go, the Pixies and dubstep, helpful? No? Maybe we should not classify, and just enjoy Santogold’s delightful knack for pop while we dance like the lights are out, darlin. Show starts at 8.

(June 11) Looking for Summer Bromance?

Peter Brotzman’s Full Blast will play at the Velvet Lounge tonight. Brotzman has released over thirty albums of free Jazz during his career and is said to be among the most important European Jazz artists. Brotzman’s music ranges from aggressive and primal, to light and moody. Also on the bill are members of Fugazi, Thievery Corporation and Kohoutek.

(June 12)

You’ll like this Paper Jam

Civilian Art Projects is presenting its second annual exhibition of music-based posters opening June 12 from 7-9pm. Paper Jam will display a cross-section of artists, designers and printmakers including Ana Benaroyam, Jordan Bernier, Jeffery Everett, John Foster plus many more.

(June 14)- Sunset Rubdown

Shut up I’m dreaming of going to the Sunset Rubdown show at the Black Cat Mainstage, at 8:00pm tonight. The music will remind me of lead singer/songwriter Spencer Krug’s other band Wolf Parade, but with a little more “rock.” Also on the bill will be Witches and Elfin Saddle. $13 Adv/ $15 DOS Mainstage 8:00

(June 15)- Laura Gibson

Laura Gibson will sing sweet folks songs at the Black Cat Backstage tonight. We recommend that audiences sit on the floor cross legged with eyes closed and maybe holding hands with their best friend when listening. The Oregon-based singer/songwriter’s inspired lyrics and masterful melodies will be playing with Musee Mecanique. Show starts at 9.

(June 17) Teaches for Peaches

Peaches is still around and still ready to give you a little more than you asked for at the 930 club tonight. The artist, known for her risqué electroclash and painfully catchy club hits, will surely make “the party come alive.”

(June 18) Metric

Metric will play at the 9:30 club tonight. Even if you aren’t a softy for simplistic dance-punk and new wave electronic, going to see lead singer Emily Haines is worth it. You may remember Haines from Broken Social Scene, Stars or her impressive solo career. Also on the bill are Sebastian Grainger and Smile Smile.

(June 21) Camera Obscura

Camera Obscura and Anni Rossi will play at the 9:30 club tonight. Camera Obscura calls themselves a collection of misfits, we call them precious. The Scotland based band plays pop folk supported by a net of 1950’s surf rock. Both bands will woo show goers with heartbreaking vocals and genuine musicianship. Show starts at 8.

2009-06-03T15:53:00.001-07:00

Here is a piece that aired today... it's kind of a downer... sorry mom and dad (if you haven't noticed 90% of the comments on my page are from my parents.... so, i figure, I might as well address them specifically)

Death of Teen Causes Community to Reevaluate Public Safety

June 03, 2009 - A middle class suburban community is searching for answers following the beating death of a 14-year-old boy just blocks from his home in Crofton, Md. The death of Christopher Jones, who was attacked while riding his bicycle last Saturday, has shaken up residents of Crofton. Anne Arundel County Executive John Leopold has called for a community meeting tonight at 7 at the Walden Golf Club to discuss public safety.

Alexis Kenyon reports...

http://www.wamu.org/news/09/06/03.php#26841

2009-05-27T13:55:00.000-07:00

Story on Torture:

Survivors of Torture Join Together for Support

May 26, 2009 - People who have been severely traumatized often never fully recover. Orlando Tisum knows that. He is a survivor of torture and he has dedicated his life to helping others like himself.

Alexis Kenyon reports...

file:///Users/alexiskenyon/Desktop/torture.asx

2009-05-25T20:44:00.000-07:00

Teen Fathers Search for Support

May 08, 2009 - In D.C., the number of teen pregnancies has dropped by 57 percent in the last 10 years. But, as Alexis Kenyon reports, becoming a father is something that many boys don't consider until it's too late...

Teen fathers: file:///Users/alexiskenyon/Desktop/n16090508-26489.asx

this is all i can find now.

2009-05-25T09:59:00.000-07:00

http://wamu.org/news/

So. If you would like to hear any of the work that I am doing, go to this site. I will post when I have a story up. They are only on the website for a weak, but until I figure out how to get them up myself, this is the best way to access them.

I have a story that will be posted on Tuesday May 26th about torture survivors. There will be another later this week.

Speaking with the people at the torture survivors center was an incredible experience. These people are moving in their passion and their perspective. There was so much that I couldn't include. I am thinking about making a longer piece on my own time because they really deserve to be heard (and I have a gold mine of audio clips that will make you cry).

