10 Items from Today

Stuff that's on my mind right now:

1. It is cool when parking is not allowed around your building because Paramount is filming a movie there.

2. It is not cool when there is grafitti in your neighborhood that says "Fuck You, Bush-haters!"

3. It is also not cool when you get stuck in the elevator when you are already running late for work. As those of you who have visited my apartment building know, the elevator situation is, for lack of a better word, treacherous. For those of you who don't know, basically its an old, rickety elevator that opens and closes really fast, and will basically close on you if you're in its way. I only live on the third floor, so there's really no reason for me to take the elevator, other than pure laziness about walking and also about taking my keys out to get from the stairwell into the apartment complex. This morning I got into the elevator without a problem and took it
down to the first floor. It started to open. It opened about three inches and then stopped. I stood there for a moment, waiting, but nothing happened. I pressed the "open" button and nothing happened. I pressed the "close" button and still nothing happened. I pressed all the buttons and still nothing. I tried to pry the door open and it wouldn't budge. I pressed more buttons. Kicked the door. Kicked the inside of the elevator. Nothing. Nothing other than panic. I thought "Well, I could try to squeeze out, but I probably won't make it, because it's only three inches and my body width is more than that. Plus, I will have to empty out the contents of my bag to squeeze it through." I thought more about squeezing, and decided it was a decent option. Then I thought "But what if I get stuck? Or worse, what if I get stuck and then the elevator decides to move? I would actually die if that happens, because I know that this elevator has no concern for the people who are in its way." Then I thought "Well, I could press the alarm, but then what if I could have squeezed through? Whoever rescues me will think I am a tool for having them rescue me when I could have very easily escaped." Then I thought "I should just squeeze - I think I can make it - what's the worse that will happen? I'll get a little elevator crud on my fabulous pink coat or die. No big deal." So I threw my bag out through the crack and barely squeezed through. Barely squeezed through to the point that when I was out my body shot across the hallway because I was stuck. Luckily nobody was there to see this. But, as Roommate points out, there are cameras everywhere in our building so somebody is going to watch this and be very entertained.

4. So, the moral of the story is, another good thing about being small is being able to squeeze through stuck elevator doors without too much trauma. This is just about the only thing that is good about B cups. Word.

5. The other thing that's bizarre is just elevators in general. And then getting stuck in them. And how scary it is. And how people don't know what to do when people are stuck in a box that's going nowhere. My boss was just telling me about this time when he was stuck in an elevator for an hour and a half by himself with his samples on ice. He was stuck between floors, and people eventually came to rescue him but they were dumbfounded as to how to get him out of the box. It's really bizarre when you think about it. Like are you freaking out because you're claustrophobic or because you can't get where you're going or because you're helpless or because you're stuck? Being literally stuck (rather than metaphorically) is a terrible, terrible thing.

6. Last night on the train I made eye contact with this fella who was wearing headphones. He glanced down at my bag. I was confused. Then I looked down and realized he was looking at my Kerry/Edwards button. I looked back at him, and we both sighed. I very dramatically removed the button. He nodded in concession. When I got off the train, I dramatically stomped my feet and threw the button into the trash on Bedford.

7. Also last night I made a friend! I am thrilled. The boy on whom I have a friendship crush from my class, E, said "We should hang out some time." We exchanged numbers. I intend to make E my new movie buddy, as he is a film student at Columbia.

8. Speaking of class, last night we talked about American Splendor. There's this girl in the class who, when we were reading Fantastic Four said, in reference to The Thing, "Why doesn't he just get over things?" (this should be said in a thick, thick, thick New Jersey accent) This was distressing, because really, how and why would you ever get over being The Thing? It ain't easy to look like that and to be viewed and feared as a monster by the world. It is completely appropriate for Ben Grimm to experience angst regarding being turned into The Thing. Last night the conversation turned to Harvey Pekar, who I adore, because in millions of ways I identify with him (as I indentify with The Thing). We were drawing parallels between Harvey and The Thing, and the same girl said "I guess I just feel the same way - like why doesn't he just get over things and just go to therapy?" I got all upset and yelled "Dude, the book is his therapy!" The professor was like "Yes, yes!" Yes! I bring this up, though, because the girl said "I think people read or watch movies for two different reasons - total escapism or to identify with characters. I'm an escapist." Nothing wrong with that. But. Why is she so disgruntled when things are honest or have depth? And why do I identify with all of these tragic and sad characters? It is most likely a fact that this girl listens to Jessica Simpson and not emo pop. It was really everything I could do to be like "Dude, I have a blog that is basically my own American Splendor." The whole thing with Harvey Pekar (and you know this is you've seen the movie) is that he is a clerk by day in a dead end job who writes his comics to feel like he's doing something meaningful, to create art, to justify his stupid job that leaves him time to pursue other intellectual and creative endeavors. American Splendor is autobiography, but it's autobiography of the mundane. It's everyman. It's average. It's the search for recognition in your normal average boring life. It's rich in metaphors and struggle, it's emotional and charged, but still manages to be real. Lovely and real. Man's battle against a uneventful weekend. Love it. I actually wrote a song two weeks ago that I need to work on this weekend, about why it sucks when people say they'll call and then don't. While I was recording it I took a break from it to read American Splendor, and encountered a story in which Harvey Pekar rants for about 6 pages about the same phenomenon. He did it in words and pictures, I did it in words and music. Whenever I get that song up here I'll copy over the excerpt. The man is a genius, and its genius that he's finally acknowledged.

