Category Archives: Everything Else

Change your bookmarks for this blog

Hello hello! I have formally switched my domain registration to my new Web host, and as soon as my FTP business is taken care of, my new site should be up and running.

The home page for this blog will be www.kelseylhayes.wordpress.com. If you have the blog bookmarked, change the link to the WordPress URL. Once my site goes up, that will be the new kelseylhayes.com. It’s in 404 error mode at the moment.

Apologies for any hiccups or confusion.

Because I’m really excited about the new site, I decided to go ahead and include a screenshot gallery. Hopefully this won’t jinx anything.

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New website coming (very?) soon

After five days, a good 50-60 hours and countless cups of coffee and diet Coke, my new website is built.

I’ve validated my HTML, double-checked all of my links and graphics, made sure I had the correct stylesheets attached and test-driven that puppy in five different browsers. I used nearly every program in Adobe CS5: InDesign, Photoshop, Dreamweaver, Flash and Fireworks. I can hardly wait to take it live.

My plan is to transfer my domain (kelseylhayes.com) to the new site, and revert to the old WordPress domain for this blog. I’ll make sure to heavily link between the two (my site actually has a “blog” button), but you may need to bookmark my blog again once the new site goes up. All of my work and photos, plus links to my CV, will be on the new site. Once it goes up, my blog will just be a blog.

I thought about posting screenshots, but I don’t want to jinx it. Here’s hoping the hosting process goes smoothly. Wish me luck.

Searching for Compassion in the Storm

If you haven’t already heard (or seen, or read), tornadoes in the southern U.S. killed at least 200 people last night and caused untold damage. The tornado season has gotten off to a devastating start in the midwest and in the south.

Being from Kansas, I’ve had tornado safety drilled into my mind practically from birth. A microburst hit my college town in March 2006, and I’ve spent untold numbers of spring and summer evenings hiding out in the basement watching or listening to the weather forecasts, occasionally peeking out the window to look at thunderstorms, hail and the eerie green stillness that only comes when something awful is about to happen. So, learning what’s happened in the south, I can commiserate with what the poor people down there are going through.

I’ve also read various stories about the storms on Gawker and The Huffington Post. While the stories themselves were sympathetic or at least innocuous, I was shocked and disgusted at the tone of many reader comments. Cracking jokes about God’s judgment and the Wizard of Oz, calling the storms retribution for “birtherism,” telling southerners they had no right to expect disaster aid — this is compassion? I by no means consider myself a conservative or a Tea Party member, but these tasteless comments from so-called enlightened liberals made me extraordinarily angry. Tornadoes do not care whether you’re a Republican or a Democrat, I promise.

As a Kansan, I’m used to people automatically assuming that I’m uneducated, live on a farm, hate gays and disbelieve evolution. Southerners are often the victims of stereotyping that’s at least that annoying if not worse. But to bring it out when people are dead and dying through no fault of their own, frankly, makes me sick.

What makes it more galling is that most of these people no doubt consider themselves to be open-minded, educated and tolerant. The same people who’d be offended if these comments were slung at gays, minorities or liberals in general have no qualms tossing them at people from an “inferior” region. (For the record, I abhor blanket statements about any demographic.) Many of them self-identify as being from parts of the U.S. like the northeast, which doesn’t typically have as many tornadoes as the midwest and south; do they know what it’s like to cower in your basement and have the very real fear that at any second, without warning, your home may be blown away?

And yes, many people in the south (and elsewhere) express a dislike for government handouts. Does this mean that in their hour of need, we should tell them, “No disaster relief for you”? No. Why? Because we’re supposed to be better than that. If we show a lack of compassion to those who lack it themselves, how are we better? How does that set an example and help people to change their minds? It doesn’t. In pointing out some southerners’ hypocrisy regarding federal assistance, some people have equally made hypocrites of themselves.

The Red Cross is accepting donations on behalf of people in the south affected by the storms. Please make a contribution.

Art in London

Sunday, after a relatively low-key weekend, I decided, kind of off the cuff, to go into London for the day. There was nothing I really went in for — other than some Christmas shopping — but I figured I’d wing it.

