Muppet News Flash:
The writer of the blog from two posts ago - the one in response to which I am experiencing existential agita associated with being reduced to a character in the online saga of someone I don't know well - sent me an email.
To paraphrase:
"wondering how much of my blog you read.... friend was angry with me for sending you the link because, well, you're on the blog... she said it would make you feel weird and that i should delete the posts but i don't want to hide things..."
He then proceeded to tell me how to find the entries about me and then apologized for being "lame" and reducing me to "some impersonal label." He said I could feel free to ask him to clarify things, etc. etc. etc.
Wow.
Had I done that, I'd have been cowering in my mind thinking "Shit! He's going to hate me, awkward, should I say something? What should I say? Does he hate me? What is he thinking?" and the I'd have avoided confronting it altogether.
I respect the preemptive strike. Good for him! I, for the first time in a long time, respect a man.
I emailed him and said that I had, indeed, already read the posts and explained a bit of my angst. I assured him that I am not mad, only extremely, utterly, and pyschologically weirded out.
I then copied my blog post from yesterday into an email and sent it to him.
Since we're being honest.
Right.
Now he will know me for the overthinking psychopath that I am, and he can write a blog post about how Comic Girl #3 turned out to be insane, which was luckily revealed early on through a series of zany blog hijinks!
And then people will comment:
"We knew she was bad news in the making!"
"She seemed like a proto-lesbian, anyway!"
"Glasses? Obviously it was doomed from the start!"
Friday, December 03, 2004
We Thought It Was Really Funny Last Night
But today it isn't.
But it seemed really funny last night.
We have this every-Thursday-happy-hour thing where the bar rotates, so every week somebody different chooses the bar. Basically our criteria are: happy hour specials and pub fries for R. This girl, M, chose the bar last night based on cheese fries and proximity. When we checked the website, we were horrified to see skanky blonde girls with mardi gras beads and almost-exposed breasts, but whatever. They have cheese fries.
We were slightly worried about the sorority girl quotient, but realized, the second we got there, that there would not be an issue. We were the only people there.
Three hours later, it was us and about 75 aging dudes. I am thinking it was a frat reunion, and they chose that bar because of the skanky blonde girls with mardi gras beads and almost-exposed breasts on the website.
One of the dudes had a piece of paper sticking out of his collar. We thought this was the funniest thing we'd ever seen. We think he forgot to take the cardboard out of the shirt, which he just purchased for the reunion. We whispered and pointed for 15 minutes and wrestled with whether we should tell him or just sneak up behind him and pull it out but eventually decided that the best thing for us to do would be to put pieces of paper in our collars and walk by him repetitively. We ripped up pieces of paper placemat and stuck them in our shirts.
I swear. It was really funny last night.
D's father was randomly in town last night because he missed a connecting flight, and I was like "D! I want to meet your father! I must see your father! I love parents! I want to see people's parents the way normal people want to see people's babies! People's parents are so cute!"
D finally caved in and said his father would "stop by." Sometimes I forget that people's parents are older than mine because my parents are relatively young to have a child my age. D's father came in and he was like mid-to-late-60's and scared to death of us. I felt really bad. But he was, of course, adorable and D looks just like him only like 7 inches taller and not wearing a suit.
D introduced each of us to his father and was then awkwardly like "Well, I guess we'll be going..." and he turned around and started walking out with a piece of paper sticking out of his shirt. We were like "D! Wait!" and were gesturing towards our pieces of paper. He heard us, turned around, and, mortified, removed his piece of paper. His poor father. He's going to report to D's mother that D's friends are a bad, insane influence on their son.
There was also this guy who looked nothing like Macauly Culkin at the bar who we were convinced looked just like Macauly Culkin. We kept pointing at him and creating scenes so he'd turn around so we could decide just how much he did or did not look like Macauly Culkin. After ten minutes of this Macauly and his friends left the bar, but on their way out we got a really good look at him and he did, indeed, look like a dark-haired-not-as-cute-Macauly-Culkin-with-a-totally-different-shaped-head-but-the-same-dough-boy-lips.
Awshummm.....
But it seemed really funny last night.
We have this every-Thursday-happy-hour thing where the bar rotates, so every week somebody different chooses the bar. Basically our criteria are: happy hour specials and pub fries for R. This girl, M, chose the bar last night based on cheese fries and proximity. When we checked the website, we were horrified to see skanky blonde girls with mardi gras beads and almost-exposed breasts, but whatever. They have cheese fries.
