R.I.P. IPOD

Oh my god.

I decided, this week, after circumstances unfortunately led to my missing a couple of days of my caffeine regiment, that I'd quit caffeine. I'm not a big caffeine drinker - a coke a day, maybe two. When I don't have a coke at lunch, I get a headache. I used to have three cokes a day, and I decreased it to one after I went to a dentist appointment. In the dentist's building was a sleep clinic. At the time, I was having difficulty sleeping so I grabbed a pamphlet while I was there, which stated that any caffeine after 6pm can contribute to poor sleep. So no more coke with dinner.

Anyway.

I got a Minute Maid cranberry-apple juice for lunch yesterday that I didn't finish. I brought it back to work, took it out of my bag, and put it in my desk drawer. Upside down.

I was talking to Mother on the phone yesterday when D appeared and said "Are you ready to go?" I was confused, as D was supposed to call me from his apartment and I was supposed to meet him there before departing for the party. He explained that the phones weren't working. He was newly showered and cute and wanting to leave, so I quickly finished with Mother, grabbed my juice, put it in my bag, and we were off!

About two blocks away from work I said "Weird... my pants feel wet...."

It occurred to me, instantly, that the juice had spilled.

I frantically, without even telling D what was going on, started going through my bag and grabbed my IPod and put it on the ground. I then looked for my phone and put that on the ground. I made little piles on the sidewalk of things in priority of tragic loss - wallet (dyed red - I love this wallet), makeup, vicodins (shit! dissolved!), phone, IPod. There was a pool of cranberry juice in the bag. "I don't know what to do," I said in a panic.

I just didn't know what to do. My bag had a pool of cranberry juice in it that I didn't want to dump on the ground, and everything I owned was red. The damage didn't seem too bad. D, ever calm, said "Should we go to my apartment?" "YES!" I declared. D said that he would be doing laundry on Saturday, and that he would wash the bag and the wallet. He called N to tell her we would be late to the party. While he wiped down credit cards and Yoda, I tended to my cell phone and IPod.

I turned both on to make sure that they still worked. They did!

I carefully wiped IPod and went to turn it off. It wouldn't.

It didn't turn off.

In fact, it didn't do anything.

It was stuck on Most Serene Republic. I just stared it. The I pressed more buttons. Then the screen started to go.

"D, I am going to go to the Apple Store right now. I have to go. Just go to N's. I'll see you tomorrow."

"No, I'm going with you!" he declared.

I grabbed one credit card and IPod, and ran. Of course it started to rain. Neither of us thought to bring an umbrella. I wrapped IPod in my hoodie and wanted D to scream "Woman in labor!" so we could get to the Apple Store sooner.

When we arrived, I was nearly in tears as I looked for someone to help me. The first employee I encountered was of no use, and said "You have to bring this to the Genius Bar, which is closed right now because Spike Lee is here tonight."

"I don't give a rat's ass about Spike Lee! Aren't any of these genuises around somewhere? Can't they just tell me if IPod is going to survive!?" He wouldn't help. He said "You'll just have to bring it here tomorrow."

"No, you don't understand," I said. "I need to figure this out NOW."

A female employee saw my being hysterical and offered to help. She said the situation was bleak, and decided to plug in IPod at one of the docking stations to see what would happen. When she plugged it in, it shut off (forever) and actually got the plug in. She said "I can actually see the water in the screen." You can see the water in the screen.

She said "Let's bring this up to the Genuis Bar and see what they can do."

The Genius Bar, of course, was open, and a bunch of people looked at it and basically there is no hope. None.

Now.

What am I upset about?

1. The money. The MONEY. If I was in Boston, no problem. I'd have a spare $400 and I'd just buy another one. $400 here is another story. There is not $400. I was saving (saving, ha!) money to buy a nice SLR after Christmas with special lenses etc. But no! Now I have to decide between an IPod and a camera and last night D asked me if I wanted to go to London and I guess the answer has been decided for me.

