Moojinorbit

You may wonder where I’ve been, where fun, tromping-around-Europe-with-the-boys Nancy has gone. She was posting every other day there for awhile, putting up naughty and pretty pictures, telling inappropriate stories. Now we just get an occasional musing on some bit of Coke Zero miscellanea.

Those of you who know her may have guessed that I’ve been in the clutches of Sue. Yep, Sue’s had me by the throat. She’s been watching my every move like a hawk, not letting up until I complete each task she sets before me. She wakes me up at six in the morning, puts me to bed early, and kicks my butt in between. She has no time for shenanigans. She has no sense of humor. Tough cookie, that one. Kind of a bi-otch.

Who the F is “Sue”? you ask.

Well, if each of us is a kind of basket of different personalities; different, shall we say, expressions of our self, which I think we are, then Sue is my very serious, down-to-business, all-work-and-no-play, inner taskmaster. And, frankly, I’m pretty sure I’d be lost without her. Thanks to Sue I have a job. Thanks to Sue I’ve actually managed to publish a few scholarly articles and pull a couple of book projects together. Sue balances my checkbook. (Poor Sue.) To Sue I give gratitude for my pretty decent (you might be surprised) filing system. I may sabotage her sometimes, but without her I’d probably still be surviving on temp work and Top Ramen (as opposed to bartending and risotto).

Sue got me through seven years of graduate school (along with another more dangerous personality named Beatrice, who I’ll tell you about later if you remind me). She was named by one of my New York roomates, Cat Celebrezze, who noted–though she wasn’t the first–that I was a whole different beast when I was working on a paper, studying for an exam, or prepping for class. Not only was I not very playful or clever; I also had a tendency to stare blankly at her when she asked me a question, as if in a fugue. I was curt with answers, a slave to neat little task lists, and very, very quiet. Dull and stern. No time for small talk.

I don’t remember if Sue was the first of our personalities we actually named, but I do recall us having the conversation that led to Sue. Cat stands in our living room petting her iguana, Tyrone Capone Waylon Jennings, and bravely says something along the lines of,

“You get very serious when you’re working. Sometimes I’m afraid to talk to you. You get kind of intimidating.”

I swivel on my deskchair and fix her with a gaze. Cat takes a half step back. Sue is irritated, but leaves this conversation to me (the personality overlord). “I know,” I say, trying to relocate “gentle” in my voice. “Marcy and Diana [my undergrad friends and roommates] told me the same thing when I was writing my senior thesis. They weren’t crazy about being around me when I was writing.”

“It’s like a different personality,” Cat observes.

“Yeah. What do you think her name would be?”

“Something very plain, like Jan or Barb. No frills, no fun. ‘Sue’.” (Okay, here I have to apologize to Sue Foster who is, indeed, terribly fun and probably the opposite of my Sue.)

“Hmm. ‘Sue.’” And there it was. Nothing really exists for sure until it’s been named.

Cat had a sort of parallel personality to Sue that we called Joan. I just remembered this. Joan was kind of surly, a bit depressive, something of a goody goody. She was Cat (who back then went by Cathy) turned inward in a tight ball. The total opposite of Cat’s fiercer, Jack Daniels-driven counter-personality, Combathy, who liked to wreak all kinds of late-night havoc, leaving Cathy sheepish and guilty in the morning.

Anyway, in the years after Sue was officially named, my friends could recognize Sue and call her out. I’d be borderline grumpy, nagging my study group to stop talking about how many pints they drank last night and get on with the business at hand, and someone would go, “hey, is that Sue? Was Sue invited to our study group?” (Oh, but they didn’t mind getting copies of Sue’s notes, did they?) Marce could recognize her voice on the phone. So could Dubber and Grandpa, and eventually my mom. If Sue answered, most people opted to call back later.

