I think you're an asshole, no lie.

Case Study: “I Think You’re Fat” By A.J. Jacobs

The Writer: Raised in Manhattan, A.J. Jacobs is the editor-at-large for Esquire Magazine and the author of two books. He might be best known for his month-long self-imposed experiments, which are the subjects of most of his writing. He has also written for the New York Times, Entertainment Weekly, and New York Magazine. In his first novel, The Know-It-All, Jacobs chronicles his quest to read the entire Encyclopedia Britannica, cover to cover. His second book, A Year of Living Biblically, tracks his year of trying to live literally by the every single rule in the Bible. He continues what he describes as “experiential journalism” with his new book, The Guinea Pig Diaries: My Life as an Experiment (2009). 

The Story: It was during his research for A Year of Living Biblically that Jacobs stumbled upon another story idea. While browsing the Internet, Jacobs ran a search on “honesty” in a search engine. “And up popped an article about a guy running for Congress in Virginia who refused to lie,” Jacobs said. That guy running for congress was a man named Brad Blanton. The more Jacobs read, the more interested he became. Blanton would become Jacobs’ truth mentor. Blanton’s movement was dubbed as Radical Honesty—a lifestyle that dares the practitioner to speak exactly what is on his mind at the exact moment that the thought occurs to him. Blanton’s book, also titled Radical Honesty, promises to “change your life by telling the truth.” Intrigued by the challenge, Jacobs decided he would try to give Radical Honesty a shot, and traveled down to Florida to experience Blanton for himself.

 

The Reporting: After spending a long day with Blanton, observing him and documenting his reactions to the people around him, Jacobs returned to New York to try Radical Honesty himself. Most of the research and reporting in his piece go hand-in-hand; in experiential journalism reporting and research occur simultaneously. He lived Radically Honest for a few weeks—less than his usual month-long endeavors. Jacobs writes about the highs and lows of being totally—brutally—honest. 

The Writing: The article is written Radically Honestly, complete with parenthetical candor as well as straightforward statements of opinion. When it came to describing Blanton, Jacobs didn’t have to worry too much about misrepresenting him. “I was lucky because his quotes speak for himself,” Jacobs said. “[Blanton] says such outrageous things... That doesn't happen too often, sadly.” So Jacobs relied mostly on Blanton’s quotes, “…and on his gestures,” Jacobs said, “like picking his nose and spitting.” After two or three drafts, neither radically different from its original form, according to Jacobs, the article was complete. 

During the drafting process, a conflict arose between Jacobs and his editor: Editor wanted to remove a section in his article about the implications of Radical Honesty on an ever-invasive environment of technology and social networking. “He wanted to take it out. I wanted to keep it,” Jacobs said. “We compromised by having him write ‘Bullshit -- Ed.’ at the end of the section.”

 

{Below is the excerpt from the article}:

“Now, my editor thinks I'm overreaching here and trying too hard to justify this article's existence, but I think society is speeding toward its own version of Radical Honesty. The truth of our lives is increasingly being exposed, both voluntarily (MySpace pages, transparent business transactions) and involuntarily. (See Gonzales and Google, or ask Alec Baldwin.) For better or worse, we may all soon be Brad Blantons. I need to be prepared. [Such bullshit. -- Ed.]”

 

An inadvertent moment of brutal honesty occurred during Jacobs’ writing process but was cut out due to space constraints (I wish it hadn’t been). Says Jacobs: “I asked for help transcribing the interview tapes from an Esquire intern (we only had female interns at the time). Which was humiliating in it’s own right, because [Blanton] said so many offensive things. And then, to make matters worse, the intern reported that I forgot to turn off the tape recorder while taking a pee. Three times. She had to listen to me go to the bathroom.”

It can be done!

This speaks to me on too many levels right now...

From author Elizabeth Gilbert:

"Everyone I know who managed to become a writer did it differently – sometimes radically differently. Try all the ways, I guess. Becoming a published writer is sort of like trying to find a cheap apartment in New York City: it’s impossible. And yet…every single day, somebody manages to find a cheap apartment in New York City. I can’t tell you how to do it. I’m still not even entirely sure how I did it. I can only tell you – through my own example – that it can be done. I once found a cheap apartment in Manhattan. And I also became a writer."

And check out this beautiful talk she gave at TED this year...

