I just got back from a screening of Call Me Kuchu, a film about Uganda’s LGTB activist community, at the Brattle Theatre in Cambridge, MA. I’ve been eager to see this film since I first blogged about it in May 2011, and it lived up to the nearly two years of anticipation.
Boston-area folks: it’s also playing at the Salem Film Fest on March 12, 2013. It’s not available in the States yet, so this might be your only chance to see it for a while.
Two weekends ago I moved out of my summer sublet and into an attic apartment the new roommate and I have dubbed the Sky Parlor. I’ve yet to unpack, partially because I’m overwhelmed by all the boxes and partially because roommate and I have half-formed plans to build this in our kitchen:
Want. Via Hindsvik.
What’s the use of unpacking and putting things on shelves, really, if we’re just going to have to move them all again?
The Sky Parlor is lovely, full of light and breeze, except I can’t figure out how to turn the oven on. I grew up with electric kitchen appliances, and I’m terrified that too much messing around might result in a flaming ball of natural gas.
What I’m trying to say is that if I don’t show up to my new job tomorrow, you should probably call the gas company and see if there have been any explosions.
I’m spending the summer in Cambridge, interning for the Berkman Center for Internet and Society. Today I went to the office for the first time, met the 30-something other interns and started putting faces with names.
That was all good, and I’m excited about starting more concrete projects with the OpenNet Initiative and the Internet & Democracy Project tomorrow.
But then I tried to walk home.
(Note: I am terrible with directions. Sometimes things work out, and I end up finding a metro station that can get me back home (see: St. Petersburg, New York). Other times, I end up fending off the persistent attentions of a motorcycle taxi driver named Edward.)
The walk from my apartment to Berkman is simple:
But in the interest of exploring the area, I decided to hit up Porter Square (the closest metro stop) on the way home:
I made it to Porter Square, but then I failed. Miserably:
Conway Playground is when I finally stopped and called someone for directions.
Until now, I’ve been vehemently opposed to getting an iPhone: they’re pretty, yes, but something about the clunky, wifi-devoid simplicity of my basic Samsung (or, may it rest in peace, my beloved Nokia 3310) appeals to me: I’m not constantly tied to my e-mail, it’s not expensive to replace, and it does — or at least did, until today — everything I need it to do.
But now that I live in a city that’s not laid out in a beautifully designed grid (barring Broadway and everything below 14th Street), I’m reconsidering. Internet: I think I want an iPhone.
(Related: Ethan Zuckerman’s ode to the retro mobile phone, including the Nokia 1100 (which I use when I’m in Uganda) and its “integrated sewer avoidance system.”)