2. Fucking New York. Seriously. This wouldn't be a travesty anywhere else.

3. The music. No, folks, I don't have my 40 gig of music on my computer because its 40 gig! I need all of the memory I can salvage to record millions of tracks for the songs on this blog. So no, I don't have a backup. The loss of the IPod is not only a loss of $500 (it was $500 at the time) but a loss of over a year of man hours of ripping CD's and then putting them on the IPod. I have no time to do anything. When am I going to put all of those CD's back on the IPod, especially when I have unreliable stolen internet? I can't type in the track names for all of these CD's! I just can't do it!!!!

4. Right now, I am freaking out because during my spring cleaning I threw away my ancient discman because I was like "I'll never need YOU again! Mwa ha ha!" so now I have no way to listen to music at all. And its the weekend. And my projects involved running around the city taking photos while listening to music. It's going to be a silent weekend, and that breaks my heart.

The female employee suggested that I take the IPod home and dry it with a fan and then try to hook it up later.

We hurried back to D's. On our way, D said "Hey - I think your phone is ringing. It's vibrating..." He was holding it because I was cradling IPod in its hoodie bed. He handed it to me, but it wasn't actually ringing. It was vibrating as part of its death dance.

"Fuck," we both said.

The phone got steadily worse over time. Every time I dried it and then turned it on again, there would be a different problem. One time none of the buttons worked. Another time the buttons worked but all of them led to Text Messaging. Sometimes it worked but I couldn't access the phone numbers.

Now it has nothing. When I got back here late last night, it worked fine technically but couldn't get reception. Then, at some point in the night, it just gave up. Did I write down phone numbers before this happened? Nope.

I am supposed to go to a party tonight with D and he didn't tell me where or when it is because he doesn't make plans, so I guess that's not happening unless I can get a new phone today.

Which I will, and hopefully it will take the card from my old phone, which hopefully isn't totally destroyed.

Because I haven't made a list of phone numbers in two years, which means all of my New York plans are a wash this weekend if I can't get the phone to work with the old card.

Shit.

So fucking irresponsible. This is what New York does to me! This never would have happened in Boston. Never. I am always so frazzled and insane here and have no idea what's going on.

OK. I must go and continue to upload CD's onto my harddrive in the event that I do get another IPod.

Sniff.

I miss you, dear IPod. We had a good run. I'm sorry.

What Am I Missing?

Part of the theorized appeal of Netflix is to catch up on classic movies you've never seen. Right now, I have Bonnie and Clyde at my apartment. I am psyched.

Last weekend I said "D, we need to set aside some time to watch Spartacus. That movie is long. Over three hours. Epic."

We decided to watch it on Monday night.

We didn't finish it.

Why?

Because it is boring as hell.

Boring!

Political intrigue, millions of extras, and adorable Tony Curtis aside, I don't see the appeal. I just didn't care. At all. Kirk Douglas is annoying. Spartacus isn't at all sympathetic or interesting. He's a drip. The love scenes are unbearable. D said the love scenes were "Episode-3-esque."

We tried to finish it on Wednesday, but I fell asleep again! D finished it, and when I asked "Was it worth it?" he didn't have an answer.

I am going to try to finish it this weekend. Wish me luck!

So here's my question for you - what am I missing? People love this movie. I don't think this is a question of era-based aesthetics, which I think could explain why I hated West Side Story so much.

I feel like these classics shouldn't involve so much labor on the part of the viewer.

We have Lawrence of Arabia and Casablanca in the queue and I am already skeptical.

So please - if you know why Spartacus is good (yes, I agree, its visually amazing and there's some really good acting, but these things are not enough to sustain a three hour film), please let me know so that I can watch it this weekend without feeling bitter.

Thanks, and have fabulous weekends.

Do You Want to Take My Picture?

I started my photography class this week and decided that, instead of taking lovely pictures with my digital camera that I already know how to use, I'd borrow D's fully manual camera that he never ever uses ever. Because he never ever uses it, he has a full roll of film in it - well, that's not true. He took two pictures. I decided that rather than waste the roll (this week's homework assignment has to be on black and white, high sensitvity film), I'd use up his roll to practice.

