D and I are retarded.
We found ourselves discussing science and how its really ruined everything for people - its taken the fun out of potential unknowns. There's nothing new. There's no "What is that IN THE SKY!?!?! ZEUS HIMSELF IS SPEAKING TO US!" And if there is something new, it can be scientifically explained.
We tried to figure out what could happen now that couldn't be explained scientifically and would freak everyone out, and found ourselves stumped.
I said "What if tomorrow we all woke up and could read minds! Suddenly!!!"
He said "What if the earth started rotating the other way?" (which is funny, since he doesn't read the blog, and, well, we've been discussing that...)
Then we started talking about miracles. We weren't calling them miracles since D is an Atheist and I am a recovering Catholic. We didn't realize we were talking about miracles at all, until D said "Something that would go unexplained today would convince people to become spiritual."
True.
Then we thought "This could be a movie..." and tried to think of movie ideas and miracles and what would translate well onto the screen. I kept saying "The miracle can't involve religion. In order for the movie to be powerful and touching, the miracle needs to reach a protagonist who wasn't religious in the first place."
After about an hour of this D said "Wait a second... I can't believe that YOU and ME are trying to come up with an UPLIFTING idea for a movie."
A feel-good movie written by two extremely cynical people.
The only explanation - we are retarded for each other. Ah, love. Two cynics rendered completely and helplessly happy.
Hee hee.
Friday, March 18, 2005
Thursday, March 17, 2005
St. Patrick
Bench Buddy is listening to the steroid hearings right now.
He was like "Have you been following this at all?" and I had to explain how both of my parents are the most anti-sport people on the planet and how yes, I know there is a steroid issue in existence but no, I am not following it and have no idea what's going on.
It is imperative that I marry a jock so that my future offspring have a chance of not being completely isolated.
Bench Buddy said "This affects us all!"
Right.
So it's St. Patrick's Day. I've never really understood why Americans celebrate St. Patrick's Day, nor have I ever felt compelled to celebrate it. In fact, I think I honored it once and once only, and ended up at home after the fact with a Canadian in my bed.
At any rate, St. Patrick's Day is an American concoction. I learned all about it through a long conversation with Sinead, a former colleague of mine who hails from, you guessed it, Ireland. She explained to me that St. Patrick's Day isn't more than a religious holiday in Ireland. In fact, according to The History Channel, Irish law mandated that pubs be closed on March 17 up until the 1970's.
So people go out and get drunk in the honor of the Irish. Cool. That's fine. I guess what I don't understand is why there is peer pressure to do this. Seriously. People at work are all "You gotta come out! It's ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!! Come ON!" A bunch of people are going to some Irish-themed bar that is going to be playing music-from-Ireland all night.
It would be better if they just called it "National Drunken Act-Like-An-Idiot and Possibly See or Protest a Parade Day!"
Someone I work with, who is of Italian descent, has taken tomorrow as a personal day so as to enjoy St. Patrick's Day.
According to The History Channel (via the US Census): "There are 34 million U.S. residents who claim Irish ancestry. This number is almost nine times the population of Ireland itself (3.9 million). Irish is the nation’s second most frequently reported ancestry, trailing only German. "
Who knew?
I can't decide if I am going to go out or not. I am definitely not going to the music-from-Ireland function. There's a counter-function NOT at an Irish bar that could be manageable, but I think D and I are going to go to the movies instead. Maybe have one non-St.-Patrick's-Day drink beforehand.
Hmmmm.
I'm bored and boring right now and on all sorts of drugs to counteract a headache I've had since yesterday, when I didn't have lunch or ingest caffeine until 4 pm because I was training people again and when I finally went out to lunch with them I ordered vegetarian burrito/enchilada that had chicken/beef in them. Awshummmmm.
OK. I am going to pretend to read a paper now.
Until tomorrow....
He was like "Have you been following this at all?" and I had to explain how both of my parents are the most anti-sport people on the planet and how yes, I know there is a steroid issue in existence but no, I am not following it and have no idea what's going on.
It is imperative that I marry a jock so that my future offspring have a chance of not being completely isolated.
Bench Buddy said "This affects us all!"
Right.
So it's St. Patrick's Day. I've never really understood why Americans celebrate St. Patrick's Day, nor have I ever felt compelled to celebrate it. In fact, I think I honored it once and once only, and ended up at home after the fact with a Canadian in my bed.
At any rate, St. Patrick's Day is an American concoction. I learned all about it through a long conversation with Sinead, a former colleague of mine who hails from, you guessed it, Ireland. She explained to me that St. Patrick's Day isn't more than a religious holiday in Ireland. In fact, according to The History Channel, Irish law mandated that pubs be closed on March 17 up until the 1970's.
So people go out and get drunk in the honor of the Irish. Cool. That's fine. I guess what I don't understand is why there is peer pressure to do this. Seriously. People at work are all "You gotta come out! It's ST. PATRICK'S DAY!!! Come ON!" A bunch of people are going to some Irish-themed bar that is going to be playing music-from-Ireland all night.
It would be better if they just called it "National Drunken Act-Like-An-Idiot and Possibly See or Protest a Parade Day!"
Someone I work with, who is of Italian descent, has taken tomorrow as a personal day so as to enjoy St. Patrick's Day.
According to The History Channel (via the US Census): "There are 34 million U.S. residents who claim Irish ancestry. This number is almost nine times the population of Ireland itself (3.9 million). Irish is the nation’s second most frequently reported ancestry, trailing only German. "
Who knew?