We were slightly worried about the sorority girl quotient, but realized, the second we got there, that there would not be an issue. We were the only people there.
Three hours later, it was us and about 75 aging dudes. I am thinking it was a frat reunion, and they chose that bar because of the skanky blonde girls with mardi gras beads and almost-exposed breasts on the website.
One of the dudes had a piece of paper sticking out of his collar. We thought this was the funniest thing we'd ever seen. We think he forgot to take the cardboard out of the shirt, which he just purchased for the reunion. We whispered and pointed for 15 minutes and wrestled with whether we should tell him or just sneak up behind him and pull it out but eventually decided that the best thing for us to do would be to put pieces of paper in our collars and walk by him repetitively. We ripped up pieces of paper placemat and stuck them in our shirts.
I swear. It was really funny last night.
D's father was randomly in town last night because he missed a connecting flight, and I was like "D! I want to meet your father! I must see your father! I love parents! I want to see people's parents the way normal people want to see people's babies! People's parents are so cute!"
D finally caved in and said his father would "stop by." Sometimes I forget that people's parents are older than mine because my parents are relatively young to have a child my age. D's father came in and he was like mid-to-late-60's and scared to death of us. I felt really bad. But he was, of course, adorable and D looks just like him only like 7 inches taller and not wearing a suit.
D introduced each of us to his father and was then awkwardly like "Well, I guess we'll be going..." and he turned around and started walking out with a piece of paper sticking out of his shirt. We were like "D! Wait!" and were gesturing towards our pieces of paper. He heard us, turned around, and, mortified, removed his piece of paper. His poor father. He's going to report to D's mother that D's friends are a bad, insane influence on their son.
There was also this guy who looked nothing like Macauly Culkin at the bar who we were convinced looked just like Macauly Culkin. We kept pointing at him and creating scenes so he'd turn around so we could decide just how much he did or did not look like Macauly Culkin. After ten minutes of this Macauly and his friends left the bar, but on their way out we got a really good look at him and he did, indeed, look like a dark-haired-not-as-cute-Macauly-Culkin-with-a-totally-different-shaped-head-but-the-same-dough-boy-lips.
Awshummm.....
Thursday, December 02, 2004
Blogs, Bizarreness, Bad News In the Making, Batman
I have a blog. You all know this because you are reading it. I write about my readers. I write about people who don't read it. The people who don't read it are sort of like characters. They're New York people who are real to me but fiction to the people who read the blog. I don't worry about it, because I am mostly certain that nobody will ever see this.
Now. Imagine that you've met someone and they say "I'll send you the link to my blog."
You think "Rad! I don't know this person well and their blog will give me insight into their personality!"
Then you read the blog because you are doing everything in your power to procrastinate doing work because you know your data will be bad and because the entire week has been a wash scientifically. Your immediate response is "This blog is GOOD!" so you read more, wishing your blog could be as good. But you're not concerned, because you are a scientist and the writer of the good blog is, well, a writer.
You read more, and you learn more about this person. Questions are answered. You start to like the writer more and more, because you can identify with the writing. More importantly, you can identify with why the writer writes.
You read on, and then you find an entry about you.
Which is weird, because suddenly you've become a character in someone else's blog.
You wonder "Does the author realize I've seen this?" or "Did the author want me to see this?" or "What does the author mean by this?"
In the entry, which is bizarre because it mimics an entry in your own blog, the author is excited to have met you but describes you as "bad news in the making" because you very much remind the author of someone named "J."
You are compared to "J" because you both have "the nerdy glasses and the big words." There are more comparisons.
Now.
It's just weird.
Being on someone's blog.
And having what's said about you on someone's blog be uninterpretable.
It brings up this cascade of questions and thinking-too-much:
1. Who is "J?" Is she real? If you met her, would you think that she was just like you? How do people perceive you, anyway?
2. In the entry, you are referred to as Comic Girl #3 - there are entries about #2 - but who is #1? Are there other people on the planet who are just like you? Did these other Girls look like you? And why are you #3? And why is someone other than you writing about your glasses? How bizarre is that? How should you feel about this?
3. Are people drawn to other people because they remind them of something comfortable? Do people only hang out with new people because the new people are substitutes for someone else? Is that what life is all about? Are you just a genre? Are you just "a type?"
