The Man, Leonard Cohen

Anyone who knows me knows that when it comes to music I’m in it for the meaning. The words, the prose, the lyric truth, are what I hear first. No guitar chord or piano key can compensate for the meaning of a song, but as I am admittedly a writer and not a musician, my bias is of no surprise.

That being said, I think it’s safe to say that the discovery of Leonard Cohen’s music changed my life. At a time when I was unable to navigate my way and find the meaning I so desperately needed behind the emotional rampage at the hands of others, I stumbled upon this one man’s poetry and music. For some, his truth is too morose, his voice too heavy with rough, raw emotion. But for me, it was as if he had dug down deep into the marrow of my bones, exposing every inch of pain I felt and validated it with his words. He is by far my favorite writer, my favorite lyricist, and in my most solitary moments my much needed friend. So it was no question that when I found out his tour was finally taking him somewhere accessible to me that I had to go see him.

The concert in its simplicity was perfect. The evening was undoubtedly European in spirit with a guitar player from Barcelona and some of the best musicians from around the world to share the stage with him. And while it is no secret that a true singer Mr. Cohen is not, at 75 years young, skipping on and off stage between encores, he gave a three hour performance many stars of today could never achieve regardless of their singing power.

While the musical arrangements were amazing and perfectly suited for the evening, the best parts of the concert were undoubtedly when he took the stage and simply read his lyrics to us. Nothing but his low, perfect voice, his hypnotic presence and the sense that everyone in the midst of this genius was holding their breath in awe of the sound of something so perfect written from the rawest of emotions.

I could go on for hours about the perfection of the evening and all the songs he sang that I never tire of, but instead I give you this recording of his reading of his poem A Thousand Kisses Deep which literally left thousands of people in one room silent in deep appreciation of a true poet.



So thank you Mr. Cohen, I hope we meet again in this lifetime.

Only at UC Berkeley

Quote of the day from a Professor:

"Unless you have a specific political agenda and are thereby taking a political stance AGAINST punctuation, please use proper punctuation."

Oh Berkeley...I'll miss you.

The One, The Only, The Pork Chop

As a life long foodie, Erik has had the pleasure (or the pain) of cooking for my testy palate. While I have a much more educated palate than most people my age thanks to a French chef named Dad for so many years, I am in no way a snob. The simpler and the more rustic the better in my opinion, so long as there’s flavor. Thanks to my French roots, flavor generally (for me at least) exists in the sauce. It’s not the only element to the dish, and by no means the most important depending on what you’re making, but if there’s no sauce anywhere on the plate, I am generally very skeptical.

Around the second month of our dating each other, Erik came home from tour and wanted to make pork chops for dinner at my house. I was immediately hit with a wave of worry. He knew I was a foodie, and he knew I was picky, but he’d never really cooked for me before and had yet to experience me actually choosing to not eat something prepared for me. Yes, I am that bad, if I don’t like it, I won’t force it down, I will simply say thank you and try to distract you from the fact that you’re eating and I’m not with witty banter and playful conversation. It usually works, but this being very early on in our time together, I was concerned. But after many attempts to get him to cook something else, I gave up the fight.

Fine. Cook the pork chop, end our relationship, no big deal. It probably wouldn’t have worked out anyway.

When he finally served dinner my worst fears were realized when I noticed the missing element. No sauce. Not a stitch. Just a bare naked pork chop staring me in the face. Tout nu as the French would say and not at all sexy. I took a bite thinking how nice the past two months had been, before he knew how truly shallow I was when it came to food. And how maybe in time he could learn to love someone who hated his cooking.

Obviously, I was a pessimist.

Thankfully, for once I was proven wrong. It was good. It was actually quite good. Unlike most pork chops I’d been served by members outside of my family it was not dry, or tough, or bland. It was perfectly cooked and well seasoned – what a relief! He’d managed to do the impossible – please me. Shocking, I know.

After the initial relief wore off I realized that while it wasn’t the train wreck I was expecting, it still needed some work for me to actually want him to make it for me again. Erik, being the people pleaser that he is, insisted I tell him how to improve it and what I thought it needed. I feigned ignorance, repeatedly stating that I don’t cook so where do I get off possibly suggesting to you how to prepare something, but he wouldn’t let up so finally, in the most tactful and very French way I simply stated,

“It needs a sauce.”

He met my statement with a slow nod, not sure what to do with a statement that while very precise was also extremely vague. The pork chop then ceased to be made in my presence for a good couple years.

But this past year, with more time spent at home to experiment, and some patience and a little more optimism on my part gained over the past four years, Erik presented me with a pork chop again.

What a difference a relationship makes. Gone is the bare naked pork chop and instead is a dish that now makes my mouth water upon arrival to the table.



And may I be the first to say, it’s even better than it looks. It’s oniony, garlicky, buttery goodness served with corn and mashed potatoes. It is packed full of flavor and still perfect in its simplicity – the ultimate pork chop dish.

I am officially spoiled.