Walking to work this morning, I had the camera out and was taking pictures of random things like parking lots and cardboard boxes.

I must have looked convincing or competent or something, because tons of people approached me and asked me what I was doing, why I was taking pictures of boxes, if they could be in the picture, and did I want to take their picture?

A surly cowboy said that I should ride with him in his delivery truck and do a project entitled "Idiots on the Road." I decided against it, although fantasized about what a fabulous final project a documented kidnapping would be!

Another man with an unintelligable accent smothered me with enthusiasm until I took his portrait. Then he said "Will you give me the photo?" and I was like "Well, if I ever see you again, I'll give it to you."

Maybe a manual camera with a long lens suggested that I was a professional.

Or maybe it was the red glasses.

Or perhaps midtown people on the west side are culture starved. Or personal-contact starved. Or maybe its because there are no people around my apartment, there's nothing going on, so people there aren't used to people with cameras. Or maybe its some weird cosmic force that causes the only people in the world who WANT their pictures to be taken to aggregate on one city block.

Whatever the reason, I am feeling optimistic about my project now because it won't be difficult. Apparently all I have to do is walk outside and stand there and people will throw themselves at me and present potential subject matter.

I'm sure none of these photos will come out well. They'll be blurry and underexposed and compositionally tragic because I had to take them quickly, but its good experience.

I'm very, very excited.

Anniversary Again

The Boss was adorable yesterday and brought donuts and bagels (and oh! how I heart The Boss for bringing Dunkin Donuts instead of Krispy Kreme!) to our weekly departmental meeting to celebrate my one year anniversary at the company.

One year!

My one year anniversary happened to coincide with a loft party hosted by someone who has worked at the company for 20-ish years. He's president of The Old Boy's Club.

I am still a new kid, apparently, as I left the party in tears because not only do people still not talk to me, I now have the added issue of being an appendage, a function of someone else, "the girlfriend" at my own place of employment.

Someone turned to me and said "You know who's special? D. He's so special. I hope you know how special he is."

"Yes, I know, obviously" I said, while wanting to scream "What am I, chopped fucking liver!!??! You've never spoken to me in your life and this is what you decide to say to me?"

I wasn't even going to go to the party. I had class and was just going to go home, but I haven't had much fun lately (sickness, home for the weekend, etc.) so thought it would be nice to be social. I also thought that it wasn't fair that I didn't feel comfortable going to The Old Boy's Club Fort. I work here, I deserve free drinks and dinner just as much as The Members do!!

It's weird going to a company function and feeling like "the girlfriend" even though you work there.

I shouldn't have gone. I knew I was feeling emo. I was thinking about things like feeling transparent and lonely and inconsequential. These are all things you feel on your anniversary in New York City. I knew a work function would only reinforce these feelings. I guess I'd hoped to find other outcasts, but there were no outcasts remaining by the time I arrived because everyone had been drinking for three hours.

The situation is complicated in ways I didn't envision. It's hard to be new and insecure and nonexistent when you are dating the golden boy.

I wonder if anyone ever tells D that he's lucky.

I mentioned this to a woman at work today, and she said the most perfect thing. She said "He's lucky that you came here. He was a lost soul before you."

I feel better today, because its sunny and I don't have a headache today and I am psyched about my photography class even though I am afraid that I am going to suck.
Speaking of which... here are some photos from my time in RI:

D's Granny's cat:


Cool pile of wood:


We found a school near a lake that had this swingset:


We played on the swings and had an awesome time talking about pendulums and realizing that we don't remember anything from Physics:


If only I'd kept my notebooks!

Until tomorrow...

Memories

I went to my parents' house this weekend to go through my stuff.

My parents may or may not be moving. My philosophy was better to be safe than sorry. I'd rather spend a few days there going through everything I've ever saved than have them toss something that is extremely precious to me despite my having forgotten its existence.

I didn't get as much done as I'd hoped. Sadly, there was not enough time to go through The Toys. That will have to happen at another time. I am looking forward to the crates of Transformers and Care Bears and She-Ra's and Charmkins that await me.