4. Being a character. Weird. People wrote comments. Which is fine, because we all do it, but still weird.
5. Should you be flattered or horrified? If you make enough of an impression on someone to appear as a character in their blog, then that's cool. But its almost like you're a shadow of another character. Would you be noteworthy in someone's life if someone didn't already set the precedent for your type?
Bizarre. It's not traumatic or anything. It's just an interesting experience to have. People are always talking about information being readily available on the internet (man, I talked about the Internet being a Super Villain in my very own blog!) and this is just an example of that. When asked what superpower people would like, some people who haven't really thought things through will say "The ability to read minds." The ability to read thoughts is the worst superpower ever.
It's just weird to be distilled down to a character in someone's cryptic online story. Which I guess is deserved, as I am writing my own cryptic online story. Except its not really cryptic. Is it?
Man. This is weird. Maybe I shouldn't have a blog anymore. No. Maybe I'll just never talk about people again. But I like to tell stories about people doing cute or ridiculous things. What's more entertaining than people?
Holy Blog Crisis, Batman.
Now. Imagine that you've met someone and they say "I'll send you the link to my blog."
You think "Rad! I don't know this person well and their blog will give me insight into their personality!"
Then you read the blog because you are doing everything in your power to procrastinate doing work because you know your data will be bad and because the entire week has been a wash scientifically. Your immediate response is "This blog is GOOD!" so you read more, wishing your blog could be as good. But you're not concerned, because you are a scientist and the writer of the good blog is, well, a writer.
You read more, and you learn more about this person. Questions are answered. You start to like the writer more and more, because you can identify with the writing. More importantly, you can identify with why the writer writes.
You read on, and then you find an entry about you.
Which is weird, because suddenly you've become a character in someone else's blog.
You wonder "Does the author realize I've seen this?" or "Did the author want me to see this?" or "What does the author mean by this?"
In the entry, which is bizarre because it mimics an entry in your own blog, the author is excited to have met you but describes you as "bad news in the making" because you very much remind the author of someone named "J."
You are compared to "J" because you both have "the nerdy glasses and the big words." There are more comparisons.
Now.
It's just weird.
Being on someone's blog.
And having what's said about you on someone's blog be uninterpretable.
It brings up this cascade of questions and thinking-too-much:
1. Who is "J?" Is she real? If you met her, would you think that she was just like you? How do people perceive you, anyway?
2. In the entry, you are referred to as Comic Girl #3 - there are entries about #2 - but who is #1? Are there other people on the planet who are just like you? Did these other Girls look like you? And why are you #3? And why is someone other than you writing about your glasses? How bizarre is that? How should you feel about this?
3. Are people drawn to other people because they remind them of something comfortable? Do people only hang out with new people because the new people are substitutes for someone else? Is that what life is all about? Are you just a genre? Are you just "a type?"
4. Being a character. Weird. People wrote comments. Which is fine, because we all do it, but still weird.
5. Should you be flattered or horrified? If you make enough of an impression on someone to appear as a character in their blog, then that's cool. But its almost like you're a shadow of another character. Would you be noteworthy in someone's life if someone didn't already set the precedent for your type?
Bizarre. It's not traumatic or anything. It's just an interesting experience to have. People are always talking about information being readily available on the internet (man, I talked about the Internet being a Super Villain in my very own blog!) and this is just an example of that. When asked what superpower people would like, some people who haven't really thought things through will say "The ability to read minds." The ability to read thoughts is the worst superpower ever.
It's just weird to be distilled down to a character in someone's cryptic online story. Which I guess is deserved, as I am writing my own cryptic online story. Except its not really cryptic. Is it?
Man. This is weird. Maybe I shouldn't have a blog anymore. No. Maybe I'll just never talk about people again. But I like to tell stories about people doing cute or ridiculous things. What's more entertaining than people?
Holy Blog Crisis, Batman.
Free Sangria
The things you will tell someone as you're trying to get to know them are bizarre and unpredictable.
For example, I found myself soliloquizing this evening about my arch-nemesis from high school.
Now.
I don't often talk about my arch-nemesis. I am unsure whether I've even mentioned his existence to some (most? any?) of my best friends. I never, ever consciously think about him. He has been stricken from the record.
He doesn't exist until I am trying to explain who I am to someone who knows nothing about me, and for some reason I end up talking about my arch-nemesis from high school.
Why is that? Is it to explain what annoys me about the world without directly saying "It annoys me when smarmy people get ahead of qualified people by cheating and because they are better looking?" Is it to remind myself that I have a past? Is it because the term "arch-nemesis" isn't used enough and because it makes for good conversation to share stories about enemies? Why did I even bring this up? I have no idea.