Sue’s not the kind of person you’d bring to a party. But one thing I’ve realized over the years is that almost everyone I know has a Sue. I call that phenomenon, for example, Jenny-Sue. Katie-Sue. Dawny-Sue. Sue is that buckle-down side of us that simply has to focus or it won’t get done. Sue has no time for beating around the bush; she wants to know what you need and when you need it, so she can get back to work. She takes on a lot of responsibility. Who else is going to do it? And she worries a lot. But she get’s shit done.

Oh and by the way, guess what Cat does for a living now, in her post-PhD but free from academia life? She consults people (rock stars, for instance) about how to organize their disorganized stuff, especially archives, into nice, clean databases. She’s a master taskmaster. We might call her Cat-Sue. Here’s her professional website.

Sue did not write this post. But it’s now 8:54–only 6 minutes from the deadline she gave me before the work starts again. Nice talking to you.

I just finished an afternoon run and was searching for something bubbly and thirst-quenching to supplement the water I’d already gulnked down. The only such option in my bare fridge was Coke Zero, in half cans, which have been sitting there for several months. Apparently I thought it worth sampling at some point.

Coke Zero.

What the heck is it, anyway? Coke, but no coke; what does that even mean? So I look it up on Wikipedia, my preferred site for filtering through cultural noise. Apparently it’s Coke without sugar, without calories–but not Diet Coke. Check out this cryptic line: “Coke Zero, unlike the sugar-free Diet Coke, is formulated to taste like Coca-Cola.” So Diet Coke was not formulated to taste like Coca-Cola? Good, ‘cuz it doesn’t; it tastes like ass, in my opinion. It tastes like DIETING; blech!!

Coke Zero does taste different, it does taste to me like Coke–or maybe like the ghost of Coke, with no cleaving Diet Coke aftertaste. It tastes like Coke but, I don’t know, thinner somehow. Less Pow! in the sucker. Less, “oh god, I’m embarrassed to admit this iced cold Coke totally hits the spot.”

My opinion on Coca-Cola in general: evil purveyor of imperialist, capital, culture-bandit, nothing-is-sacred greed. If you told celestial aliens about the competing commercial empires of Coke and Pepsi and their reach into even the remotest of backwater tribal hideouts on Earth, they wouldn’t believe you. They’d go, “no way do two different sugar waters penetrate all those different cultures on your planet.” But it’s true. While we’re boycotting Nike or Gap or whoever else exploits children and other laborers, and feeds off our lowest consumerist urges, we should be boycotting these pedalers of bubbly brown crack water. I was disturbed to discover, during my class on indigenous race politics in a variety of countries, that the Mexican Zapatistas, righteous critics of neoliberalism’s ravages, drank Coke products as alternatives to the potentially bad water in Chiapas. That’s unsettling. It’s weird to see a video of Comandante Marcos sipping a Fanta Limón (Coke product).

Still, being as rife with internal contradiction as any other well-meaning American (and, truth be told, I never want to be so dogmatic as to deny all internal contradiction; that’s why veganism often bugs me), I like the taste of the Original Coca-Cola. Especially in Latin American countries, where it seems sweeter and always comes in those enhancing cold glass bottles. I like Coca-Cola because I’m not immune to the appeal of a product that was scientifically developed to tickle the human pleasure centers. I like it because it’s really good crack, and liking it is a reflection of how I’ve been manipulated to like it. So I try to mostly stay away from it (and Big Macs), except on special occasions.

I’m halfway through my half-can of Coke Zero, now. I feel a little soiled to have bought the bait, sipped, as it were, the gimmick. And it’s not even that great; it’s empty of true Cokeness, which is based, after all on sugar syrup, cocaine (originally), calories, and cool. I’ve caved to the appeal of synethetic filler, a copy of a copy. Another reason I’m just one of the masses.