So I would like to say thank you Erik. Thank you for patiently ignoring my bitchiness and accepting the challenge that is my palette. I believe it worked out well for the both of us.

More French Findings

I am having a stupidly wonderful time researching the French culture for the research project I’m participating in. It’s a sure sign I’m on the right path in terms of my studies which is comforting with graduation and unemployment hovering over my head. Let’s hope the powers that be at the grad schools I’m applying to give me the green light to make French Studies my actual “job”. But for now I bring you my French findings for the week. Forgive me if you don’t find any of this interesting, but I do, and it’s my blog, so…there you have it.

French findings this week that made me chuckle:

In French the word for depression (at least circa 1952) is – cafard – which is the same word for cockroach which I just found painfully perfect. At least from a former New Yorker’s perspective.

One woman wrote in to an advice columnist about friends she recently made that she soon discovered she didn’t actually like after spending actual time with them. She said and I quote (translated of course) “They violently displease me”. I found this statement to be SO French. It’s so polite and aggressive at the same time. It warmed my heart a little to be honest. Statements like this are why I love the French. They don’t mince words but the words they choose are so precise and almost poetic. You gotta love ‘em…

Another one that made me laugh was written by a woman who was seeking advice about her young daughter (like 5 years old) who wanted to draw her grandparents a picture for their golden wedding anniversary. Her concern was simple – “my daughter wants to draw something for my parents wedding anniversary but she has no talent.”

What. A. Hateful. Bitch.

Really? I mean, REALLY?! Who actually concerns themselves with such things, let alone writes into an advice column about it? Thankfully the advice columnist answered with what I believe to be the opinion one would have the world over – let her draw them a picture, they’ll appreciate the effort and the thought and that’s all that matters. It’s that whole loving your children unconditionally thing…crazy concept, I know.

Much of this research this week while highly insightful into the French culture was actually more reflective of the time period in general. There were certain findings this week that made me really happy I didn’t live in the 50’s. For instance, a woman asking advice from the advice columnist of a magazine explains how her husband is a drunk and she’s thinking of leaving him and taking her two kids to her mother’s. Her question to the advice columnist is - “Is it silly of me to act this way?” First of all the fact that a woman would consider such a worry silly makes me thankful I live in this generation. What’s worse is the answer given to her was a simple “you must never leave your domestic partnership unless authorized by the court.”

Unbelievable.

I’m not sure if that one was better or worse than the one where a woman was asking about her husband who has suddenly become verbally abusive. She was upset that he was treating her this way and obviously extremely hurt by the abuse. The answer given to her was to be patient as he either has a nerve disorder or he’s just really tired, probably the latter, so just be supportive and push through.

Sit. Stay. Good Wife.

Fucking 50’s. God bless 2009.

Is The Semester Over Yet?

So this particular semester I’ve been surrounded by a disturbingly large quantity of students who are incredibly innocent and sheltered. Oh and entitled.

Brilliant combination.

The other day we were discussing the plays we had to write for class and one of my group members had written a play with middle aged characters and this conversation ensued:

Girl: “Does he sound like a 40 year old? I tried to make him sound like a 40 year old. Is he serious enough?”

Me: “Wait, what?”

Girl: “Well you know does he sound like he’s in his forties? Aren’t people in their forties really serious?”

Me: “Wait, so you’re saying that if you’re a grown up you have to be serious? Grown ups are just serious and boring?”

Girl: “Well…aren’t they? I mean I don’t know, I don’t know any 40 year olds.”

Me: Dirty look

Girl: “What?”

Fuck. My. Life.

Research Revelations

As part of my last semester here at CAL I’m working as a research assistant for the sociology department. One of their PhD candidates is researching gender norms of the 1950’s in America and France and it struck me as a perfect way to continue my examination of the French culture and a great way to keep up my French.

While some of the articles I’ve been transcribing are fairly straight forward and obvious given they were written in the 1950’s, some of them are downright entertaining. My favorite this past week was an article from 1957 written by Jean Duché for Elle magazine. He states in not very minced words that it is a woman’s duty to be vain. Not only is it her duty but it is in fact her best virtue and mustn’t be forgotten out of respect for those around her. So basically a woman needs to concern herself with her looks so as not to offend those who have to look at her.

How. Very. French.

To be fair, the judgmental mean person that lives inside me believes this to be true and completely agrees. With the French’s penchant for going nude on the beaches it is particularly offensive when those nude bodies are not in tip top shape. Do they have a right to get naked and prance around the sand and swim in the ocean? Of course they do. Do I want to look at their untoned bodies mid frolic? Not so much. Although, in my experience, it tends to be the men whose flabby bodies offend my eyes the most. The majority of women who go nude on the beach know they can get away with it. And if they’re French women they weigh all of 100 pounds anyway so not much can be wrong with what they’re flaunting beyond perhaps a severely flat chest.

Sorry, ladies, but you know it’s true.