I can't decide if I am going to go out or not. I am definitely not going to the music-from-Ireland function. There's a counter-function NOT at an Irish bar that could be manageable, but I think D and I are going to go to the movies instead. Maybe have one non-St.-Patrick's-Day drink beforehand.
Hmmmm.
I'm bored and boring right now and on all sorts of drugs to counteract a headache I've had since yesterday, when I didn't have lunch or ingest caffeine until 4 pm because I was training people again and when I finally went out to lunch with them I ordered vegetarian burrito/enchilada that had chicken/beef in them. Awshummmmm.
OK. I am going to pretend to read a paper now.
Until tomorrow....
Wednesday, March 16, 2005
Indie Rock Karaoke at Northsix
Yo kids.
I went to Indie Rock Karaoke last night at Northsix in Brooklyn. I was expecting madness. I was expecting thousands of critical hipsters. I was expecting the Yeah Yeah Yeah's to be there, chuckling about the performances of their songs.
What I was not expecting was to be the only group of people there. I was also not expecting the KJ to look just like that kid from "18 Again," who is the same kid who was in the TV version of "Ferris Bueller," which is another topic for another time.
Bench Buddy and I got there one hour after doors opened, and we were literally the only two people there. We were soon joined by R and his girlfriend J. Then there were four of us, and 850 indie rock karaoke songs to split amongst ourselves!
I was suprised by the lack of turnout. I was convinced that everyone in Williamsburg would think that this was the best thing ever, but, as Bench Buddy astutely pointed out, "Not everyone thinks like us."
True, Bench Buddy, true, which is why we are so darn special!
The KJ is from Athens, GA and tours with this. He can't quite make a living at it. I was hoping he'd say "Yes, I make MILLIONS!" so Bench Buddy and I could immediately quit our jobs and bring Indie Rock Karaoke to Brooklyn as a regular occurence.
At any rate, the selection was good. Lots of Pixies, Sonic Youth, Neutral Milk Hotel, random They Might Be Giants songs such as "Ana Ng," a never-ending supply of Liz Phair and Radiohead. Yeah, it was cool.
It was coolest because in his list, the KJ had a bunch of lame songs like things by Britney Spears or K-Ci and Jo Jo or Creed and there would be an explanation listed next to them such as "I got this because I wanted a Weezer song" or "I really wanted 'Float On' by Modest Mouse." Heh.
We weren't really the only ones there. There were maybe a total of 20 people there, including a bartender and bouncer-type.
There was lots of Liz Phair being sung, and by lots, I mean two songs. J did "Supernova." It was awshummmm.
I wanted to do "6'1''" but didn't. Something I hadn't thought of regarding Indie Rock Karaoke - reverence. All of the songs are good. You respect all of the songs, and therefore don't want to mess them up. Usually you can start off with something easy or cheesy - but not here! No! You don't want to mess up "Weezer." It would be a sin.
I don't really know what anyone did for songs, because I was too busy staring at the book or taking photos.
I do know that some kid scooped Bench Buddy and did "Army" by Ben Folds. Wtf? Who else does "Army" by Ben Folds? This is Bench Buddy looking sad about not being able to sing his selection.
I myself sang "Nobody's Fault But My Own" by Beck and felt a bit emo while doing it. It made me want to cry. That song reminds me of things. Such a beautiful song, though, even with a lot of feedback.
My second selection was "Kissing the Lipless" by The Shins. Here I am singing:
It was GREAT karaoke, although I was thinking "I am doing a great disservice to The Shins right now" the entire time. People seemed into it. I got to scream a bit and pretend I was in a really good band. I'd love to do this song again, but I know I won't get a chance to, because Indie Rock Karaoke doesn't happen every day.
And I swear Bench Buddy and I were having a better time than the middle left photo would indicate.
I went to Indie Rock Karaoke last night at Northsix in Brooklyn. I was expecting madness. I was expecting thousands of critical hipsters. I was expecting the Yeah Yeah Yeah's to be there, chuckling about the performances of their songs.
What I was not expecting was to be the only group of people there. I was also not expecting the KJ to look just like that kid from "18 Again," who is the same kid who was in the TV version of "Ferris Bueller," which is another topic for another time.
Bench Buddy and I got there one hour after doors opened, and we were literally the only two people there. We were soon joined by R and his girlfriend J. Then there were four of us, and 850 indie rock karaoke songs to split amongst ourselves!
I was suprised by the lack of turnout. I was convinced that everyone in Williamsburg would think that this was the best thing ever, but, as Bench Buddy astutely pointed out, "Not everyone thinks like us."
True, Bench Buddy, true, which is why we are so darn special!
The KJ is from Athens, GA and tours with this. He can't quite make a living at it. I was hoping he'd say "Yes, I make MILLIONS!" so Bench Buddy and I could immediately quit our jobs and bring Indie Rock Karaoke to Brooklyn as a regular occurence.
At any rate, the selection was good. Lots of Pixies, Sonic Youth, Neutral Milk Hotel, random They Might Be Giants songs such as "Ana Ng," a never-ending supply of Liz Phair and Radiohead. Yeah, it was cool.
It was coolest because in his list, the KJ had a bunch of lame songs like things by Britney Spears or K-Ci and Jo Jo or Creed and there would be an explanation listed next to them such as "I got this because I wanted a Weezer song" or "I really wanted 'Float On' by Modest Mouse." Heh.
We weren't really the only ones there. There were maybe a total of 20 people there, including a bartender and bouncer-type.