I had planned to shop a bit at the big Waterstones bookstore right off Trafalgar Square, but unfortunately, they didn’t open until noon. Having some time to kill, I wandered down the Strand. The skating rink at Somerset House was packed, so I ducked into the courtyard for a couple of photos. I noticed on the way out that the Courtauld Gallery inside the Somerset House complex was open. Intrigued, having never visited before, I went in to take a look. As a student, I got in free, which is always a bonus.

Paul Cézanne's "The Cardplayers"

Paul Cézanne's "The Cardplayers"

If you haven’t been able to tell before now, I’m something of an art enthusiast. I’ve never taken a formal art class — either history or practice — but I’ve been to several of the major galleries of Europe and developed a taste for viewing pieces. Italian Renaissance art and French Impressionism are my two favorite categories.

The Courtauld Gallery is comparatively small, but I was impressed with its pieces. The Gothic religious art, namely several triptychs and polyptychs, and its collection of Peter Paul Rubens paintings are excellent. The Impressionist collection, particularly a few Renoir works, was also awesome to see. A Botticelli painting depicting Christ being lowered from the crucifix featured a portrayal of Mary Magdalene I don’t think I’ve ever seen in a painting, with her hair loose around her in typical Botticelli waves.

The real experience at the gallery, though, was the fabulous short-term exhibit on Paul Cézanne’s “The Cardplayers.” Cézanne is one of those painters whose style is so defined, you can immediately identify his work. I’m a fan of his still-lifes in particular. “The Cardplayers” is a series of paintings depicting French rural peasants playing cards (obviously). The exhibit showed Cézanne’s process, including pencil “cartoons” (early sketches) of the figures and other portraits he had done of the subjects. At the time, his treatment of the peasant class was somewhat cutting-edge, especially given that he often depicted them in more genteel settings, such as his studio or a country house.

After I finished there, I walked (it was nice!) to the Tate Modern. I’m not normally enthusiastic about post-Impressionist work, but I had yet to see Salvadore Dali’s “Metamorphosis of Narcissus” and the Andy Warhol exhibit. After a quick espresso in the cafe, I headed upstairs to view the Dali painting.

The painting has one of the most clever visual tricks I’ve seen. On the one hand, you can see the kneeled figure of Narcissus, who in Greek mythology fell in love with his own reflection in a pool and drowned. The gods turned him into the narcissus flower. On the other side, you see a hand gripping a cracked egg, from which emerges a narcissus flower. Though the two figures are different, they are, in terms of shape, mirrors of each other.

Salvadore Dali's "Metamorphosis of Narcissus"

Salvadore Dali's "Metamorphosis of Narcissus"

I next visited the Warhol exhibit, a room plastered with gauche cow-print wallpaper that Warhol concocted after a friend told him that “no one does pastoral work anymore.” A self-portrait is there, as well as a camouflage installation, a stark black and yellow painting of a dollar sign, and a visceral (tinted with red, like blood) painting of two guns, done after the artist was shot by an admirer.

I spent the rest of the day roaming the city, going across the Millennium Bridge, having lunch at Chipotle (where else), getting a gingerbread cupcake at the Hummingbird (of which I’m now the mayor on Foursquare), walking through St. James’s Park and through Westminster and Whitehall (luckily the student protests have died down), browsing books at Waterstones and going down to the Imperial War Museum to view its Holocaust and crimes against humanity exhibits, in preparation for my human rights class next term.

Another great day in the city.

Going out!

My mother told me before I left not to spend all of my time in my room. I have the past couple of nights, mostly because I’ve been getting over a head cold and the weather’s been lousy.

But tonight I went on a sort of campus pub crawl (yes, we have bars on campus, because we’re awesome). I thought I’d tell you a little about my new friends and our night out.

Hannah, Rachel and Deborah

Hannah, Rachel and Deborah

First there’s Deborah. She’s a PhD student in genetics, and very perky, bubbly and outgoing. She’s shorter than I am but really feisty. She’s also a quiz fanatic, like me, so we sort of bonded over that immediately.

Second is Hannah, who’s doing an LLM in law. She’s like me in that she’s quiet until you get to know her, but talkative and friendly once you do. She also studied at Kent as an undergrad, so she’s sort of our guide around campus and good to get dirt on what to do around town.