The arch-nemesis conversation occurred this evening over Mexican food. The restaurant was very non-New York. This means that it was not scene-y. It reminded me of Boston and made me feel warm and fuzzy. I did not feel warm and fuzzy about the price of Quesadillas, though. I was made, however, to feel extremely warm and fuzzy when the waiter brought over two glasses of sangria. We were like "We didn't order..." and he smiled adorably and said "It's on the house."
I have no explanation for this. Nobody else in the restaurant got free sangria. More data must be collected....
In other news, finally!!! someone at work did an impression of Ja Rule. Again, warm and fuzzy. It's been far too long since someone in my life imitated Ja Rule. My new Bench Buddy did it and it was fantastic. I became giddy, which prompted him to do more hip hop impressions, including doing all three parts (Ja Rule included) of that Fat Joe / Ashanti "What's love got to do... got to do... got to do wtih it...." song. These impressions most likely resulted from my declaration of "We have to get a Snoop Dogg action figure as a mascot for our bay!"
This new guy rocks. He also said, unprompted, "Well, if you want some cute indie pop boys to hang out with, you should meet my friends."
Yes, Bench Buddy, you said the magic words. Cute. Indie. Pop. Boys.
Damn sangria. I am simultaneously exhausted and spastic so....
More on the topic of getting to know new people...
Sometimes when you find yourself getting to know new people, you will not only tell them bizarre things about yourself that you never tell anyone and relay ancient anecdotes and say things like "oh yeah? well my hometown has COWS!", you might find yourself allowing them to hear your original songs on your Ipod.
This might weird you out because nobody other than you has actually heard these songs in crisp, raw, non-audio-blogged form. And because nobody in your new life knows about this part of you.
It might weird you out even more because you have to watch this person listen to your music, which is basically like watching someone read your diary, and all you want to do is scream "Well, do you hate it?" but you don't, because you are truly afraid that they do.
And it might make you pause when you realize that the only reason you allowed them to listen to the songs is because they were adorable when they stuttered "Why can't I talk around you?"
And it might embarrass you even more than you are already embarrassed when they say, after listening, something like "You seem really nervous" as you blush uncontrollably.
And it might frustrate you to no end because you just did something you never do, and because for you, having someone listen to your music while you are there is more intimacy than you know how to handle. It's more than you're used to. It makes you feel like a freak and makes you want to yell "I am nervous because I feel like you just saw me naked or something!" but instead you just take your Ipod back and don't ask if the music was good or not.
And then its the next day at work and you look up and unexpectedly see this person and they look different to you.
And you smile differently.
Because you feel like he saw a part of you that nobody else sees and for some reason he still smiles at you.
It's weird - that moment when you see someone differently and you think "Happy" and then "Oh shit" and then "Maybe its time to find a therapist here."
For example, I found myself soliloquizing this evening about my arch-nemesis from high school.
Now.
I don't often talk about my arch-nemesis. I am unsure whether I've even mentioned his existence to some (most? any?) of my best friends. I never, ever consciously think about him. He has been stricken from the record.
He doesn't exist until I am trying to explain who I am to someone who knows nothing about me, and for some reason I end up talking about my arch-nemesis from high school.
Why is that? Is it to explain what annoys me about the world without directly saying "It annoys me when smarmy people get ahead of qualified people by cheating and because they are better looking?" Is it to remind myself that I have a past? Is it because the term "arch-nemesis" isn't used enough and because it makes for good conversation to share stories about enemies? Why did I even bring this up? I have no idea.
The arch-nemesis conversation occurred this evening over Mexican food. The restaurant was very non-New York. This means that it was not scene-y. It reminded me of Boston and made me feel warm and fuzzy. I did not feel warm and fuzzy about the price of Quesadillas, though. I was made, however, to feel extremely warm and fuzzy when the waiter brought over two glasses of sangria. We were like "We didn't order..." and he smiled adorably and said "It's on the house."
I have no explanation for this. Nobody else in the restaurant got free sangria. More data must be collected....
In other news, finally!!! someone at work did an impression of Ja Rule. Again, warm and fuzzy. It's been far too long since someone in my life imitated Ja Rule. My new Bench Buddy did it and it was fantastic. I became giddy, which prompted him to do more hip hop impressions, including doing all three parts (Ja Rule included) of that Fat Joe / Ashanti "What's love got to do... got to do... got to do wtih it...." song. These impressions most likely resulted from my declaration of "We have to get a Snoop Dogg action figure as a mascot for our bay!"