There was lots of Liz Phair being sung, and by lots, I mean two songs. J did "Supernova." It was awshummmm.
I wanted to do "6'1''" but didn't. Something I hadn't thought of regarding Indie Rock Karaoke - reverence. All of the songs are good. You respect all of the songs, and therefore don't want to mess them up. Usually you can start off with something easy or cheesy - but not here! No! You don't want to mess up "Weezer." It would be a sin.
I don't really know what anyone did for songs, because I was too busy staring at the book or taking photos.
I do know that some kid scooped Bench Buddy and did "Army" by Ben Folds. Wtf? Who else does "Army" by Ben Folds? This is Bench Buddy looking sad about not being able to sing his selection.
I myself sang "Nobody's Fault But My Own" by Beck and felt a bit emo while doing it. It made me want to cry. That song reminds me of things. Such a beautiful song, though, even with a lot of feedback.
My second selection was "Kissing the Lipless" by The Shins. Here I am singing:
It was GREAT karaoke, although I was thinking "I am doing a great disservice to The Shins right now" the entire time. People seemed into it. I got to scream a bit and pretend I was in a really good band. I'd love to do this song again, but I know I won't get a chance to, because Indie Rock Karaoke doesn't happen every day.
And I swear Bench Buddy and I were having a better time than the middle left photo would indicate.
Mousse
I got back from Indie Rock Karaoke about an hour and a half ago and called D, who is in Florida. My plan was to, while talking to him, upload my photos from Indie Rock Karaoke and post them to the blog.
We were having a nice conversation, though, so I didn't think it fair to engage in side projects while talking about "expectations" and "kids" and "loving someone the most and being loved most by them."
Sigh.
I did manage to upload the photos, though, but am too incoherent to post them in any cohesive manner. I will get to it tomorrow.
In the meantime, in the spirit of photoblogging which is my new obsession, you can take a look at this dessert I had last night at Cafe Mozart on the Upper West Side.
I met LL after work and pre-hair-fixing for dinner. (Sidenote: it is adorable that my sole female friend in NYC has the same initials as yours truly). The place was very New York - kind of swanky on the inside with a dude playing jazzy/lounge piano. He wasn't there when we got there, so we were seated at a table directly behind the piano. When he started, my back was literally up against his back. I contemplated talking about him while he played, but instead decided to pretend that I was in a movie that was taking place in New York, and that LL and I were engaging in sophisticated and witty dialogue about very important things, and not talking about one-night-stands and roommate issues like we really were.
The food was good. It was also lovely to look at, as evidenced by the fact that two separate groups of people who had already eaten stopped at our table to ask us what we were eating. We were full after dinner, but we asked for the dessert menu anyway, hoping we would not be tempted.
Alas, there were no fewer than like 400 desserts. I'm not kidding. It was three pages of a big menu in very small font. I went with the peanut butter mousse cake (see above) which was chocolate cake with a layer of chocolate mousse, a layer of peanut butter mousse, and a layer of white chocolate mouse, with reeses peanut butter cups strewn about. Heaven.
I got back to Williamsburg, feeling like I was going to vomit, at around 10:00, when Roommate was kind enough to dye my hair back to its rightful state, just in time for Indie Rock Karaoke tonight, which was all for nothing since Interpol wasn't there.
It is late now and its been ages since I've had a good night's sleep. Tonight I can't even get 6 hours. Damn you, photographs! I got a little less than 6 last night, and about 5 the night before. D returns from Florida late-night tomorrow and wants to see me. Missing someone is a lovely feeling. Knowing you won't sleep for the next few days is not. The good news is that in spite of being dead tired I feel very good, most likely because things are being accomplished and thoughts are being formulated.
OK. I am really going to sleep now.
If I fall asleep in five minutes I'll get 5 hours and 45 minutes of blissful sleep.
We were having a nice conversation, though, so I didn't think it fair to engage in side projects while talking about "expectations" and "kids" and "loving someone the most and being loved most by them."
Sigh.
I did manage to upload the photos, though, but am too incoherent to post them in any cohesive manner. I will get to it tomorrow.
In the meantime, in the spirit of photoblogging which is my new obsession, you can take a look at this dessert I had last night at Cafe Mozart on the Upper West Side.
I met LL after work and pre-hair-fixing for dinner. (Sidenote: it is adorable that my sole female friend in NYC has the same initials as yours truly). The place was very New York - kind of swanky on the inside with a dude playing jazzy/lounge piano. He wasn't there when we got there, so we were seated at a table directly behind the piano. When he started, my back was literally up against his back. I contemplated talking about him while he played, but instead decided to pretend that I was in a movie that was taking place in New York, and that LL and I were engaging in sophisticated and witty dialogue about very important things, and not talking about one-night-stands and roommate issues like we really were.
The food was good. It was also lovely to look at, as evidenced by the fact that two separate groups of people who had already eaten stopped at our table to ask us what we were eating. We were full after dinner, but we asked for the dessert menu anyway, hoping we would not be tempted.
Alas, there were no fewer than like 400 desserts. I'm not kidding. It was three pages of a big menu in very small font. I went with the peanut butter mousse cake (see above) which was chocolate cake with a layer of chocolate mousse, a layer of peanut butter mousse, and a layer of white chocolate mouse, with reeses peanut butter cups strewn about. Heaven.
I got back to Williamsburg, feeling like I was going to vomit, at around 10:00, when Roommate was kind enough to dye my hair back to its rightful state, just in time for Indie Rock Karaoke tonight, which was all for nothing since Interpol wasn't there.