I’m sure you’re all over hearing about the cruise, but I just have to post these photos I found in other people’s Facebook albums. Due to time and not wanting to blow anyone’s cover, Katie and I couldn’t give you a proper sense of some of the characters on the Atlantis Team, but just for some visuals:

I wish I could tell you who had a crush on who in this picture above but I can’t. Note, though, Luca on the far right. He was our Italian ding dong; cute as a button but not too keen on actually “working” much. In the one below, see if you can find:
a) the two dancers; b) the porn star; c) the jr. high math teacher; d) the cruise administrator; e) the two Polish gents. Juan, the Argentinian on the floor is doing the splits. All of these guys were our “coworkers” on the cruise. Imagine that!

What I really like about Atlantis boys, is…well, they’re really hot. Also, they don’t take themselves too seriously. Is it possible to imagine the same in straight guys?

This pic makes me not feel so bad about my own facial hair. It would, though, be nice to sport those abs in a miniskirt.

Also, they don’t lame out on costumes (what little there might be of them).

This is probably within hours of the public menses incident described in “Sea Day”. My, were those Swedish fish sticky on our skin when we were dancing.

Apparently someone is going to upload the dance skit video for me, but I just can’t resist including this pinup shot:

Now that I’m back from hedonistic adventures, I’m trying to buckle down and get serious. This worked fairly well most of last week, and even through yesterday. I’ve been doing all the right things: rising early, meditating, envisioning my day, writing my task list, and then getting to work with focus, checking one item off at a time and resisting excess distractions. I’m keeping my commitments. I’m reducing my carbon footprint and getting some exercise by riding my bike everywhere (I think it’s been over 6 weeks since I bought gas). I’ve made my house into a dark little cave so I can hide from the heat. (Air conditioning is not good for the footprint, I know, but it’s too freaking hot up in Denver not to have some kind of relief. Besides, if I don’t sleep, I don’t stick to my plan.) I’m spending very little money–primarily because I have none–and keeping away from the seriously caffeinated beverages so I don’t psycho-out in the afternoons. I’m doing my academic writing, which is always a breakthrough and a relief. Keeping my house fairly tidy, which helps with anxiety. Watering the lawn in the evenings, the flowers in the mornings. Taking my vitamin B and trying to keep the carbs to a reasonable level. Generally being a good girl.

Except, every time I get on this kind of roll, little Nanny demons awake from their slumber and start making trouble. They whisper to me, there’s Rocky Road in the fridge, don’t you want some chocolate after that salad? They say, yoga boring; nap better. I’m in the middle of a productive drafting session and they go, don’t you think it’s time you checked your email? And, perhaps worst of all, they get me out of bed in the morning to crack out on Facebook, looking at everyone’s new photo albums and playing with dumb time wasters–or that’s what they did this morning. I’m about to put the clothes I wore away and they’re like oh, just leave them on the floor; you can pick them up after your nap.

Little buggers, trying to derail all this good discipline. Iced cafe latte!, they nudge. Cafe con leche! They want me to go shopping at Target, even though I’m $35 away from paying off my Target card. They don’t want me to clean up the messy basement: too much hassle, they protest. Let’s get in the car and go to the mountains; it’s cooler there! Let’s make chocolate chip cookies! Mowing the lawn sucks! Call Katie! Bake cake! A facial would be much more fun than reading these interview transcripts. Pet Paco. Wander aimlessly. Don’t work! Work bad!!!

That’s it; I’ve had it with the baddies. I’m doing a fresh meditation and getting back to work. I’m going to make great progress this morning, reading, writing, thinking, writing again, having theoretical breakthroughs, getting my work done. I’m going to eat nothing but protein and good carbs, then I’ll do ab work until I cry, then I’ll uproot the dead grass in that corner planter, and call my dad.

No, write on the blog, they say. Blog FUN.