Finally there’s Rachel. She’s doing a PhD in biodiversity. She’s outgoing and funny, but on the serious side I can tell she’s serious about her work and plans to study hard.

All three of them are English.

Tonight I had dinner at Origins, the bar in Darwin College (Origins, get it?), with Rachel, Deborah and one of Deborah’s visiting friends. Origins specializes in Tex-Mex type stuff like nachos, quesadillas and fajitas, and also has snack foods and burgers. I had a burger, Rachel had Cajun chicken in a skillet and the other two had chicken wraps. It has kind of a sports bar-meets-modern-restaurant feel, with lots of booths, pool tables and TVs. It has a bright orange/yellow color palate, which is cool.

After that, we headed to Gulbenkian’s bar and cafe (Gulbenkian’s is the campus theatre/cinema, with a large cafe), which had a cocktail night on. We met up with Hannah and one of the other guys from Woolf, who’s from Germany. The drinks were still kind of pricey, so we headed over to Mungo’s, a place in Eliot College that’s designed like a euro nightclub type place. I’m told they have great burgers and sandwiches during the day (a third major cafe on campus, K-Bar, in Keynes College, does mostly pizza, while Dolche Vita, also in Keynes, does more European-Asian fusion and coffee drinks). Rutherford College has a bar owned and operated by the student union; the aforementioned bars/cafes are operated by university hospitality.

After a couple of drinks in Mungo’s, where the dance music made it kind of loud, we walked over to Park Wood, which is a residential neighborhood on the other side of campus for undergrads, and went to Woody’s, a student bar/pub owned by the student union. We watched a game of pool, chatted and had another drink before walking back to Woolf. All in all, a fun night out and reasonably inexpensive — about £10 total for dinner and drinks from 7:30 to midnight.

Tomorrow I’m going into the city centre to see “The Town” at the Odeon Cinema and appraise the theatre. I might look at WHSmith for some work folders for classes, which start Tuesday for me. We might do something tomorrow night, I’m not sure. Sunday afternoon is the trip to Leeds Castle, and Sunday night is a pub quiz in K-Bar. Monday’s curry night at the Gulbenkian and a quiz night at a pub in town, and Tuesday I’m attending an Amnesty International meeting. Current Affairs meets on Thursday evenings, and I may have to alternate between pub nights and society meetings for the American society, as it looks like both will fall on Mondays (even though there are other pub quizzes throughout the week).

I’ve also decided to try out Anglican services at Keynes Chapel on Sundays, starting next week (can’t go this week because of the castle tour). The services all include lunch afterward, and I’m kind of curious about the Anglican set-up. It’s also been ages since I’ve had any sort of Communion. The fellowship organizes a lot of activities during the term, and this term’s trips include a day visit to Bodiam Castle, built during the reign of Richard II (yeah, him again) and the small parish town of Rye, as well as a longer holiday in Bruges, Belgium in November.

So there you have it. Not even here a week!

P.S. By far the most important details of the night were that I earned my first mayorship on Foursquare (I’m “mayor” of Origins now) and I got another badge — the “Crunked” badge for four or more check-ins in one might. Mummy must be so proud.

Parting with an old friend

I’ve known him for more than five years (I guess it’s a him?) and he’s been a loyal companion. He puts up with constant use, he rarely complains and he goes with me everywhere. Despite being on the older end, he still looks pretty good. He’s my silver fox. Or at least, my aluminum fox.

He’s my 2005 PowerBook G4 laptop.

I bought him with my own money, along with my 5MP Canon point-and-click (which is also on notice), a first-generation iPod Photo and a printer. He got me through the end of my senior year of high school, three years at KU, a year in England and two (soon to be three) summer internships. I’ll always have happy memories of him.

But it’s about time to move on.

Before I leave for school in September, I plan on hitting the Apple store and picking up my aluminum fox’s great-great-great-grandson: a 15.4″, 2.66 GHz, 500GB HD, antiglare-screened MacBook Pro. And probably a 32GB iPod Touch, but only because that back-to-school promotion is on and my current iPod is going to be four years old at Christmas. I swear.