It is late now and its been ages since I've had a good night's sleep. Tonight I can't even get 6 hours. Damn you, photographs! I got a little less than 6 last night, and about 5 the night before. D returns from Florida late-night tomorrow and wants to see me. Missing someone is a lovely feeling. Knowing you won't sleep for the next few days is not. The good news is that in spite of being dead tired I feel very good, most likely because things are being accomplished and thoughts are being formulated.
OK. I am really going to sleep now.
If I fall asleep in five minutes I'll get 5 hours and 45 minutes of blissful sleep.
Tuesday, March 15, 2005
My Not So Secret Fantasy Is That Interpol Will Be At Northsix Tonight To See Me Massacre "Evil"
The sun is out, my hair is black, my taxes are done, lyrics have been printed out to various potential indie rock songs that will stump and embarrass me in front of all manner of hipsters at karaoke this evening, and I am leaving work before 5:30!
Take THAT, anxiety!
Take THAT, anxiety!
Monday, March 14, 2005
Theory
I have decided to potentially pay someone to help me with my taxes. I have been asking people at work what I should do, and they either say "Well, don't forget to do the city form... which is form something-or-other... no, I don't know where you get it... or what its called.... but you can download it... it's not the same as the state form... I have no idea" or "You should just go to H & R Block because, really, its really complicated here."
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In other news, L'Oreal has blamed my natural hair color for my hair-dye issue and not their poor quality control. I hate when customer service makes you feel like an idiot. I don't see how my dark hair could have possibly turned orange from black hair dye. It's impossible. This being said, they are sending me a "gift certificate" but I don't know that I can wait for it. I want to deal with this issue immediately.
Nobody seems to think its hideous. In fact, people claim to like it. It's much more subtle today. Weird, but subtle. I can't quite decide what to do. I have to look at myself on some more surfaces to determine my true feelings.
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I had to train some people from another facility this afternoon. We took them out to lunch and they walked really slow, because they are not from New York City.
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Tomorrow night is Indie Rock Karaoke around the corner at NorthSix. It is very esoteric. We're not sure what it is - will it be like Hip Hop Karaoke or will it be actual karaoke? Either way, they are selling advance tickets to this and we are hoping that Hipster Nation does not hear about it. I caved in and bought an advance ticket and therefore spent an unnecssary $4 to guarantee getting in. I would be heartbroken if I missed out on this.
I now have to decide what song to sing, if I am going to sing at all. If The Hipsters are in full effect it could be intimidating. I am torn - Modest Mouse? Interpol? Death Cab For Cutie? Blur? Radiohead? Yeah Yeah Yeah's?
I am also torn regarding whether I should skip class or not to get there in time. If I go to class, I'll definitely not get to do karaoke but I might get to see an awesome movie and be in the presence of someone super-famous. If I don't go to class, I have a chance of doing karaoke.
Karaoke is not a definite in any of these scenarios, but its more likely if I skip class.
I feel that class must be skipped.
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I came up with a Neuroscience-related theory this weekend and don't know what to do about it. I emailed some random professor in Texas and am dying for him to email me back. I feel all online-dating about it. I keep checking my email, hoping, hoping, hoping. There's really no reason for him to write back, except that he's an academic and must love academics and therefore academically enthusiastic people!
In my searches for information regarding my theory, I found out that it's Brain Awareness Week! How exciting!!!! To the best of my knowledge, there are no Brain Awareness functions going on in New York City. Hmph. If only I lived in Croatia!
I should make it my new mission to bring Brain Awareness Week to New York City next year.
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Ummmmmm.
I'm tired.
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In other news, L'Oreal has blamed my natural hair color for my hair-dye issue and not their poor quality control. I hate when customer service makes you feel like an idiot. I don't see how my dark hair could have possibly turned orange from black hair dye. It's impossible. This being said, they are sending me a "gift certificate" but I don't know that I can wait for it. I want to deal with this issue immediately.
Nobody seems to think its hideous. In fact, people claim to like it. It's much more subtle today. Weird, but subtle. I can't quite decide what to do. I have to look at myself on some more surfaces to determine my true feelings.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I had to train some people from another facility this afternoon. We took them out to lunch and they walked really slow, because they are not from New York City.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Tomorrow night is Indie Rock Karaoke around the corner at NorthSix. It is very esoteric. We're not sure what it is - will it be like Hip Hop Karaoke or will it be actual karaoke? Either way, they are selling advance tickets to this and we are hoping that Hipster Nation does not hear about it. I caved in and bought an advance ticket and therefore spent an unnecssary $4 to guarantee getting in. I would be heartbroken if I missed out on this.
I now have to decide what song to sing, if I am going to sing at all. If The Hipsters are in full effect it could be intimidating. I am torn - Modest Mouse? Interpol? Death Cab For Cutie? Blur? Radiohead? Yeah Yeah Yeah's?
I am also torn regarding whether I should skip class or not to get there in time. If I go to class, I'll definitely not get to do karaoke but I might get to see an awesome movie and be in the presence of someone super-famous. If I don't go to class, I have a chance of doing karaoke.
Karaoke is not a definite in any of these scenarios, but its more likely if I skip class.
I feel that class must be skipped.
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
I came up with a Neuroscience-related theory this weekend and don't know what to do about it. I emailed some random professor in Texas and am dying for him to email me back. I feel all online-dating about it. I keep checking my email, hoping, hoping, hoping. There's really no reason for him to write back, except that he's an academic and must love academics and therefore academically enthusiastic people!