I apparently used to live my life by a philosophy completely contrary to that to which I now subscribe. This behavior started somewhere around 9th grade and ended a few years ago. Thankfully there is little evidence other than that photographic of my existence prior to high school. Without distress I was able to toss photos of my 5th grade class and the glamor shots I'd set up of myself and my friends as 3rd graders. Ah, the 80s makeup. I suppose I didn't throw these away because I've become less sentimental. It's most likely because I don't want there to be a record of this behavior.

Starting in the ninth grade I began to save everything. Notebooks, photos, class assignments, cutouts from magazines, every card I received. These things, luckily, were very organized and I was able to go through them without difficulty.

It was hard, though, to throw away my high school notebookes - piles of Physiology, History, Calculus, Western Civilization, and Global Studies! It was difficult not because of sentimental attachment, but because of the wealth of information contained within! I can't believe how much I've forgotten. I quickly went through these notebooks and couldn't stop thinking "I can't believe I used to know these things." A deluded part of me thinks that if I re-read these notebooks, I can instantly reclaim all of this knowledge that has since disappeared. Maybe. The likelihood of my ever having time to go through these notebooks? Slim.

It was heartbreaking for another reason. The notes, man. The notes! I looked through my Physiology notebook and couldn't stop laughing. There was a note that read something like this:

I saw Brian today.

(stop. someone writing something to me in their notebook.)

He was in his computer class. I walked in there and he was just sitting
there. I'd copied down an Ogden Nash poem for him that I found about not
liking to have your picture taken. I gave it to him and he didn't say
anything! I asked him if he was in that class and he just said "yeah." I
just don't know what his deal is.

(stop. someone writing something to me in their notebook.)

WHATEVER.

I'd love to have gone through all of the notebooks and kept the notes and made a short film based on them. Or a graphic novel. Or start publishing them on the blog. They are hilarious.

I kept creative writing and reports. I realize now that I was (am still) insane. I have binders upon binders of fiction I wrote in my spare time. I thought this was normal behavior at the time. While most bored kids in suburbia turned to drugs, I turned to the computer and wrote epics of soap-opera-ian proportions for my friends. I'd stay up all night typing. Some of the stories I kept secret. Others I shared. They were episodic and overwrought and rich in melodrama and fantastic. I kept those. I didn't keep the similarly overwrought sketch books involving daily strips of my friends and I. Sometimes we were superheroes. Sometimes we were fighting crimes. Mostly we were dazed romantics with missions involving boys.

Dear god I was insane.

I miss this, though. I miss the free time. I miss the focus.

I am so glad that all of this insanity has been redirected to Blogger.

There were a lot of photos from high school that I tossed. Remembering the awkwardness doesn't require assistance from photographs. It's incorporated into my being as fierce insecurity. I don't ever need to be reminded of the dress I wore to the ring dance or the tight knit group of people that has completely disbanded or the hope I had back then.

Tossed at the dump.

I kept the yearbooks. I'll never look at them. I don't need to remember myself back then and I don't care to remember anyone I knew back them. I kept them, instead, because my progeny may someday want to see the unforgiveable outfit I wore when voted Most Artistic in 8th grade.

I also found my high school diploma!

And my 9th grade Introduction to Physical Science Lab Notebook, with experiments on "Calibrating the Equal Arm Balance" and "Distillation of Wood" and "Determining the Volume of a Solid." I had to keep that. That notebook represents the moment at which everything went wrong.

College is another story. I didn't keep all of the notes. It seems that I, at some point, went through this process and kept only the notes of cool classes. I still had all of my Neuro notebooks. I got rid of them. I kept my Molecular and Cellular Biology Class Note Companion in case I ever forget what RNA is. I kept the hundreds of papers I read for my Honors Thesis. I kept the Thesis presentation itself. I threw away a lot of journal articles that I'd love to read again that I'll never look at even though I am distressed that I've forgotten their content.

I can't believe I ever knew all of this.

It's so sad.