Home hunting

So, we found an amazing place-- 3 bedrooms on the Lower East Side, 15 minutes from campus, down the street from our favorite restaurants, exposed brick walls, lots of windows, hardwood floors, within our budget...
Nami and I were ecstatic about getting the place-- yesterday we started getting the documents ready, handed over the deposit money...
...and then our 3rd roommate backed out.
Naturally, things got messy with fees and money, and she just couldn't put up the cash...It's too complicated for us to find a 3rd roommate on such short notice, especially when we have to deal with brokers and fees and all that bullshit.
so now the only way we get our money back is if our application gets rejected. I'm praying that we get rejected

Oh, the irony...We might be the only people in Manhattan trying to get RID of an amazing apartment

I think this is beautiful (and considerably zen)

Here's a poem that my yoga instructor read to us last night during our candlelit session, just before ringing the gong (I know how ridiculous that sentence sounds, but don't knock it till you try it):

The Waking
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I feel my fate in what I cannot fear.
I learn by going where I have to go.
We think by feeling. What is there to know?
I hear my being dance from ear to ear.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Of those so close beside me, which are you?
God bless the Ground! I shall walk softly there,
And learn by going where I have to go.

Light takes the Tree; but who can tell us how?
The lowly worm climbs up a winding stair;
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.

Great Nature has another thing to do
To you and me, so take the lively air,
And, lovely, learn by going where to go.

This shaking keeps me steady. I should know.
What falls away is always. And is near.
I wake to sleep, and take my waking slow.
I learn by going where I have to go.

- Theodore Roethke

Hello, I'm a girl. That means I need things fixed.

Check out this post I came across. I don't know the blogger, but she found gold in her library...I can't believe this stuff was ever a part of social norms.

here's one

Courtesy of Nicole Tung, 2009

family portraits

Today, the enormously talented and terrifically kind Nicole Tung came over to take some pictures of me and my core (Read: Kaysi, Michalea, Nami, Ari). I sit next to her in class and throughout the semester noticed that she always had some kind of artsy photograph up on her computer screen. When I heard that she had won a national award for her work photographing Albanian refugees in Kosovo, I knew I had to look into her work. One day in class, I asked to see some of her pictures; I was so moved. At the same time, I had been toying with the idea of having some professional shots taken of me and the girls-- my family here in the city-- before  graduating. 

I thought for sure that Nicole would turn me down... I mean, why would a serious young photojournalist agree to take pictures of me and my friends just hanging out together? I was so wrong-- she was so gracious and enthusiastic about the project that she cleared her Saturday afternoon to come over and bake with us (and take pictures, of course). 3 hours and 500 shots later, we've got some pretty quality family portraits, I think. The first bright, warm day of Spring, the smell of cookies perfuming the air, the sounds of horns and air conditioning and Chi Lites mixing in the background...these are the things I want to remember forever.

I can't wait to see how they turn out. I'll post them as soon as I can!

Cute poem c/o Daily Candy NYC

the bologna sandwich theory

A few months ago I met this guy, R*, at a party. I don't remember how I started talking to him, and I don't remember what kind of conversations we had (thanks a lot, Mr. Merlot and Mrs. Pinot Grigio). What I do remember, however, was that he was surprisingly attentive and far more sober than I. Maybe we talked most of the night, maybe we danced a little, and maybe we kissed a little. Still, most of it was a haze, and to be honest, I wasn't all that interested in him. He was just some guy. 

I don't think he felt the same way. 

In the months since, he's been keeping in touch, via text. I'm never cold with my responses, but I tend to be short with him-- he's a nice guy, funny (kind of), friendly. Kinda like a bologna sandwich. But I never really had any intention of seeing him again.  And then yesterday he asked me to go out with him. Besides being flattered, I'm mostly surprised; I haven't sent this guy any signals to show interest, besides some cordial response texts. Is he just earnest and honestly determined, or is he missing social cues?

Now, here's the thing: I don't get asked out all that often. I don't have a line of suitors wrapping around the block waiting for a shot. Part of me thinks I should be appreciative of the fact that here is a decent-looking, non-serial killer type future dentist who wants to take me on a good ol' fashioned date. Why should I say no? Another part of me thinks that that's doing the wrong thing for the right reasons (or the right thing for the wrong reasons)...it's at least disingenuous and a little self-aggrandizing. Even more, it defeats the purpose of what dates are for. You go on a date because you want to get to know someone a little better, not because you're going to do them a favor and let them get to know you. 

How do I know that I won't go on a first date with him and fall madly in love? I guess I don't. But I trust the instincts I have about people and situations, and I don't want to waste his (and my) time. 

So here's the point of telling you that goddamn story: Am I being a jerk?

*Leaving names out of this

note to self

Inspired by one of my heros, Brian Andreas (StoryPeople, ZenBandit), who posted an art piece titled, "Permanent to-do list" I thought it might be interesting to make my own...i wonder why i haven't made one already. I got to thinking, my permanent to-do list would have to be comprised of things i want to do, things i can't help but do, and things i want to keep doing. So, after a few days, I've come up with these, in no particular order:

1. stop: for flowers, for friends, for musicians in the park, for tourists who need directions

2. learn to love your calves

3. stop thinking yourself out of decisions, unless those decisions involve holes or homework or blind dates

4. be okay with wet feet

5. take vitamins 

6. don't buy things you don't need; even though it feels like you're getting free cash when you make a successful return, don't forget how shitty it is to get stuck with store credit.