In my searches for information regarding my theory, I found out that it's Brain Awareness Week! How exciting!!!! To the best of my knowledge, there are no Brain Awareness functions going on in New York City. Hmph. If only I lived in Croatia!
I should make it my new mission to bring Brain Awareness Week to New York City next year.
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Ummmmmm.
I'm tired.
Sunday, March 13, 2005
Another Weekend Bites the Dust
Another weekend in NYC.
It started off well, with only minor ulcer-induing events such as PW being on a bus to NYC that was lost, on which various busriders nearly staged a coup, followed by the part where his cab driver got lost on the way to Williamsburg.
During this ulcer-inducing event, I spent my first evening at home in quite some time doing things like laundry and dishes and searching for ancient 401k documents and Travelocity reservations. I also started my taxes, only to learn that partial-year residence forms are not intuitive.
I used TaxAct, which has this infuriating feature that calculates your refund as you go along, so you go from the elation of thinking you'll receive thousands of dollars from the government to realizing you owe shitloads of money.
Luckily I do not owe shitloads of money because moving can be deducted. Thanks, M, for the tip!
I can't, however, figure out if I will be getting money back from or owe, gasp, over $1000 to the state of NY. Why, you ask?
Because I don't know if I live in the city of New York or not.
Now.
I live in Brooklyn which, in my mind, is not the city of New York. In my mind, the city of New York is Manhattan. Some people, however, think that the city of New York includes all of the burroughs, of which Brooklyn is one. If I live in the city of New York, I have to pay all sorts of extra taxes. If I don't, I will get money back. I'm not sure how to figure this out. Tomorrow I plan to march my occasionally red hair over to the post office to get a booklet, which will hopefully explain to me where I live and will hopefully tell me that I will be getting money back.
Additionally, the state of MA will not allow you to e-file partial year resident tax returns, so I have to do a paper return for MA as well. I guess that's ok, since I didn't have to pay extra tax because I lived in Somerville.
How weird.
Needless to say I almost vomited when I saw how much I will owe if I live in the city of New York. Ulcer. Yipee.
PW eventually arrived so I set the taxes to rest until Sunday morning. He also had an ulcer, so PW, D and I split a bottle of champagne and all passed out with less agita.
On Saturday, D and I went to the MOMA to see a Vietnamese movie called "Buffalo Boy." It was slow and gritty, and I wasn't sure if I liked it or not until the Q & A with the director, which convinced me that I did.
It was interesting to watch, because it was an instance of thinking "Wow, people live like this, and they don't seem to mind." The contrast is amazing. The simplicity of every day life, the struggle, the acceptance. The challenging aspect of this movie was that nobody in the movie was happy, and I wondered "Do they mind? Do they wish they had something else?"
The audience was comprised mainly of people between the ages of 65 - 80, museum patrons wearing fur coats and suit jackets to a movie on a Saturday afternoon. When the film ended, I went to the ladies' room and witnessed a horrifying scene. I was about fourth in line amongst women aged 65 - 80. We were waiting for 6 stalls. The seventh stall, which was closest to us, was not being used. This vile lady - maybe like 60 or so - busted into the restroom and marched to the front of the line and declared "Is there any particular reason this stall is not being used?" The small, cute, polite, and meak woman in the front of the line said quietly "Well, it doesn't have a seat..." to which Cruella responded "That does not mean it's NOT FUNCTIONAL! Did anybody CHECK TO SEE IF IT WORKS!?" Nobody had. We all shook our heads. She said "Well, CHECK!" The woman at the front of the line went in and flushed it and said "Well, yes, it appears to work..." "SO USE IT!" The poor woman, fearing for her life, used the seatless toilet just to appease this horrid woman.
Now. Horrid woman had every right to check the stall herself and then cut the line.
She did not, however, have the right to yell at all of us, nor did she have the right to force the nice lady to use a stall she didn't want to, nor did she THEN have the right to cut all of us because she'd been so forward about marching in there. She seriously CUT ALL OF US.
I left fuming. D said "Wow, this is going to be good," as I was running up the escalator so as not to attack an elderly woman.
We then tried to meet up with D's friend S to go to the Scope Art Show, but didn't because it was crowded and D doesn't do well in crowds. He had some alternate activites planned, including checking out this design store near the museum that's in a renovated townhouse in which someone used to live. It was very lavish with balconies and staircases. We pretended that the floors were made of lava and that we had to escape onto lava-proof modern mats, and then that I was the captain of a spaceship seated in my modern space captain chair.
We met up with PW there and then went to eat at SEA, where S accidentally ordered a whole fish and where we all shared molten chocolate cake and fried bananas that looked like little spring rolls.
A photo of PW and I looking as though we are on a bad first date:
We then went back to the loft and drank more.
Too much drinking going on, folks.
PW and I oscillated between watching "Minority Report" and some god awful Jennifer Love Hewitt vehicle on Oxygen (I didn't even know we got Oxygen) after D and I had a discussion about communication techniques (sigh, this has been a long time coming and I am relieved but still insecure; I apparently have no idea how not to be insecure) and the worst question in the world "What are you thinking?"
Today, I met PW at the MOMA after he finished his interview.
The MOMA is overwhelming. Too much to digest. I decided to become a member because I want to spend more time there and digest things in a more thoughtful way. I am slow to go through museums and realize that I will need at least 30 hours to deal with it appropriately.