Getting a new computer for a new school year got me thinking about my relationship with my current computer. I have term papers, photos, music, website designs, page layouts, manuals and God only knows what else on here. It represents half a decade of accumulated digital “wealth.” I know I’ll miss his familiar keys, size and weight. It’s going to take time to get used to a newer model.

But he’s been gimpy lately. These newfangled websites slow him down, and he’s not as quick on his feet as he used to be. His keys show signs of wear, his top panel sticks up slightly (an oopsy in Indianapolis) and he’s getting harder to keep clean. Despite belonging to a “multimedia journalist,” he doesn’t have the juice to run most applications I’d use. So I think the humane thing to do is put him out to pasture — recycle him or pass him along to someone else. He’s still got a good life in him; I just don’t think it can or will be with me.

Oh, I’ll miss him.

What your team says about you

I, like most people I know, am watching the World Cup. I try hard to watch all of the matches, but getting up at 6 a.m. to watch South Korea pound Greece is pretty difficult. What makes the Cup so awesome and so popular is that everyone can have a horse in the race. You don’t even have to root for your native country. So how do you decide for whom to root? Well…

Brazil: You like playing it safe and going with the obvious choice. Way to go out on a limb there.

Spain: You like going with the obvious choice, but someone already picked Brazil in your office pool.

England: You may or may not have a Wayne Rooney altar in your sock drawer and you’re also a glutton for punishment. 1966. 1-9-6-6. That’s all.

Italy: You’re still living in 2006. Those guys might as well be hauling oxygen tanks around with them.

United States: You’re American.

France: What do you mean Zidane’s not playing anymore?!

South Africa: You feel compelled to root for the home team. Or you’re not sure how the seeding works.

Germany: I’m in love with you.

The Netherlands: You’ve mistaken Deutsch for Dutch. Luckily the Orangemen are good and won’t embarrass you too much. They might even win!

Mexico: You’re American.

Argentina or Chile: When you want to go South American but also want to avoid a cliche.

Portugal: You woke up and asked yourself, “How can I make myself even more annoying?”

Australia: You just like saying “Socceroos” over and over again.

Ghana: If you’re going to root for an African team, it’s going to be one that can actually advance.

Ivory Coast: See the above.

Cameroon: You read the profile of Samuel Eto’o in Time and now you’re smitten. Who wouldn’t be?

North Korea: You’re worried about what might happen to them if they don’t do well.

Serbia: You’re basing your choice on what team has the most attractive men.

Switzerland: A country wedged between France, Italy and Germany has to be good, right? Right?

Uruguay or Paraguay: The ‘guay’ ending is a dead giveaway that there’s some good footie going on.

Slovenia or Algeria: You just want one or both of them to upset England and/or the United State.

Japan or South Korea: Because an all-Europe/South American knockout round would be so boring.

I’m told that there are 32 teams and not just 26. And I’m sure someone, somewhere, is rooting for the six that I’ve missed. But … eh.

The Great Puppy Search

Last January, on Kansas Day, we had to put Willy, our 16-year-old Pomeranian, to sleep. It was devastating for my parents and me. We’d had him since he was a puppy, a little ball of fluff. We keep his ashes, leash, tags, photos and other mementos in a box in our family room.

Lately, I’ve been thinking more and more about getting another dog. After talking with my parents, we’ve decided to tentatively start looking for another dog. I had volunteered a few times at the Lawrence Humane Society at KU, and respected their work last year during the animal-cruelty incident. Obviously getting a shelter dog was our first and only option.

I browsed the LHS site and found a lovely little dog, and asked permission from my parents to submit an application for him. Unfortunately (not for him, for me), he’d found another home already. We submitted a general application and are now in the process of finding another little dog.

It’s been a hard year for our family and pets. In addition to Willy, Murphy, my aunt’s sweet little 14-year-old Bichon Frise, died shortly before Christmas. I think a little new blood would do us all good.

While I wait to hear back from a helpful and very friendly member of the LHS staff, I’ve been boning up on house training, crating, obedience trials, harness use, proper diet and separation anxiety. It’s been so long since I’ve trained Willy that I’m a little rusty. I am sure that I want to train the new puppy “right.” I don’t want to encourage begging, chewing and piddling in the house. On my parents’ end, I don’t want my dad to spoil the new puppy by giving it treats without corresponding good behavior. I loved (and still love) Willy to no end, but a month’s worth of tricks training went out the window in one afternoon with my dad and a few bacon treats.