This new guy rocks. He also said, unprompted, "Well, if you want some cute indie pop boys to hang out with, you should meet my friends."
Yes, Bench Buddy, you said the magic words. Cute. Indie. Pop. Boys.
Damn sangria. I am simultaneously exhausted and spastic so....
More on the topic of getting to know new people...
Sometimes when you find yourself getting to know new people, you will not only tell them bizarre things about yourself that you never tell anyone and relay ancient anecdotes and say things like "oh yeah? well my hometown has COWS!", you might find yourself allowing them to hear your original songs on your Ipod.
This might weird you out because nobody other than you has actually heard these songs in crisp, raw, non-audio-blogged form. And because nobody in your new life knows about this part of you.
It might weird you out even more because you have to watch this person listen to your music, which is basically like watching someone read your diary, and all you want to do is scream "Well, do you hate it?" but you don't, because you are truly afraid that they do.
And it might make you pause when you realize that the only reason you allowed them to listen to the songs is because they were adorable when they stuttered "Why can't I talk around you?"
And it might embarrass you even more than you are already embarrassed when they say, after listening, something like "You seem really nervous" as you blush uncontrollably.
And it might frustrate you to no end because you just did something you never do, and because for you, having someone listen to your music while you are there is more intimacy than you know how to handle. It's more than you're used to. It makes you feel like a freak and makes you want to yell "I am nervous because I feel like you just saw me naked or something!" but instead you just take your Ipod back and don't ask if the music was good or not.
And then its the next day at work and you look up and unexpectedly see this person and they look different to you.
And you smile differently.
Because you feel like he saw a part of you that nobody else sees and for some reason he still smiles at you.
It's weird - that moment when you see someone differently and you think "Happy" and then "Oh shit" and then "Maybe its time to find a therapist here."
Wednesday, December 01, 2004
Obsessive Entry of the Week
I want a Snoop Dogg action figure. I looked at some on the web, and there are
apparently three different ones, but I don't love any of them enough to pay $35. If they were $15, maybe. I want one for work. And one for the loft. And one to carry with me at all times.
In the spirit of Snoop, please enjoy the following:
http://www.asksnoop.com/
I will always love this website.
In other news, I went to see The Machinist last night.
The writer saw Fight Club and Memento and thought "Wow! Those were great movies! You know what would be awesome? If I take all the crappy stuff from both of those movies, combine them, and then have a grotesquely thin protagonist to trick people into thinking I've written a good movie!"
The only good thing about this movie was that it was pretty.
Christian Bale, however, was not pretty. I didn't think it was possible. He is my longest-lasting celebrity crush.
(Breaking news: Someone in the lab just said to the pregnant woman "But isn't your stomach itchy? I remember my stomach being really dry and itchy. Did you try the cocoa butter thing?")
I've loved him since Newsies. I have been rabid. I haven't seen too many of his recent endeavors, but have seen Swing Kids about 10,000 times. If I had to marry someone, it would be Christian Bale. Well, not Christian Bale at 119 pounds. Plump, adorable, perfect Christain Bale.
He is pretty much the only celebrity crush who has endured the test of time. I've gone through every phase - Corey Haim, Jon Knight, William Baldwin, Ralph Fiennes, Brad Pitt, Dave Grohl, Jude Law. Christian Bale has always been there.
Yum.
And I liked him before everyone realized he was super hot after American Psycho.
And how excited are we for Christian Bale to be Batman in Batman Begins?
I cannot contain myself.
The only thing with Christian Bale, though, is that he is very serious. He never smiles. Which will be good for the Batman role. But not good in a boyfriend, which is the only reason I'll never date him.
Heh.
apparently three different ones, but I don't love any of them enough to pay $35. If they were $15, maybe. I want one for work. And one for the loft. And one to carry with me at all times.
In the spirit of Snoop, please enjoy the following:
http://www.asksnoop.com/
I will always love this website.
In other news, I went to see The Machinist last night.
The writer saw Fight Club and Memento and thought "Wow! Those were great movies! You know what would be awesome? If I take all the crappy stuff from both of those movies, combine them, and then have a grotesquely thin protagonist to trick people into thinking I've written a good movie!"
The only good thing about this movie was that it was pretty.
Christian Bale, however, was not pretty. I didn't think it was possible. He is my longest-lasting celebrity crush.