I realized today that I am stupid at art because I have zero recall skills when it comes to artists. I can't remember who does what. I can't remember names. I can't remember styles. It's like how some people can't remember dates. I can't remember artists. I was staring at the most wonderful painting and kept thinking "Do not forget this name, do not forget this name, you will remember nothing from today so please please please do not forget THIS name."
Of course I forgot. I remembered the name of the painting, though, so I was able to track down the artist.
I'll never be able to "talk art" because I'll be like "Uhhh... was Picasso the one who painted 'Starry Night?'"
Well, not that bad, but I'll never be able to keep up.
I just have to sit there, be quiet, and say "Wow, this is pretty!"
I am hoping that my MOMA membership will rectify this situation. If I go through one gallery a week, perhaps I'll absorb something. I think this might involve, gasp, studying.
This is all magnified because D is very art-y. He reads current art magazines and knows who's showing at every gallery in NYC and knows what they're trying to say or do and has fierce opinions about all of it. He's also the type to blaze through galleries and then have three hours of things to say, whereas I have to stare at every painting for half an hour before I have any idea what's going on and then say "Ummm, well, I like the use of... well.... I don't know. It's fucked up."
I wish I was better at this. I wish I didn't drop my art history class at UMass because it involved field trips.
The museum was crowded and chaotic, so we didn't see the whole thing, nor did I buy as many postcards as I'd have liked.
Yeah. This is a prime example. I bought postcards of a bunch of pieces I liked, but I've already forgotten who they're by even though I looked at the postcards a million times. Well, that's not true. I remember one photographer's name, but only because Sister and I saw a travelling exhibit of his at the San Francisco MOMA and because I said to D "Sister and I saw this awesome exhibit of these, like, giant photographs of concert crowds and like a supermarket and it was incredible," and D was instantly "Oh, you mean Andreas Gursky, blah blah blah blah" and he knew everything and I felt stupid.
As PW and I were fading, I decided to take some photos using his camera.
This was awesome. A bunch of mirrors and vessels with reflective surfaces can really trip you out. I am going to freely stare at this for hours with my membership:
For whatever reason I've always loved little things. Miniature animals and dollhouses and figurines, like Charmkins. Needless to say I fell in love with this and took a million pictures trying to capture the depth and cuteness, but this was the best I could do:
After the MOMA we journeyed back to Williamsburg. It felt good to walk around. It felt like it felt when I first moved here. It was new and exciting and I was psyched to find a flea market that's open every weekend. I haven't been here in so long. It smelled like it smelled in September - unknown and thrilling.
PW and I cooked dinner and dyed hair and rolled around on the new black shag rug that Roommate brought back from Philadelphia. It's nice to have softness in the Loft.
I am going to be in the Loft this week because D is in Florida and because I really need to be.
I need to de-frazzle. I need to finish my taxes and write songs and read books and work on theories and have ideas and think about a painting and miss him and not miss NYC. There's so much to figure out when everything is new. And so much to keep up with when everything from before is far away. Nothing is assumed, nothing is a given, nothing is routine.
Everyone says it takes a year. I hope they're right because if they are, I'm half way there.
It started off well, with only minor ulcer-induing events such as PW being on a bus to NYC that was lost, on which various busriders nearly staged a coup, followed by the part where his cab driver got lost on the way to Williamsburg.
During this ulcer-inducing event, I spent my first evening at home in quite some time doing things like laundry and dishes and searching for ancient 401k documents and Travelocity reservations. I also started my taxes, only to learn that partial-year residence forms are not intuitive.
I used TaxAct, which has this infuriating feature that calculates your refund as you go along, so you go from the elation of thinking you'll receive thousands of dollars from the government to realizing you owe shitloads of money.
Luckily I do not owe shitloads of money because moving can be deducted. Thanks, M, for the tip!
I can't, however, figure out if I will be getting money back from or owe, gasp, over $1000 to the state of NY. Why, you ask?
Because I don't know if I live in the city of New York or not.
Now.
I live in Brooklyn which, in my mind, is not the city of New York. In my mind, the city of New York is Manhattan. Some people, however, think that the city of New York includes all of the burroughs, of which Brooklyn is one. If I live in the city of New York, I have to pay all sorts of extra taxes. If I don't, I will get money back. I'm not sure how to figure this out. Tomorrow I plan to march my occasionally red hair over to the post office to get a booklet, which will hopefully explain to me where I live and will hopefully tell me that I will be getting money back.
Additionally, the state of MA will not allow you to e-file partial year resident tax returns, so I have to do a paper return for MA as well. I guess that's ok, since I didn't have to pay extra tax because I lived in Somerville.
How weird.
Needless to say I almost vomited when I saw how much I will owe if I live in the city of New York. Ulcer. Yipee.
PW eventually arrived so I set the taxes to rest until Sunday morning. He also had an ulcer, so PW, D and I split a bottle of champagne and all passed out with less agita.
On Saturday, D and I went to the MOMA to see a Vietnamese movie called "Buffalo Boy." It was slow and gritty, and I wasn't sure if I liked it or not until the Q & A with the director, which convinced me that I did.
It was interesting to watch, because it was an instance of thinking "Wow, people live like this, and they don't seem to mind." The contrast is amazing. The simplicity of every day life, the struggle, the acceptance. The challenging aspect of this movie was that nobody in the movie was happy, and I wondered "Do they mind? Do they wish they had something else?"