She has a knack for the Sentimental

2009-05-25T09:42:00.000-07:00

I’m not sure if we trusted each other,
You in your undeveloped bedroom and me in my misconstrued real world-
And I think this may be why we spoke over each other,
Besides the fact that we thought it was funny.
Now that I think about it, I am not sure where to place
the occasional loving glance and
Fleeting tender feeling .
Besides beneath layers and layers of deciding to not call you
and calling you all the time-
or below layers and layers of just thinking you are kind of cute and pretty funny
And that funny feeling when I thought you might think I’m pretty
Or that you are pretty over me.

And right when I wonder why you haven’t invested anything,
I wonder if you have,

maybe

And I wonder if I have.

2009-05-14T19:36:00.000-07:00

This blog is turning quickly into a mud of things that I find entertaining...

http://awkwardfamilyphotos.com/
http://awkwardfamilyphotos.files.wordpress.com/2009/05/pregnant-trashy-couple.jpg?w=406&h=604

Thanks, Sabri

2009-05-14T12:42:00.000-07:00

So, DC has the most epic happy hour of all time. Freakishly into happy hour. I have seen happy hour at Borders, Trader Joes, Happy Hour for Dogs, Happy Hour for public bathrooms (don't even ask...). The Asylum is the most legendary Happy Hour I have seen so far. It is so legendary that you can't even find it on their website. YEAH, that legendary.

$0.25 beers? Are you kidding me?

I highlighted the most important part of this Washington Post review. The owners say that they want to get the "night going early." You're telling me! and ending early. At this rate you are surely to be smashed by 6pm. You may make up the cents you've save with bottles of ibuprofen in the morning.

Seeking Asylum From the Typical Bar
By Fri
Friday, February 27, 2004

On Adams Morgan's crowded, neon-lit 18th Street strip, it's always easy to spot Asylum -- just look for the phalanx of Harley-Davidson hogs and streamlined Japanese motorcycles parked outside.

You don't have to know the difference between a Sportster and a Road King to take advantage of the weekly Miller High Life Countdown (formerly the Shiner Bock Countdown), one of the most popular happy hours in town. Every Saturday night, pints of High Life cost a quarter from 5 to 6, with the price increasing 50 cents per hour until 11.

P.S. I'm not kidding about the doggy happy hour:

All Dogs go to Happy hour.

2009-05-14T12:31:00.000-07:00

um, not that i will ever make this... but I would like to.

Blueberry-Basil Ice Cream
Makes ten 1/2-cup servings

MAKE AHEAD: The ice cream mixture needs to be chilled overnight before placing it in the ice cream maker for processing. The ice cream needs at least 2 hours’ time in the freezer before serving.

12 ounces blueberries, stemmed and rinsed
15 to 18 basil leaves (1/4 cup, packed)
1 1/4 cups sugar
12 large egg yolks (3/4 cup)
1 pint heavy cream
1 pint half-and-half

Combine the blueberries, basil and 1/4 cup of the sugar in a small saucepan over medium-low heat. Cook, stirring frequently, for about 10 minutes, until the berries mostly collapse and yield their juices. Transfer the mixture to a blender and let it cool there for 30 minutes.

Meanwhile, make the ice cream base: Combine the remaining cup of sugar and the egg yolks in a large mixing bowl, stirring to form a thick mixture.

Combine the heavy cream and half-and-half in a medium saucepan over medium heat just until it bubbles at the edges. Remove from the heat.

Whisk about 1/2 cup of the heated dairy mixture into the egg yolk-sugar mixture; this will help temper the egg yolks. Then slowly whisk in the remaining heated mixture, taking care not to overheat the egg yolks (or they may curdle).

Pour the combined mixture into a large saucepan; heat over medium to medium-low heat, stirring until it has thickened almost to a pancake-batter consistency and can coat the back of a spoon (6 to 8 minutes). Remove from the heat. Strain through a fine-mesh strainer into a clean deep bowl.

Puree the cooled blueberry mixture in the blender until smooth, then strain, if desired, into the ice cream base. Stir to mix well. Cover and refrigerate for 8 to 12 hours (overnight). The mixture should be noticeably thicker.

Transfer to the frozen container of an ice cream maker and process, following the manufacturer’s directions (20 to 30 minutes). The ice cream will be soft but servable right away. For best results, transfer to a container with a tight-fitting lid, then cover and freeze for about 2 hours before serving.