I know I’m the luckiest girl in the world to have had this almost-free romp in the Mediterranean on this my second Atlantis cruise experience. I learned so much about the phenomenal sites we visited, and got glimpses of so much I want to revisit. (The Greek islands are at the top of my honeymoon and/or sabbatical list.) I awakened more to my own neuroses, limits, and special talents like dancing in front of 3,000 people. I learned more about how gay men work and how they do their drama than I ever wanted to know. I also discovered, under cohabitating circumstances that were a potential relationship test, that my sweet Katie is even more amazing—deeply kind, patient, easy to travel with, curious, gifted with people—than I knew before. I adored being her traveling companion. I fell in love with her on new levels. Everything about the last two weeks was a dream come true.

But I was so exhausted last night that upon opening my car door in front of my house, I promptly vomited right there on the street, and again in my bathroom sink. Maybe it was the Percocet (thanks, Marshall) that I thought (wrongly, as it turned out) might ease the painful tonsillitis that both Katie and I came down with on the last couple days. Maybe it was the 20 hours straight of taxis, planes, buses, and cars involved in the journey home. Maybe the sleep deprivation and jet lag were kicking in. Or perhaps it is simply exhausting to conscript oneself to a trip premised on packing as much full-out fun as possible into 14 consecutive days. Even the hard-core Atlantis party boys we ran into on the way home were flatlining. Now we need to figure out when we’re going to take an actually relaxing vacation.

Thanks for keeping up with this, especially those of you who were slogging away at work in the heat. For what it’s worth, I, too, have to buckle down now and find the will, creativity, and discipline to get that damn albatross of a book revised before it drives me over the edge. But for the rest of the day: nothing but sleeping, reading, petting the kitties, and laundry.

In subsequent posts are entries either drafted by hand and now posted or posted upon return. Enjoy. I’ll let you know if I track down any videos or other pics you must see.

And I’ll leave you with the W.H. Auden poem from which Atlantis’s unique mission is inspired:

Being set on the idea
Of getting to Atlantis,
You have discovered of course
Only the ship of fools is
Making the voyage this year,
As gales of abnormal force
Are predicted, and that you
Must therefore be ready to
Behave absurdly enough
To pass for one of The Boys
At least appearing to love
Hard liquor, horseplay and noise.

(Yeah, that is what you think it is. The ancient Greeks & Romans had a bigger appreciation of the phallus than we.)

[Drafted by hand in Rome and edited and posted upon return.]

There’s nothing like Europe—or pretty much anywhere outside the continental U.S.—to make me feel like a total ignoramus. Trust me, the doctorate is no reflection on my grasp of world history, or names and dates and geography in general. I can’t tell you how long it took me to remember for sure that the French Revolution, or at least its first (de)crowning moments, occurred in 1789–and that’s one of the most important dates to know as a teacher of political theory. Every time I teach Plato or Aristotle (the classics admittedly not being my forté) I have to look up the dates again—which one was 4th C. B.C. and which was 5th? (Answer: they crossed over a tad: Plato c. 427-327 B.C.; Aristotle c. 384-322. Yeah, I had to look that up again.) Some scholars may discount online cheat sheets, but I’d pretty much die without Wikipedia and the Encyclopedia Brittanica; they’ve gotten me through more lectures than I care to admit.

So here we are, dwarfed by Rome and the beautiful treasures therein.
One glance at the city map and I feel defeated: “No way can we possibly cover, let alone absorb, this many mind-boggling sites in less than 36 hours!” I’m not exaggerating when I say that every twenty steps one is confronted with a looming monument of historical significance. It’s not just the abundance of man-made wonders; it’s how little I know about any of them, how unsure I am about what they really mean. Between our ultra-tight budget and lack of time, there is no way we can do the minimum required to manage Rome: half-day tours for each major site with knowledgeable guides. Left to my own devices, I feel like crawling under the hotel bed and wallowing in the shame of my meager education. Mental fledgling:

History? 1789 is small change. Try, oh, 753 B.C. when Romulus founded Rome. How ‘bout 125 A.D. when Christians under the emperor Hadrian rebuilt what had been a temple to the Roman gods for hundreds of years into the feat of ancient engineering that is the Pantheon. We gaped at I Fori Imperiali, the ruins of a sprawling civic space that Julius Caesar started in Christ’s lifetime and bigwigs like Agustus, Traiano, Nerva and fricking Mussolini added onto in the intervening twenty centuries.