(Breaking news: Someone in the lab just said to the pregnant woman "But isn't your stomach itchy? I remember my stomach being really dry and itchy. Did you try the cocoa butter thing?")
I've loved him since Newsies. I have been rabid. I haven't seen too many of his recent endeavors, but have seen Swing Kids about 10,000 times. If I had to marry someone, it would be Christian Bale. Well, not Christian Bale at 119 pounds. Plump, adorable, perfect Christain Bale.
He is pretty much the only celebrity crush who has endured the test of time. I've gone through every phase - Corey Haim, Jon Knight, William Baldwin, Ralph Fiennes, Brad Pitt, Dave Grohl, Jude Law. Christian Bale has always been there.
Yum.
And I liked him before everyone realized he was super hot after American Psycho.
And how excited are we for Christian Bale to be Batman in Batman Begins?
I cannot contain myself.
The only thing with Christian Bale, though, is that he is very serious. He never smiles. Which will be good for the Batman role. But not good in a boyfriend, which is the only reason I'll never date him.
Heh.
Monday, November 29, 2004
Bad Mood Be Gone!
Today during lunch I went to pick up my hemmed purple pants, which look fabulous. I cannot wait to wear them this weekend.
On my way back from the pants mission, I stopped at Subway for lunch. I love Subway because they say "Our sandwiches have only three grams of fat!" and then harrass you at the cash register until you buy a soda, a cookie, and chips.
Fine with me! I asked for a white chocolate chip cookie. No chips. Take that!
I sat down to eat and realized they had given me two white chocolate chip cookies! Apparently two cookies is the equivalent of one bag of chips in the meal deal. I bit into cookie 1 and it was pure bliss. Why? Because this cookie, for whatever reason, tasted exactly like a Lucky Charms marshmallow.
And I had two of them.
Yes.
Bad mood officially thwarted by a white chocolate chip cookie.
Word.
On my way back from the pants mission, I stopped at Subway for lunch. I love Subway because they say "Our sandwiches have only three grams of fat!" and then harrass you at the cash register until you buy a soda, a cookie, and chips.
Fine with me! I asked for a white chocolate chip cookie. No chips. Take that!
I sat down to eat and realized they had given me two white chocolate chip cookies! Apparently two cookies is the equivalent of one bag of chips in the meal deal. I bit into cookie 1 and it was pure bliss. Why? Because this cookie, for whatever reason, tasted exactly like a Lucky Charms marshmallow.
And I had two of them.
Yes.
Bad mood officially thwarted by a white chocolate chip cookie.
Word.
Going Home
Now I know what "going home" means. I've never gone home from anywhere but the same state that home was in. Going home is very romantic and exciting when you don't live near home. You feel the climate changing and see grass and trees and get to ride in a car. You receive looks of awe from your family members because you now live "somewhere else." You have an neverending arsenal of things to talk about and, more importantly, things to feel nostalgic about.
Going home was, of course, an ordeal. Getting to Boston from NYC was agony. Penn Station was more chaotic than usual. There were wall to wall people, the air was stagnant, it was about 100 degrees, people were irritable and running over one another with luggage. People were yelling and screaming and hostile. Once on the train, it was delayed for about an hour and a half due to "traffic on the tracks" and "weather." We inched down the tracks - and waited like two seconds away from 128, which is where I was getting off, for a half hour without explanation.
Being at home was nice, although not as relaxing as I'd have liked. Thanksgiving Day itself was lovely - lots of carbs, lots of stories, lots of appreciation of relatives although I feel very distant from them now that they literally have no comprehension of what my life is like. Before they could at least picture where I was even though they don't know much about me.
I felt very romantic on Thankgiving Day because my father forced us to watch the Concert for George, which immediately had me smitten with George Harrison's son Dhani, who looks exactly like George. Freakishly like him. Uncanny. You would think it was George himself if you didn't know what you were watching.
I thought "Wow, I would totally date him," and then I started thinking about George Harrison himself, and how he was such a good man and amazing musician. Eric Clapton organized the concert, and he's amazing as well. And still attractive, despite his age. Then I was thinking "Would I have left George for Eric Clapton like Patti did?" and then I started wondering if she was still sort of in love with George after she left him, because how could she not be? And then I felt all romantic and tragic projecting myself onto Patti Boyd, who was with Eric Clapton but must have still loved George. Sigh. I am so deranged. I couldn't quite deal with the idea of being in love with Eric Clapton and George Harrison at the same time. It's enough to make you explode, but in a good way.