I could go nude on a beach with my fabulous chest and hour glass curves but then you’d also be exposed to my stretch marks and cellulite. Contrary to cartoon animations if you have the curves of Jessica Rabbit you have the scars on your body to prove it. Some think it’s a fair trade, some don’t, but most will agree girls like me look better with the right lighting, and the blazing sun against the backdrop of the beach does not do curves justice, especially when you’re as pale as I am. I may be vain but I’m certainly not stupid. So if you’re the perfect specimen of woman able to lie nude on the beach and not offend the eyes I say go for it, and more power to you.

While that article was particularly entertaining, the most interesting article I’ve come upon so far questioned the need, the sacred nature, and the French obsession with the two hour lunch tradition. This article, also by Jean Duché for Elle magazine, suggested that perhaps the French citizen’s devotion to their lunch break should be reconsidered and that, with women going into the work force, it might just be an outdated tradition.

I was shocked to see this suggestion at all, let alone in 1957. To this day the French take a good two hours for lunch. Everything closes down and everyone goes home or out for a leisurely lunch. Personally, I think it’s a great tradition and I think we’d be smart to follow their lead. As someone who has worked in the American work force, a half hour to an hour lunch is barely worth it and most of the time you generally just don’t eat and keep working. We’re highly industrious and incredibly stupid that way.

Even more surprising, the author actually suggested that perhaps the French take a page out of our books and take a shorter lunch so as to allow them to return home earlier in the evening from their work day. To be fair, the author only made that suggestion after insulting us saying that we are not as gastronomically elevated as the French and do not appreciate food, which allows us to take a shorter lunch…but still. The fact that he even suggested that our way of doing things might be the way to go was shocking to me. Especially in 1957. I mean for a French magazine to publish such a suggestion in 1957 is just – wow. I’m surprised he wasn’t tarred and feathered on the street and made to eat McDonald’s.

Needless to say, doing this research is proving to be very interesting and a real eye opener into the French culture. Now that I’ve decided to pursue a Master’s in French Cultural Studies I’m really enjoying finding out more about how the French culture has evolved over the years and this sneak peek into the 1950s is more interesting than I ever could have prepared myself for. It’s definitely getting me excited to do research of my own if and when I get accepted to the programs I’m applying to.

For now, I’ll just have to keep reading advice columns from the 50’s. And as far as assignments go, it could be a lot worse.

Graduation is Looming

This semester at CAL has been incredibly hectic. There’s the 16 units, the meetings with professors, a research project, and somewhere in there I still need to get some classes from my past year in France approved for my English major.

One thing I have managed to take care of is my degree candidacy. After meeting with an advisor, paying a whopping $5, and filling out all the necessary paperwork I have landed myself on the official graduation list for December 19, 2009. Assuming I don’t fail any of my classes and take care of those pesky French units for transfer, I should be a full fledged Berkeley graduate by Christmas.

It didn’t really hit me that it was real until I got all the paraphernalia in the mail the other day. It was what one would expect – information on the alumni association, an invitation to the grad event where you can purchase all the paraphernalia – degree frames, tassels, announcement cards, yearbook, class ring, the cap and gown itself, blah, blah, blah.

And man, do they pump you for cash. I’m a graduate without a job, in a recession - you think you could throw in the graduation announcement cards for free? Maybe? The California Alumni Association membership, at a discount, is $450. What graduating senior do you know has $450 to throw at an alumni organization? I understand the benefits of such an organization and the reason for the investment and if I had money to spare I’d cut them a check, but who can do that? Am I the only poor person who managed to get into CAL?

The whole process is all very interesting to me, one I never thought I’d actually experience, and one I never really considered participating in beyond telling them what address to send my diploma to. Last time I checked my mom has visions of my walking in the graduation ceremony. I, however, have visions of me avoiding the whole thing. I’m not sure who’s gonna win. Erik, like my mother, is all about putting me through the production of walking in my cap and gown…what is it about people that love us that get off on watching us having to go through embarrassing rites of passage?

The one thing I am kind of interested in is the graduation announcements. Given that I tested out of high school I never got to enjoy that tradition. No announcements, no parties, no congratulations. Part of me thinks I’m too old to do it now but at the same time I feel like its well deserved. I’ve busted my ass the past four years between finishing up my transfer units and 2 ½ years at CAL. A little recognition would definitely make the exhaustion and perhaps even the foreboding debt feel worthwhile.

Regardless I think there’s going to be a party, a Christmas/Adrienne Finally Graduated Like a Big Girl party at the end of December. Everyone will be in a festive mood for the holidays, hopefully a few friends will be in from out of town, and it never hurts to have a party. I would also feel a lot less ridiculous sending out announcements if there was actually an official party to celebrate it.

Honestly, I think I’m just looking for an excuse to celebrate before the reality of not having a job sets in right after New Years…that’s gonna be fun.

But for now I am staying positive and trying to enjoy what I guess is bordering on an accomplishment. There’s a grad event the first week of November so I suppose I’ll go check it out. Maybe I can afford some announcement cards and a class of 2009 shirt. A little graduation gift to myself for a job well done.

Well…almost done.