Per 1/2-cup serving: 406 calories, 5 g protein, 32 g carbs, 26 g fat, 16 saturated fat, 340 mg cholesterol, 61 mg sodium, 1 g fiber, 31 g suga

2009-05-11T21:48:00.000-07:00

I am not intending for this to be a blog of all poems... i swear.

Cannonball

I suppose, we had expected it to be sunny.
We could feel our skin prickle standing
Above the abandoned swimming pool.
The breeze quietly belted against our bare legs and stomachs.
Our bikinis did little to guard against the February chill.

We bent our knees and leapt.
My chin hugged my thighs and my arms wrapped around my shins.
My eyes closed.

We hit with a loud “splat!”
The cold quickly covered our heads as we sunk in,
And the water lashed our tense necks-

And my body unfolded from its pre-collision position
Upon immersion, and my eyes opened wide to see what my palms
Already felt and what began to
Tickle my startled skin.

We burst through the surface,
Taking a deep breath and looking for each other,
To see the other’s reaction to
Our gross misjudgment.

2009-05-11T21:04:00.000-07:00

If we were idealists

Remember when you were in a band
And we thought smoking cigarettes was cool-
Because it was cool.
And the lightening lit up my room so brightly
That I could see it through my closed eyes-
And I laughed as I laid in bed remembering our
matching pea costumes-
I can hear whistling and thunder,
All the way across the country from you
Years and years away from that corner and those green suits.
My basil plant is still alive- sitting at the stormy window-
A first for me. And you are living and happy and I am happy too.

Say it like that: mission statement- Top ten reasons to start my fourth blog

2009-05-11T19:35:00.000-07:00

Today I ordered something off Amazon for the first time. I saw Ralph Nader talk for the first time. And now, I am starting a blog...for like the tenth time... but, this time, its for realz... sorry to the people who have my other blogs on their pages... I haven't figured out how to delete them... but when I do, I will delete them (tips?).

Top Ten Reasons I'm starting a Blog:

#1 I want to be super famous and so that's obviously the first reason I am making a blog.
#2 Because I am in DC and so, I would like to share my life with people (Yeah, you)

#3 Because I have a bunch of radio pieces that I will put on here so that you can check them if you want

#4 To combat the internet being something that I consume and something to which I don't contribute

#5 Because I have a old-man crush on Ralph Nader and he thinks our generation needs to step up. Direct quote from Ralph Nader: "You only have around 2000 week until your 60. Didn't last week go quickly. Don't waste time." Maybe I will put the portrait of him that I drew up when I get a scanner.... and that love ballad...

#6 I'm actually giving two to Ralph Nader (sorry, it's MY blog. I can if i want.... God, having your own blog totally ruleeezzz- i'm really loving this)... so #6: Ralph Nader said that our generation needs to have a fire in our bellies (our collective bellies)- god, he is so great...

Oh yea! #7 so i can procrastinate working on my paper (so, if you feel like you really need to hear bout DiY culture and the spaces it occupies.. please, bug me to tell you about it.)

#8 Reason: Because Dillon just made a blog (my sissy)

I feel like I should to go to ten.. aw, screw it! god, being a blogger feels goddamned good!

Part II: You might be thinking, "Wait, so are you just making this blog to post pictures of like cats and stuff?"

(maybe)

But, I will be posting other stuff too. Just to prepare you.. (cause I know that you are like totally worried about my blog as your number one priority)... I am writing a paper on DiY culture and the spaces it occupies. So, I will be putting stuff up about that for the next few weeks.

Also, I will put up radio pieces. Thoughts. Pictures of me that are totally hot showing off my hot bod (duh).

I mighht put up some poems... cause I'm crazy artsy. And, I might put up some other photos (yea, no, I'm not even kidding you).

Oh, right. And just to let you know. I made up the name for my friend John's blog which I'm really proud of (he's gay! yea, that's right... i have tons of gay dude friends. kind of like Kathy Griffin.. which is a really unflattering description of me. I find her hilarious but really unattractive-you be the judge after you see the hot pics that I might post of me later). The name is "how is blog pronounced" (good, right? i'm regretting making it up for him)... and you should go there cause it's prolly hella deep: HELLA DEEP SHIT.

I actually do feel like I need 10.. soo

#9: I love typing...
#10: Blogging brings me back to middle through high school when I got to wrote notes to my friends...

Which leads me to the end of my list and nicely into the first post: a love poem