Aside from the fact that my folks are still cheap and therefore refuse to put the heat up to survivable levels thereby necessitating the wearing of two blankets in the house at all times which has caused me to now be sick again, visiting with them was lovely. Turns out I miss them. Tons.
Some highlights from my mini-holiday:
1. My sister got a guinea pig! His name is Tony and he makes her happier than she's ever been. He is adorable, and she is adorable with him.
2. Went out for dinner and ice cream with M and N (and Sister), who were kind enough to journey out into the sub-suburbs to spend time with me. Even though we were fairly full and slightly buzzed after dinner, we had to have sundaes at Friendly's. Fortunately a new Friendly's just opened up within walking distance of where we ate dinner, so we were all set! Friendly's has the best hot fudge on the planet. What they also have, and you did not know this!, is the funniest artwork ever created. Sister looked up and said "Look... there's ice cream in that picture for no reason" and then "See the one next to it? There's a sandwich in the backyard." Yes, folks, for whatever reason, this particular Friendly's decided to adorn its walls with photographs of New England-y scenes - such as covered bridges, sailboats, barns, seascapes, landscapes - with gratuitous Friendly's food items thrown in rather randomly. After we finished eating, we walked around the restaurant, gallery-style, and took in each of these scenes. I couldn't stop laughing at the sandwich in the backyard or the conehead sundae on the tall ship.
3. My sister exposed me to Curb Your Enthusiasm and mark my words! Whenever I have a functional DVD player I'm so renting them! There was an episode in which Larry David goes to the doctor's and is outraged by the sign-in policy. Basically, you make an appointment but once you get there its first come/first serve based on who's signed in first, thus rendering the pre-made appointment pointless. He tries to drum up outrage and support from the other patients in the waiting room, but everyone ignores him. This exact thing happened to me yesterday on the train on my way home to Brooklyn - there was this woman who was absolutely outraged by the train service - like the express train wasn't coming and she kept trying to rally everyone on the train by saying things like "Doesn't anyone think this policy is ridiculous? Why aren't there more express trains? Ridiculous. How can we stand for this?" but everyone ignored her because nobody cared. We are all used to this. It was awesome.
4. My hometown is all developed. There is now a McDonald's, Starbucks, Walgreens, Star Market, and other nonsense. It's just not right.
Getting back yesterday, as usual, too forever. LBF dropped me off in Harvard Square at about noon and I got to South Station at about 12:40 for my 1:00 train, which didn't come until 1:30. We were then delayed due to "slippery tracks" as well as "increased passenger volume" and then "engine issues." I got into Penn Station at about 7:30.
Right now I am exhausted, sick, and desperately want to decompress. I have a huge pile of phone calls to make, songs to write/record, errands to run, gifts to purchase, Christmas songs to practice just in case I have to play them this weekend. The world doesn't let me forget, either - Christmas carols are already on non-stop. Solid rotation. The station that was playing in tissue culture this morning actually boasted of their "Uninterrupted Holiday Music!" Instead of putting me in the spirit it just makes me anxious. Because I suck at "Let It Snow" and have no time to practice. And because I don't know what to get anyone, or where to get it, or who I'm getting things for.
Blech. This is just fatigue talking. Or maybe its having been away from where I want to be that's talking. When you find where you want to be, suddenly its hard to be away from it. I really missed New York while I was in MA. I had dreams starring my New York friends. It's good to be back, but I won't really feel like I'm back until after the holidays. Hope you all had stellar Thanksgivings. I will report back tomorrow when I am in a better mood and when hopefully I will no longer suck at "Let It Snow."
Word.
Going home was, of course, an ordeal. Getting to Boston from NYC was agony. Penn Station was more chaotic than usual. There were wall to wall people, the air was stagnant, it was about 100 degrees, people were irritable and running over one another with luggage. People were yelling and screaming and hostile. Once on the train, it was delayed for about an hour and a half due to "traffic on the tracks" and "weather." We inched down the tracks - and waited like two seconds away from 128, which is where I was getting off, for a half hour without explanation.
Being at home was nice, although not as relaxing as I'd have liked. Thanksgiving Day itself was lovely - lots of carbs, lots of stories, lots of appreciation of relatives although I feel very distant from them now that they literally have no comprehension of what my life is like. Before they could at least picture where I was even though they don't know much about me.