The more I think about how I want the puppy raised, the more I realize that it’s pretty similar to what raising a baby must be like. I want the puppy to be loved but not spoiled, I want to keep it clean and handsome, I want it to like cuddling and go to sleep with a happy tummy and an empty bladder. I want it to be smart, disciplined and loyal.

I can’t wait to get started. Hopefully, I’ll have an update of some sort soon.

The Writing Bug

My dad suggested that I start writing again the other night, and I’ve been thinking about it. If nothing else, it’ll help keep me productive. It’s something to do. The vast majority of what I’ve written in the past four years has been an academic paper or a news article or an editorial. Some easy fiction might be good for the soul.

I haven’t written much in a while, not since my intermediate reporting class. My work at the Kansan was mostly about editing other people’s work, not producing my own. I wasn’t able to take reporting, mainly because my management position didn’t give me the time (and the paycheck won out, sorry to say).

When I was younger I used to write short little stories all the time, but nothing fictional’s come out in a long time. I don’t like talking about what’s knocking around in my head, mainly because I have this superstition that if I tell someone what I’ve started, I’ll never finish it.

If I had to judge my writing, I’d say my biggest weakness is probably my severity.  I come off as very intense and heavy, and I’d prefer to be more easygoing and colloquial. I think it’ll just take practice, so maybe I should do what my dad suggested and … practice.

The Joy of Sweaters

I love sweaters. One of the reasons that autumn is my favorite season is because it ushers in sweaters.

I have a lot of sweaters (my mother might say I have too many). Each one has a story, and most of them show up in photos. There’s the funky multi-colored coarse sweater I got at Abercrombie; it got to go to Cardiff. I have a plum-colored sweater from H&M that I landed for £10 in Reading, a steal even with the exchange rate. I watched fireworks on Guy Fawkes Night with my friends, wearing a green American Eagle sweater. The sky-blue-green wool AE sweater I got for Christmas in 2007 has been to London and Paris. A brown AE cardigan with big wooden buttons kept me warm through the flu in 2002. There’s the red Aeropostale sweater I wore during the Kansan’s Spring 2009 staff orientation. I wore a lime green AE sweater (another Christmas present) a lot at work in the spring, when the Box (the editors’ office) was freezing. There’s a pink fuzzy sweater from an Abercrombie in Atlanta. And of course, the navy cardigan from Gap that I got for Easter in high school.

Guy Fawkes Night

Me in my olive green sweater, Louise and Alex on Guy Fawkes Night, 2006

Trafalgar
Cheryl and me (and my sweater!) at the National Gallery off Trafalgar Square, London

Those are just the ones I know off the top of my head. I’m sure I have a couple more … somewhere. That’s not even counting the sweaters of old, almost all of which my mother crocheted for me herself. I had sweaters for every holiday, a “neighborhood” sweater with buildings and people on it, a red sweater with Scotties and a balloon sweater. I was born ready for sweater weather (seriously, I’m a January baby, it was cold).

As you can see, my sweaters come from a variety of places. I look everywhere for them, and grab the ones I like. While I’m picky about shirts, pants and dresses, it’s very easy for me to find sweaters that I love.

I’m wearing a sweater at the moment, a lovely dark teal Forenza cowl sweater from The Limited (snagged at 40 percent off to boot). Is there anything in the world that feels as cozy as being enveloped in a soft, cushy sweater? Maybe being enveloped in a soft, cushy sweater with a mug of hot tea (how English of me) or cocoa.

So, thank you sweaters. Thank you for going with jeans, slacks or skirts. Thank you for coming in so many gorgeous colors. Thank you for being machine-washable. Thank you for fitting well and accentuating the right parts (read: breasts). Thank you for being on sale and for keeping me warm and snuggly in many a situation, whether it’s working in front of a computer or strolling through a museum. Thank you for being sold everywhere, and for usually being reasonably priced (with sales, of course).

Sweaters, je t’aime.