The audience was comprised mainly of people between the ages of 65 - 80, museum patrons wearing fur coats and suit jackets to a movie on a Saturday afternoon. When the film ended, I went to the ladies' room and witnessed a horrifying scene. I was about fourth in line amongst women aged 65 - 80. We were waiting for 6 stalls. The seventh stall, which was closest to us, was not being used. This vile lady - maybe like 60 or so - busted into the restroom and marched to the front of the line and declared "Is there any particular reason this stall is not being used?" The small, cute, polite, and meak woman in the front of the line said quietly "Well, it doesn't have a seat..." to which Cruella responded "That does not mean it's NOT FUNCTIONAL! Did anybody CHECK TO SEE IF IT WORKS!?" Nobody had. We all shook our heads. She said "Well, CHECK!" The woman at the front of the line went in and flushed it and said "Well, yes, it appears to work..." "SO USE IT!" The poor woman, fearing for her life, used the seatless toilet just to appease this horrid woman.
Now. Horrid woman had every right to check the stall herself and then cut the line.
She did not, however, have the right to yell at all of us, nor did she have the right to force the nice lady to use a stall she didn't want to, nor did she THEN have the right to cut all of us because she'd been so forward about marching in there. She seriously CUT ALL OF US.
I left fuming. D said "Wow, this is going to be good," as I was running up the escalator so as not to attack an elderly woman.
We then tried to meet up with D's friend S to go to the Scope Art Show, but didn't because it was crowded and D doesn't do well in crowds. He had some alternate activites planned, including checking out this design store near the museum that's in a renovated townhouse in which someone used to live. It was very lavish with balconies and staircases. We pretended that the floors were made of lava and that we had to escape onto lava-proof modern mats, and then that I was the captain of a spaceship seated in my modern space captain chair.
We met up with PW there and then went to eat at SEA, where S accidentally ordered a whole fish and where we all shared molten chocolate cake and fried bananas that looked like little spring rolls.
A photo of PW and I looking as though we are on a bad first date:
We then went back to the loft and drank more.
Too much drinking going on, folks.
PW and I oscillated between watching "Minority Report" and some god awful Jennifer Love Hewitt vehicle on Oxygen (I didn't even know we got Oxygen) after D and I had a discussion about communication techniques (sigh, this has been a long time coming and I am relieved but still insecure; I apparently have no idea how not to be insecure) and the worst question in the world "What are you thinking?"
Today, I met PW at the MOMA after he finished his interview.
The MOMA is overwhelming. Too much to digest. I decided to become a member because I want to spend more time there and digest things in a more thoughtful way. I am slow to go through museums and realize that I will need at least 30 hours to deal with it appropriately.
I realized today that I am stupid at art because I have zero recall skills when it comes to artists. I can't remember who does what. I can't remember names. I can't remember styles. It's like how some people can't remember dates. I can't remember artists. I was staring at the most wonderful painting and kept thinking "Do not forget this name, do not forget this name, you will remember nothing from today so please please please do not forget THIS name."
Of course I forgot. I remembered the name of the painting, though, so I was able to track down the artist.
I'll never be able to "talk art" because I'll be like "Uhhh... was Picasso the one who painted 'Starry Night?'"
Well, not that bad, but I'll never be able to keep up.
I just have to sit there, be quiet, and say "Wow, this is pretty!"
I am hoping that my MOMA membership will rectify this situation. If I go through one gallery a week, perhaps I'll absorb something. I think this might involve, gasp, studying.
This is all magnified because D is very art-y. He reads current art magazines and knows who's showing at every gallery in NYC and knows what they're trying to say or do and has fierce opinions about all of it. He's also the type to blaze through galleries and then have three hours of things to say, whereas I have to stare at every painting for half an hour before I have any idea what's going on and then say "Ummm, well, I like the use of... well.... I don't know. It's fucked up."
I wish I was better at this. I wish I didn't drop my art history class at UMass because it involved field trips.
The museum was crowded and chaotic, so we didn't see the whole thing, nor did I buy as many postcards as I'd have liked.
Yeah. This is a prime example. I bought postcards of a bunch of pieces I liked, but I've already forgotten who they're by even though I looked at the postcards a million times. Well, that's not true. I remember one photographer's name, but only because Sister and I saw a travelling exhibit of his at the San Francisco MOMA and because I said to D "Sister and I saw this awesome exhibit of these, like, giant photographs of concert crowds and like a supermarket and it was incredible," and D was instantly "Oh, you mean Andreas Gursky, blah blah blah blah" and he knew everything and I felt stupid.
As PW and I were fading, I decided to take some photos using his camera.
This was awesome. A bunch of mirrors and vessels with reflective surfaces can really trip you out. I am going to freely stare at this for hours with my membership:
For whatever reason I've always loved little things. Miniature animals and dollhouses and figurines, like Charmkins. Needless to say I fell in love with this and took a million pictures trying to capture the depth and cuteness, but this was the best I could do:
After the MOMA we journeyed back to Williamsburg. It felt good to walk around. It felt like it felt when I first moved here. It was new and exciting and I was psyched to find a flea market that's open every weekend. I haven't been here in so long. It smelled like it smelled in September - unknown and thrilling.
PW and I cooked dinner and dyed hair and rolled around on the new black shag rug that Roommate brought back from Philadelphia. It's nice to have softness in the Loft.
I am going to be in the Loft this week because D is in Florida and because I really need to be.
I need to de-frazzle. I need to finish my taxes and write songs and read books and work on theories and have ideas and think about a painting and miss him and not miss NYC. There's so much to figure out when everything is new. And so much to keep up with when everything from before is far away. Nothing is assumed, nothing is a given, nothing is routine.
Everyone says it takes a year. I hope they're right because if they are, I'm half way there.