I felt very romantic on Thankgiving Day because my father forced us to watch the Concert for George, which immediately had me smitten with George Harrison's son Dhani, who looks exactly like George. Freakishly like him. Uncanny. You would think it was George himself if you didn't know what you were watching.
I thought "Wow, I would totally date him," and then I started thinking about George Harrison himself, and how he was such a good man and amazing musician. Eric Clapton organized the concert, and he's amazing as well. And still attractive, despite his age. Then I was thinking "Would I have left George for Eric Clapton like Patti did?" and then I started wondering if she was still sort of in love with George after she left him, because how could she not be? And then I felt all romantic and tragic projecting myself onto Patti Boyd, who was with Eric Clapton but must have still loved George. Sigh. I am so deranged. I couldn't quite deal with the idea of being in love with Eric Clapton and George Harrison at the same time. It's enough to make you explode, but in a good way.
Aside from the fact that my folks are still cheap and therefore refuse to put the heat up to survivable levels thereby necessitating the wearing of two blankets in the house at all times which has caused me to now be sick again, visiting with them was lovely. Turns out I miss them. Tons.
Some highlights from my mini-holiday:
1. My sister got a guinea pig! His name is Tony and he makes her happier than she's ever been. He is adorable, and she is adorable with him.
2. Went out for dinner and ice cream with M and N (and Sister), who were kind enough to journey out into the sub-suburbs to spend time with me. Even though we were fairly full and slightly buzzed after dinner, we had to have sundaes at Friendly's. Fortunately a new Friendly's just opened up within walking distance of where we ate dinner, so we were all set! Friendly's has the best hot fudge on the planet. What they also have, and you did not know this!, is the funniest artwork ever created. Sister looked up and said "Look... there's ice cream in that picture for no reason" and then "See the one next to it? There's a sandwich in the backyard." Yes, folks, for whatever reason, this particular Friendly's decided to adorn its walls with photographs of New England-y scenes - such as covered bridges, sailboats, barns, seascapes, landscapes - with gratuitous Friendly's food items thrown in rather randomly. After we finished eating, we walked around the restaurant, gallery-style, and took in each of these scenes. I couldn't stop laughing at the sandwich in the backyard or the conehead sundae on the tall ship.
3. My sister exposed me to Curb Your Enthusiasm and mark my words! Whenever I have a functional DVD player I'm so renting them! There was an episode in which Larry David goes to the doctor's and is outraged by the sign-in policy. Basically, you make an appointment but once you get there its first come/first serve based on who's signed in first, thus rendering the pre-made appointment pointless. He tries to drum up outrage and support from the other patients in the waiting room, but everyone ignores him. This exact thing happened to me yesterday on the train on my way home to Brooklyn - there was this woman who was absolutely outraged by the train service - like the express train wasn't coming and she kept trying to rally everyone on the train by saying things like "Doesn't anyone think this policy is ridiculous? Why aren't there more express trains? Ridiculous. How can we stand for this?" but everyone ignored her because nobody cared. We are all used to this. It was awesome.
4. My hometown is all developed. There is now a McDonald's, Starbucks, Walgreens, Star Market, and other nonsense. It's just not right.
Getting back yesterday, as usual, too forever. LBF dropped me off in Harvard Square at about noon and I got to South Station at about 12:40 for my 1:00 train, which didn't come until 1:30. We were then delayed due to "slippery tracks" as well as "increased passenger volume" and then "engine issues." I got into Penn Station at about 7:30.
Right now I am exhausted, sick, and desperately want to decompress. I have a huge pile of phone calls to make, songs to write/record, errands to run, gifts to purchase, Christmas songs to practice just in case I have to play them this weekend. The world doesn't let me forget, either - Christmas carols are already on non-stop. Solid rotation. The station that was playing in tissue culture this morning actually boasted of their "Uninterrupted Holiday Music!" Instead of putting me in the spirit it just makes me anxious. Because I suck at "Let It Snow" and have no time to practice. And because I don't know what to get anyone, or where to get it, or who I'm getting things for.
Blech. This is just fatigue talking. Or maybe its having been away from where I want to be that's talking. When you find where you want to be, suddenly its hard to be away from it. I really missed New York while I was in MA. I had dreams starring my New York friends. It's good to be back, but I won't really feel like I'm back until after the holidays. Hope you all had stellar Thanksgivings. I will report back tomorrow when I am in a better mood and when hopefully I will no longer suck at "Let It Snow."
Word.
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