Across the street was the Monumento a Vittorio Emanuel II the first monument to glorify Italy as a unified nation-state, finished in 1935.

Next to that was the Palazzo Venezia a medieval masterpiece that rulers from Pope Paul II to Napoleon to Mussolini used as a seat of power. For the first time, I realized that those monstruous Las Vegas fakes on the strip, such as Caesar’s Palace, are actually pretty close to or even smaller than scale. These tributes to masculinity, hegemony, and empire are huge. I was plenty overwhelmed even before we rounded the corner and confronted the Coliseum and surrounding ancient ruins. At that point I couldn’t do anything but cry. I find it so intense to stand amidst the relics of human activity that old.

Spanish steps (actually given to Rome by the French, which I found out when I borrowed a British teenager’s guidebook):

So much is lost on me. Augustus? Yeah, I think I’ve heard of that guy. Titus, was he that bully who always tortured Popeye? Didn’t Van Halen play at the Coliseum in the ‘80s? Oh no, that’s where real gladiators fought each other—or boars, bulls, tigers, etc.—til somebody keeled over, while high status Romans munched popcorn.

The Quirinale? Yeah, the king of Italy lived in its sprawling campus, and the Pope, until he started shackin’ up in the VATICAN (but I’d’ve failed a pop quiz on any of that). The Vatican, you know, that little place that houses St. Peter’s Basilica, where Michelangelo’s Pietá—a sculpture he completed at the ripe old age of 23—greets you when you walk in? The Basilica makes every stunning cathedral I’ve ever seen look like a ghetto storefront church.

In fact, Rome makes you (or at least me) wonder what the hell you’re doing on this planet anyway. Are you designing an open dome like the one in the Panethon that will last some two millennia without the use of reinforced concrete, despite the fact that rain can enter any time it wants?

Or are you just human filler (see April post), like the human bones used to fortify walls in Delos (or like these idiotic tourists)?

If you had a past life in Renaissance Italy, were you carting loads of marble dust on your spine, or were you assisting God and Michelangelo in the Sistine Chapel, or hanging out with Raphael in Florence? (‘Cuz, no offense, but I don’t think any of us were the artists themselves.) My point is, after cluelessly stumbling by all these masterpieces, I’d feel lucky if I’d been a cat sprawling somewhere near one of the bridges over the Tevere river. Judging by the dumb look on my sunburned face and the fact that, like half a million others today I tossed a coin over my shoulder into the Trevi Fountain for luck, I’d say there’s no doubt that even on my best days my life’s achievements amount to the insignificant products of human filler.

The question Rome boldly asks us, over and over, is: What will your legacy be?

Humbling in the extreme.

Maybe it was feeling like an intellectual midget that made me eat as much pizza, pasta and gelato as I could—which I have to concede was comforting. “When in Rome,” as they say. Yeah, I’ll be returning to South Beach Diet when I get home.

Oh, and one little other happy observation. The fuel economy vehicles in Europe, and especially Italy, make the Toyota Prius look like an SUV. And they’re totally cool looking. This gives me home that someday my countrypeople might actually abandon their global warming pods.

I don’t know what else to say. I’m not worthy.

I’d like to say more about Greece than I have the energy for at the moment. To put it simply, I fell head over heels in love. We only made two stops in Greece; Mykonos, which we ditched a dinner shift to run away in, and Santorini, which Katie and I didn’t get to scale because our excursion to the volcanic islands ran late. But still; I know enough to be sure that I will come back, for a long time, without any agenda except to eat, drink, and wander around the exquisite aesthetics of the place.