7. dance

8. forgive, even for little things.

9. remember, especially little things.

10. write honestly, recklessly, lovingly

11. don't be afraid to uproot yourself

12. just keep trusting

The list will grow, over time, i'm sure. but i think this is a good start. It's weird, though...does a Permanent to-do list mean it's a daily permanent to-do list? i mean, do i have to be okay with wet feet, even if it's not raining? i guess there are exceptions...it is my to-do list, after all. But i guess a to-do list is more about making sure that there are some things you don't forget. What do you want to remember?

Donne be not proud...

Sorry for the influx of videos; there's just so much good stuff online that I want to share. But last night I was up until the wee hours of the morning watching spoken word/slam poetry (not quite cool enough to know which is right) online. This is very new for me. Now, I've always been a fan of poetry, but mostly the olde stuff (yeah, olde-- Shakespeare, Donne, Keats). The not-so-olde, too (Plath, Hughes, Auden). But mostly, I thought real poetry was written by people who were already dead, so their words were serious. In my eyes, being dead gave poets something living ones couldn't have: respect.

So, I sat comfortably in my squishy academic couch and snuggled up with their words, which, still inexplicably, meant more simply because the poets themselves weren't around anymore; I didn't know what they looked like, the tones of their voices...it was all open to interpretation. On my squishy academic couch, the words rested permanently on paper like they were engrained in stone. That's what would last.

But this slam poetry thing, man, it's turning everything upside down. Not only are these poems spoken aloud, they're performed, with hand gestures and facial expressions, with not a snap in sight. Moreover, these poets are ALIVE...living, breathing, screaming, laughing, loving human beings whose voices echo off the walls. When I first saw a video of Rives, I was blown away. I needed a minute to think. I went back to that once marshmallowy academic couch of mine to reassess, but the couch felt different. It felt lumpy. Had the couch changed, or was it just my ass?

The most influential poems of all time-- Gilgamesh, The Odyssey, Mahabharata, to name a few-- were oral epics that were performed and passed down. Though fundamentally, the story stayed the same, it sounded a little different every time. And what about the monologues from Shakespeare, Tennessee Williams, or Arthur Miller that make you cry like a little bitch? Different every time. So maybe this is poetry: not just the dead stuff, trapped on paper, but the stuff that catapults out of a mouth and lingers in the air... not set in stone, but traced in sand.

The significance of 4 am

It's more than just my name

the science of love

this makes me think...

watch.

Today I was out with my cousin Shikha, who's visiting from Texas, where, from what i hear, everything is bigger. we were having drinks this afternoon (it's 5 o'clock somewhere!) with her best friend, Jas. Over beers, Jas told me about his weekly date night with his friend, Amit...they are two single, heterosexual men who spend every Friday night treating themselves to exciting new cuisine in new york city. they call it Friday Funday. cute, huh?

it gets better.

Their circle of friends started to pick up on this weekly outing, and wanted in. Soon, they were getting phone calls: Sarah, Avni, David, Josh...they all wanted to join. But this was a special night for Amit and Jas; they worked hard all week, and this time was special, no, sacred. They could talk about life, politics, books, women-- candidly and openly, in true bromance fashion.

But now their night was being encroached upon by their bevy of friends. What were they to do?

The answer was simple: they made their friends apply. The two wrote up a 25-question, true-or-false and short-answer application that took 10 to 15 minutes to finish and submit. 

Now, before you write Jas and Amit off as self-important assholes, let me vouch for them. These are good guys--i mean, highly decent, surprisingly non "guy" guys, at least upon my first impression. The application started off as more of a joke than anything else, but their friends actually loved it, and their competitive natures started to shine...after all, acceptance meant an open invitation to almost every Friday Funday.

so far, 10 or 11 have applied; 6 have been admitted...a 54% acceptance rate. that's on par with Providence College, in Rhode Island, the University of Pittsburgh, and UC Santa Barbara.

part of me wants to apply just to see if i'd get in...

hullo

A thank you to Amaya for the spontaneous guest post. Seriously, that's what it was: we were hanging out in the playroom in my apartment and I asked, 

 "Amaya, would you like to write a guest post on secrets for strangers sometime?"

"sure" 

I handed my mac (Waverly) over to her.

"...Oh....right now?"

"um yea."

And she just typed that beautiful little bloggity blog just like that, before my very eyes.

On another note, if you're in the mood to feel totally uncomfortable but utterly enthralled...