It's Not Easy Being Red
Hello folks.
I've had a lovely weekend, mainly because my dear friend PW has been in beloved NYC visiting.
Spending time with old friends is fabulous, friends who know you well and with whom you can have neurotic episodes without fearing that they will de-friend you. It's difficult being in a new place and being a new person, constantly being on good behavior so as not to scare off potential friends and current boyfriends. It's nice to be able to slip into insecure fits and anxious ramblings about state tax returns with people who expect this sort of thing from you.
It's also nice to engage in old, familiar activities, such as watching bad made-for-TV movies starring Jennifer Love Hewitt and seeing fashion shows in your apartment.
I was mostly excited about PW's visit because he was kind of enough to agree to dying my hair! My brown roots have been showing, and I have been missing my black angst-ridden hair. PW was always gracious enough to help me with my hair - both with color and style - when we lived together. I can't even explain how much I have been looking forward to doing this again.
At approximately 8:30 this evening, PW started the coloring process.
At approximately 9:15 this evening, when I left the bathroom after washing the dye out and conditioning my hair, PW said "How does it look?" to which I replied...
"IT'S RED!"
Yes, folks, fucking Feria by L'oreal.
My hair is FUCKING SUBURBAN HOUSEWIFE RED.
Well, if it was all red, that would be FINE. No, it wouldn't be fine, but it wouldn't be freaky either. But it would be fine.
Except that it's not, because the portion of my hair that was dyed before is still dark brown.
No, folks, only MY ROOTS are red. Like Dana Scully X-Files red. The rest is dark brown.
I am trying not to be vain and completely freak out about this, but seriously, its going to be a bad scene.
I am going to call L'oreal tomorrow and demand something. I don't know what. I demand quality control! I demand black dye in the box with the woman with Starry Night Bright Black hair on the cover! I demand to look like this woman!
Really I'll just demand a refund of my $8.99 plus another $8.99 to purchase what I hope is actually Starry Night Bright Black dye to remedy this situation.
I just hope fixing this situation does not involve my hair falling out.
My poor, damaged, red and brown and black and bleach hair.
Sigh.
I am interested, though, in seeing how people react to this tomorrow. I wonder if they will say "You dyed your hair!" or "You dyed your... ummm... hair?" or "It's looks nice!" or "It looks... different."
I am not interested in the reprimanding I will receive from my hairdresser on Wednesday when she sees what I have done to my hair. Black on red on black on bleach. She is going to kill me.
Hopefully Roommate will have helped me with this prior to my haircut. Maybe my hairdresser won't be able to tell. Hopefully dying your own hair isn't as vile a sin as cutting your own bangs.
OK. I should sleep. I've had too much to drink over the past few nights and my liver is angry but my neurons aren't.
Maybe I'll blog a bit more and then not sleep.
I've had a lovely weekend, mainly because my dear friend PW has been in beloved NYC visiting.
Spending time with old friends is fabulous, friends who know you well and with whom you can have neurotic episodes without fearing that they will de-friend you. It's difficult being in a new place and being a new person, constantly being on good behavior so as not to scare off potential friends and current boyfriends. It's nice to be able to slip into insecure fits and anxious ramblings about state tax returns with people who expect this sort of thing from you.
It's also nice to engage in old, familiar activities, such as watching bad made-for-TV movies starring Jennifer Love Hewitt and seeing fashion shows in your apartment.
I was mostly excited about PW's visit because he was kind of enough to agree to dying my hair! My brown roots have been showing, and I have been missing my black angst-ridden hair. PW was always gracious enough to help me with my hair - both with color and style - when we lived together. I can't even explain how much I have been looking forward to doing this again.
At approximately 8:30 this evening, PW started the coloring process.
At approximately 9:15 this evening, when I left the bathroom after washing the dye out and conditioning my hair, PW said "How does it look?" to which I replied...
"IT'S RED!"
Yes, folks, fucking Feria by L'oreal.
My hair is FUCKING SUBURBAN HOUSEWIFE RED.
Well, if it was all red, that would be FINE. No, it wouldn't be fine, but it wouldn't be freaky either. But it would be fine.
Except that it's not, because the portion of my hair that was dyed before is still dark brown.
No, folks, only MY ROOTS are red. Like Dana Scully X-Files red. The rest is dark brown.
I am trying not to be vain and completely freak out about this, but seriously, its going to be a bad scene.
I am going to call L'oreal tomorrow and demand something. I don't know what. I demand quality control! I demand black dye in the box with the woman with Starry Night Bright Black hair on the cover! I demand to look like this woman!
Really I'll just demand a refund of my $8.99 plus another $8.99 to purchase what I hope is actually Starry Night Bright Black dye to remedy this situation.
I just hope fixing this situation does not involve my hair falling out.
My poor, damaged, red and brown and black and bleach hair.
Sigh.
I am interested, though, in seeing how people react to this tomorrow. I wonder if they will say "You dyed your hair!" or "You dyed your... ummm... hair?" or "It's looks nice!" or "It looks... different."
I am not interested in the reprimanding I will receive from my hairdresser on Wednesday when she sees what I have done to my hair. Black on red on black on bleach. She is going to kill me.
Hopefully Roommate will have helped me with this prior to my haircut. Maybe my hairdresser won't be able to tell. Hopefully dying your own hair isn't as vile a sin as cutting your own bangs.
OK. I should sleep. I've had too much to drink over the past few nights and my liver is angry but my neurons aren't.
Maybe I'll blog a bit more and then not sleep.
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