Here are some glimpses. Our ship, the Navigator of the Seas:

 

On the island of ancient Delos, I was seduced by the diversity and inspiration of ancient Greek history again (and got crushed out on our gorgeous Mooj guide, Dinia):

       

Marce, you’ll appreciate that I actually “found” this pottery shard (sherd?) myself:

Mykonos, incredible. The white tunnelling streets, draped with Bouganvillia, the perfect light, the amazing meal we had with our team member Jamie. Also, hands down the best mussels I’ve ever tasted.

     

          I missed my Greek friend Maria so much, this is for her:         

The day after Mykonos, Katie and I were scheduled on excursions to the volcanic islands near Santorini. After hiking up them, we got to sail to the other side and jump off the tour boat into a cove that houses thermal hot springs. We also had the rare opportunity to meet Solstis, the single resident on the island. He’s a fifty-something guy who basically retreated there after a divorce, built a shack from scratch and, after Greece deeded him the island until he dies, he spends all his time wandering around in a speedo and living off the sea. Sorry, no pics of Solstis, as we were swimming when we met him.

 

We’re in Rome, a place too overflowing with history, art, architecture and culture to possibly capture in a day and a half. I just told myself I’ll be back for a longer stay someday, so whatever I’m able to catch while I’m here is wonderful, but I’m not going to wring myself out. Katie and I are both a little sick with sore tonsils, probably from all the hot and cold air involved in traveling between hot humidity and air conditioned rooms. I did get to run around St. Peter’s Basilica yesterday with the light and sound guys while K. rested. Is that the cathedral of all cathedrals or what? Pics later.

Meanwhile, I thought I’d throw up as many photos as I could before my 5 Euro 30-minute wireless card runs out.

Here are a few of the aforementioned “Fish Net” party, starting with the lobster we found on our bed before the party:       

And of course we didn’t miss the chance to do Drag Queen karaoke. I couldn’t believe they had a Cake song on the list, so I did “Short Skirt, Long Jacket.” Katie had the huevos to do “Proud Mary” (the Creedence version). We forgot that the whole thing would be on cruise tv, so hundreds of people saw it later and told us all about it. Yikes. And, again, the hottest boys ever from Boise enjoyed it with us. Jason sang the very un-gay “Kodachrome” by Paul Simon. Marquis produced a unique version of “Let’s Get it On.” Katie wore her real cowboy cousin’s shirt:

           
Finally, just a few pics of Pompeii, which was unbelievable. Marce, as an archaeologist, you would have died (but you’ve probably already seen it):           And Katie wanted you to appreciate the outfit this lovely couple was wearing. See, you don’t have to be fashionable to be gay:

The white party is the sparkling finale of Atlantis parties. Beautifully decorated out on the pool deck and showcasing an eye popping display of lights, fog, sound, and lasers, it’s simply fantastic. I’m not sure where the tradition came from in gay male life but having spent a few days in the archeological ruins of Pompeii, Delos, and Mykonos, Greece, I’m wondering if it’s perhaps some kind of bacchanalian last rites festival. The final frenzy of partying and dancing until sunrise is a kind of purification. Aurelio, you can tell me if you think I’m anywhere close. Alternately, these guys just like to see themselves in white, in a sea of white.

We danced our arses off only until about 3, but it was lovely to share these last hours with some of the wonderful people we’ve met in the last week. To admire and be admired, loving the role of the female Atlantis hostesses. It’s hard not to love; even the ship staff get excited. We even saw the Captain’s wife hanging out in the DJ booth having a great time.

This is Jarrod, one of the A-team boys.
And here we are with Martin from Poland; Rich (center), the owner of Atlantis and our boss; and Gordon (halo) the cruise director for Royal Caribbean.
   
Talk about a happy cowboy:  

And we’ll have to tell you all about our favorite couple, Marquis and Jason, from Boise Idaho (below):
    

Chloe’s famous pantsuit was, yet again, a hit among masterpiece costuming. And Katie found many companions in silver.

          This is Rickie, one of our faves. Does that wig rock balls or what?