This is not a joke:

Greetings from thecoolkidlist

Hello Secrets for Strangers readers, Amaya from thecoolkidlist here. I'd like to share some secrets for all of you, and I feel like I might just be a stranger in this world of Foram's blog readers. I always like sharing secrets because I feel like it connects me to the person that I'm sharing ya know? So when I was first introduced to Foram's blog I love, love, loved the name. Now I follow Secrets for Strangers, and love Foram's writing style and amazing outlook, her passion for her friends and loved ones, mostly I really enjoy feeling connected to her through her posts, because we only see each other once or twice a week.

So, here is my secret:

I'm scared I'll never be anything of importance.

yeah, annoying right? Does everyone feel that way? I don't know, sometimes I feel the city and world passing around me, falling into holes, curling around buildings, I think to myself when I walk down the street: ... This is my catwalk, this is my life, I am alive and well and moving, that is all I can ask for.

but... when really, Im terrified that I am gonna walk off some cliff and never land, Ill land in water and spend my whole life drowning. Oy, I don't know what to do about this, I don't know how to make it stop and I don't know when Il be satisfied.

I hope someday?

See because I don't even know what would constitute importance to me... ugh, what does that mean, how would it feel to be really really important? Is that super selfish? Oy. It is how I really feel though. truly.


for now, I am just gonna sit in the grass... ya dig?

I hope this was ok Foram...
everyone can find me for more organized and hilarious posts here.

holla@yagirl♥
AMK

away

hole-in-the-wall heaven, hand-on-mine, honey-flavored happenstance, hers and hers and hers towels, hard-as-a-rock hold on me, home

In 6 weeks, I will be living in another place, looking out another window, using another closet and learning another neighborhood. I'll have to remember to lock the front door and take shorter showers. I'll probably have older neighbors who won't give me their last stick of butter when I bat my eyes. I'll no longer end every night saying "goodnight, i love you" to the girls who have become my sisters. I'll never have this view again. 

I have to find a place that's cheap and convenient. One that's close to a subway and a laundromat and a grocery store and a bank. One in a safe neighborhood with families and a police station nearby, maybe near my job. I have to sign a contract and pay a rent and buy furniture and make a home out of whatever I can afford... I might never have a view again.

So this is what I've learned: A place is only the people in it. These walls mean nothing when they're naked. This table holding my water, this shitty dorm chair, these things are just things. But hanging on the door, draped over a hook, is a pink robe that Kaysi wears in the mornings after her shower, when she puts on make up; And that vase sitting on my window sill occasionally fills up with the brightest daffodils from the deli down the street; And strewn across my bed is a scarf that Michalea wore to dinner just last week. These are not just things; they're my home. Growing up only scares me because I know one day I won't have a wall full of communal scarves hanging there, just waiting to be chosen for the day; one day I won't wake up to music playing and coffee brewing in the morning; one day--one  day soon-- the house will be quiet when I come home. 

alfie, pt 2

Did you listen to it? Did you listen to it while looking out your window? Was it raining when you listened to it looking out your window? Did you love it? I love it.

I also love that song because of the lyrics, which are included in neither version I posted. Now that you've heard the music, here are the words, which are equally beautiful.

What's it all about, Alfie?
Is it just for the moment we live?
What's it all about when you sort it out, Alfie?
Are we meant to take more than we give
Or are we meant to be kind?
And if only fools are kind, Alfie,
Then I guess it is wise to be cruel.
And if life belongs only to the strong, Alfie,
What will you lend on an old golden rule?
As sure as I believe there's a heaven above, Alfie,
I know there's something much more,
Something even non-believers can believe in.
I believe in love, Alfie.
Without true love we just exist, Alfie.
Until you find the love you've missed you're nothing, Alfie.
When you walk let your heart lead the way
And you'll find love any day, Alfie, Alfie.

Together, you get this (sung by the composer Burt Bacharach):

Alfie - Burt Bacharach

rainy days and mondays always get me down...

so say the Carpenters, but no, Karen, this is not true for me. Though i'll take shine over rain any day, today is the perfect rainy day. It's not sticky, hot rain like we get in the summertime; it's not icy, sharp rain that punctuates grey winter days. This is spring rain: clean, cool, mild. Just a couple of layers and an umbrella will get you through the day, and after yesterday's perfection, this feels like just a minor setback. 

as for mondays? they're not so bad... it's wednesdays that get me. Mondays are like mornings: they come sooner than I want them to, but when they arrive there's a hope that this day (or week) just might be the best one yet. By Wednesday, i've resigned myself to the very real probability that nothing life-changing or defining is going to happen this week, and all i'm left with is a caffeine high and frizzy hair (by wednesday i just stop caring). but for now, it's monday. there is still hope...

so stare out your window and listen to one of my favorites:

Alfie - Marian McPartland

or

Alfie - John Scofield

the same song, in two totally different ways.