9. What would be awesome would be a course entitled "Blog as Literature" where you read people's blogs and analyze them and try to understand the deeper meaning.

10. Am trying to plan my weekend but have no idea what's going on because most people don't compulsively plan like I do. I want to see everyone, do everything, but can't plan because who knows what everyone is doing? They don't, because they don't compulsively plan.

Stupid Non-Omen

In one hour Kerry's concession speech will occur.

This is a sad, sad, sad day.

I seriously cannot believe that people think that this freaking Bush regime is acceptable. War. Horrible economy. Destruction of the environment.

Another four years of this. Unacceptable.

Man.

Freaking south and middle.

Watching the states on the map turn red last night was almost more stressful than watching Game 7 of the Sox/Yankees series two weeks ago at this time.

I ask you all to read (and listen to) my blog entry from August 6, 2004. I still feel that way. If only Clinton could just run for eternity! He has enough charisma (and a wonderful track record, Monica aside, but who really cares? he is a great leader and led us to nothing but prosperity) to be elected for the rest of time.

I went from being nervous nervous nervous nervous to being sad sad sad sad sad sad.

The only thing that could make me happy today is to be signed to Matador. LBF sent me an email that said I should be a famous rock star, and I agree. Then I could use my fame and fortune to Rock the Vote.

Sad sad sad sad sad.

That is all.

Omen

This morning I saw a blonde middle aged woman on the train who looked just like John Kerry.

I am hoping this is a sign of good things to come tonight.

The Long Review of the Weekend - Part 2

I got up way too early on Saturday to meet M and A for the parade. We ended up getting a sweet spot outside Charles MGH, only about three people deep. We saw a dude dressed as Where's Waldo, which I think is the best idea ever. When I next go to a big crowd scene, I am so dressing as Where's Waldo. Although now that I've written this, I won't be able to get away with saying it was my idea. Oh well. Nevertheless, we waited for a couple hours and then got to see the players go by for about two seconds. It was still wonderful. We got some nice photos. And it was good to be amongst fans. And happiness. 100% bliss. It was interesting to see heroes that close. I will post some photos when I am not sick and can function.

After the parade I waited in line with 100 other people for an Anna's burrito (woo hoo!) and then briefly hung out with former roommate J before (and after) taking a nap. It was great to see him, and again I felt like I was at home.

I went to my sister's Halloween party with M and A that night. It was weird for us because we are 28 (nearly29) and my sister is newly 22. It was a college party. I know you all think I am far too fixated on age, so I'll just say this once. We were old.

The old folks stayed in the area outside the bathroom and didn't mingle.

My sister came bopping through at one point and said "Why are you guys out here? You should dance."

I said "No, Sister, we're old."

"You're not old."

"Yes, we are. We're the oldest people here."

"No you're not."

"Who's older than us?"

"Leah, there are married people here." She said married people all hushed as though these people were diseased, like the way people used to be afraid to say cancer and got all quiet and didn't really know how to say it but everyone knew exactly what was going on. At least this is what I'm told by people who lived in the era when people wouldn't say cancer.

M and A looked at each other. "We're married!" M said, not quite offended but more like amused.

I said "You mean to tell me that the other married people here are older than us?"

My sister looked at us, smiled a bit unsurely, and then walked away.

We left the party early and headed out to Worcester, where M and A live in their fabulous gigantic adult apartment. M and A are the kind of couple who make me want to be married. They are so good at it - cute but not obnoxiously so, and still in possession of their individuality. They rock. I slept very well on their spare futon and then headed back yesterday by train. Longest train ride ever. Not because the ride was long, but because the train would stop in insignificant cities such as Springfield for 30 minutes while engines were converted or something.

While I was on the train the dude behind me was yelling at someone about an Excel spreadsheet designed to play Fantasy Basketball. I have no idea. This guy was a tool. I wanted to turn around and be like "Do you have to be so mean to whoever you're talking about? If you're so concerned, make your own damn spreadsheet!" He'd be like "No, you're not listening to me. I asked you this before. How did you make the formula? What cells did you copy? Where did you get the stats? Did you factor in the assists? NO! TRY GOOGLE!!!"