The memories themselves aren't sad. It's the change that has occurred that is depressing. Loss of innocence, loss of intelligence, loss of free time blah blah blah.

I apparently printed out every email I received freshman year, saved every letter and card in a binder, and kept every note that a boy left me in my room.

I think I took photos three times in college. I threw them away. I don't need to have a visual of First College Boyfriend. I only need the feeling of excitement about its starting and the pain of how I ended it. I don't need to see his face.

I do, however, need to keep his letters and cards and notes. I am a lover of love letters. Every serious boyfriend I've had up until D has supplied me with piles upon piles of love letters. I adore them. I love actual writing. I love notes on paper. I love silly drawings and desperate attempts at reconciliation and written expressions of longing and adoration.

On Saturday afternoon, reading a summer break letter from First College Boyfriend actually made me giddy. It felt good. I found a letter written by High School Boyfriend, that I received in college, that said "I miss how it feels when you touch me" and I actually felt it. Ridiculous! These things are ancient and sappy and completely juvenile, but they were written for me and they are mine and they mean something for a reason I can't understand.

I found letters from Sister and Brother that they'd written to me while I was in college. Sister read, out loud, a letter she wrote to me when she was about 13 and she said "Leah, why did you even like me back then?" I said "I liked you because you wrote me letters. I'm not throwing this away." "You should," she said. "I won't," I responded, "because it still means something to me."

I threw away all of the drawings given to me by my little cousins, who are now in college themselves.

I threw away my acceptance letter and admittance packet from Harvard's Ph.D. program in Neuroscience because I'm now certain I'll never be going there. That was difficult.

I kept my college diploma and graduation cap and gown, because D wants to dress up as college graduates for Halloween and march in the parade.

I kept sticker books and Busy Bears and my deranged eraser collection and not everything Star Wars related.

I got an email from Father this morning saying:

"I was at the dump yesterday and was throwing away stuff and noticed that I was throwing away full photo albums with pics of your prom, Billy Joel..etc. It was very sad to be throwing away your past...I asked mom if that was what I was supposed to be doing and she said yes...it was sad..very."

I wrote back and told him he wasn't throwing away my past. There doesn't need to be a record of things to remember them.

I think I value words more than photos. Photos are oftentimes set up, redundant, reflecting outlier events such as proms and vacations. They're not representative of certain times or phases. Writing is accurate. It reflects what's important to people at a certain point in time. It has mood, depth, honesty.

Photos aren't honest because they are contrived. This is why I love candids. Candids are how things actually are.

I have much reading awaiting me in the future. I'm very excited to remember how I was as a college freshman. When I read them, I'll throw away letters from people I no longer know. I'll keep the ones that still make me feel something. I'll laugh at the drama and at what seemed important back then. Hopefully I'll go from 5 3-inch-binders to one. I'll add that binder to the piles of journals I keep for no apparent reason.

I wonder if, when I am 40, I'll find a binder with this blog in it and wonder if I should throw it away. I don't think I will. I'll probably read it and start crying and say "You know, when I was younger I used to live in New York City and it was an amazing time," but I'll only have my account because nobody writes letters anymore. I save emails from D but it's not the same. They say things like "I bought the lamp!" and "love you." They're not loaded because I am not hopeful. I don't write love letters because I know they'll only hurt some day. They'll hurt until there's someone else writing me love letters, when I could then look back on the old ones and smile. But I don't really want there to be anyone else writing me love letters, so better that I not write down how much I love him and scare him away.

It's a weird way to spend a day - looking at who and how you used to be.

People

Now. I'm not one to hate people in general, or think that people are generally incompetent, or to think that people are undeserving of chances. I ususally give people the benefit of the doubt.

Nor am I an aggressive consumer. I try to be nice, patient, understanding. Nobody likes working. Nobody loves being at their job.

Last night, however, I lost my shit for the first time as a consumer.

The scenario was as follows:

Me. Trying to pick up some photos I'd ordered online through Kodak Gallery, which I'd had shipped to the CVS around the corner from work. I've done this many times. You select the photos you want developed online, they send you an email telling you when they've arrived at CVS. Easy.