When I got to NY a man dressed as Gumby was getting a Metro card and a Twister Board walked by. I'd completely forgotten it was Halloween. Unfortunately I was spent (and sick!) from the weekend, so I didn't do anything but go home, unpack, and listen to Roommate's boy troubles.

I desperately need sleep.

Tomorrow we vote. I am so nervous. Everyone. VOTE.

The LONG Review of the Weekend - Part 1

I am back from Boston. I am sick. I am not happy about it.

I left NYC on Friday afternoon. On my way out of the building my irrational fear of revolving doors proved merited when I got stuck (and nearly crushed) in one. Scary. It's another story for another time, but be warned. It can happen. It's totally acceptable for you to be afraid. Be very very afraid.

On my way back to Boston, I was filled with this weird feeling. Almost the feeling you have when you're going home for Christmas. Excited. Warm and fuzzy. I hadn't predicted this. Maybe it was just fall playing tricks on me.

When I got to South Station I was waiting for my food when I was approached by a very drunk man who slurred "Whasssss wrong with people?" "Excuse me?" "Whassssss wrong. With. PEOPLE." I said "People suck, man." He said something or other about wanting to use my cell phone and I didn't let him. When I looked at him, I realized his face was bleeding profusely. He stank of alcohol. He was wearing a Red Sox sweatshirt. He was cross with me for not allowing him to use my phone, so in retaliation he stole the tip jars from the grille. The manager of the place jumped over the counter to get the tip jar back from the man who was now harrassing the people at McDonald's. When the manager came back, we were all rolling our eyes because it was quite funny. I said "Man, I just moved a month and a half ago to NYC, I just got back, and this is the first person I talk to!" The man explained that there was a lot of this sort of thing going on since the Sox won - drunken bizarreness, basically. When I got my food, the manager said "Welcome home, sweetie!"

My friend RP picked me up from the Davis Square T station after which I quickly transformed into Estelle, the crazy old widow who bowls. We went to my friend G's house in Waltham for a party. It was surreal to see everyone and even more surreal to see everyone in costume. My favorite was BKNY as Oates (of Hall and Oates). We had way too much fun doing a photo shoot and making fun of G's dresser, on which he had a doylie (is that how you spell it? I've never had to write it before, because when would you ever have occasion to make reference to a doylie?). It was almost as though I hadn't moved. I realized that I really miss a few people, but overall it was fairly normal.

It was normal up until the point when I tried to leave and realized my glasses had fallen out of my camera bag. I couldn't see (obviously) and started living my nightmare in which my glasses are missing and I am freaking out and nobody seems to care. Seriously, folks, people were not in a crisis about this but this was a crisis! The glasses were not in the bag, nor were they anywhere around the bag. And the bag hadn't been moved, so where could they be? I was fairly certain nobody had stolen the glasses, because who would steal glasses?, but I was starting to panic because there was no reasonable location for the glasses since they weren't where they were supposed to be nor were they near where they were supposed to be. Nobody was helping, which I thought was mean because I couldn't see. I finally convinced JA that this was a crisis, and she used her perfect vision to help me find them. She found them across the room under a couch, and they were totally deformed. Completely deformed. Couldn't even put them on my face.

Panic. People were all "Hey, man, what's the big deal? Just have em fixed."

No. No no no!!! Do people not understand what its like to be blind? Yes, I could have them fixed, presumably the following day, but still! What if the only optician's I knew in Boston wasn't open? There was no way I was getting them fixed before the parade, so that sucked. It also meant great headaches and confusion. And if I couldn't get them fixed at all, that meant going back to NY early, but how would I even get home without being able to read signs? Panic panic panic.

I was so flustered that I left my new coat at the party. I remembered in time, and was like "Shit! My coat!" and everyone was like "Why don't you just go back and get it?" and I'm like "Because I can't see a damn thing!" I begged someone to go back and get it, because my head was throbbing and I was trying not to cry about missing the parade.

In the car on the way home with normal lighting and increasing sobriety, I decided to just fix them myself and take the risk, because the parade was worth it. And I sort of fixed them. Well, I can wear them. They're a little crooked which leads to little headaches, but whatever. I will find a place in NY soon enough and have them truly fixed.

Got back to Good Old Hall Street at around 2 or so and basically felt like I hadn't moved. I hung out with A and B for hours in the kitchen, just like the old days, where we caught up and entertained each other with various stories of strangers on the street and the old stand-by, SuperFly. Obviously I had an entirely new arsenal of SuperFly stories that had my former roommates in stitches. I really do miss them.

Got about three hours sleep (Good Old Hall Street and the lack of heat!) and got up for the parade.