I received the email on Wednesday, but waited until Thursday to pick the photos up just to make sure that they'd actually be there.

I got to CVS and walked upstairs to the photo desk. There was not an employee. I looked around but saw noone. I waited patiently for a few minutes and still nobody appeared. I walked downstairs and asked the CVS employee who uselessly stands near the door "Do you know if anyone's working at the photo desk?"

He asked someone behind a cash register. They shook their head. "No," he said.

"Oh."

"Did you need something?"

"Yes."

"What do you need?"

"Well, I just wanted to pick up my film that I had developed."

"Huh."

"Do you think you could get them for me?"

I was already frustrated at this point, because I should have just snuck behind the counter and taken them myself. They were prepaid, so I'd have had no guilt. I was also annoyed that he didn't immediately say "I'll get them for you!" because finding photos doesn't really require a skill. The only thing you need to know is the alphabet.

And so it began.

You know the story. There are a bunch of baskets. Each represents a letter or two. There were about 20 envelopes in the "L" basket.

He looked at three of them and was absolutely dumbfounded.

He kept looking at me and then back to the three envelopes.

"How do you spell your name again?"

"L-A-R..." I kept repeating.

He kept looking at the same three envelopes.

"I don't think they're here..."

"No, they're here. I got the email stating that they are here."

He looked, then, at two more envelopes.

"It would be a rather large envelope. 100 or so photos."

"I don't think they're here. How do you spell your last name again?"

"L-A-R..." I said instead of screaming "HOW ABOUT YOU LOOK AT ALL OF THE FREAKING ENVELOPES INSTEAD OF THE FIRST THREE YOU IDIOT!?"

"They're not here."

"Yes, they are. Look. They would be in a yellow envelope. I ordered them online so they won't be in those blue envelopes you're looking at."

He grabbed a yellow envelope from "R" and said "Like this?"

"Yes, like that," I said, as he returned it and then looked at the blue and red envelopes in the L basket. "No, just look at the yellow ones."

"It's not here."

"Yes, it is. I've done this a million times. They're here."

He didn't look at the yellow envelopes.

"Do you want to come back tomorrow and see if they're here?"

"No, I need them TONIGHT" I said, lying. What I should have said was "Are you saying that when I come back tomorrow there will be someone who will actually look at the envelopes and give me my photos?"

"Well, they're not here."

I said "Listen, if they're not here tonight, they're not going to be here tomorrow."

"They're not here."

"Do you think maybe you could look at all of the envelopes, please?"

He looked at four or five of them.

"They're not here."

"Yes, they are."

"No," and then ask the person behind me if they need help.

This is when I got insane. "Listen, how about I just go back there and look through the envelopes? I'm sure they're there."

"They're not."

I said "Listen, how about you do me a favor and look at that giant yellow envelope on the side of the L basket and see what it says." There was a huge yellow envelope separated out from the other envelopes, on its own, on its side on the side of the basket with a smaller envelope attached to it.

He grabbed it and said "No, this isn't you."

I said "Can I just look at it?"

And it was, of course, mine. With a big freaking L-A-R on it. I said "You know what? These ARE MINE! See? This is my name." I threw the other envelope at him and ran out of there.

***

Incompetent. This job is not hard. This job requires zero skills. Zero! Literacy at most. Maybe I am being a snob, but I feel like CVS employees should be able to read.

***

I almost lost it.

***

This morning I was sort of out of it after having been up later than I should have been. I needed to get money for the weekend, so walked into the Bank of America ATM on 34th Street in a daze. I approached the "All Transactions" machine and a guy groaned. I hadn't seen him. He was finishing his deposit slip. I said "Oh! I'm sorry!" as I backed away from the ATM. He said "I just have to do this really quickly..." and I was like "No, really, totally my fault. Go nuts. I'm sorry..."

As he made his deposit, the other ATM opened up and I withdrew my cash. On the street after I'd finished, he came up to me and said "You have yourself a nice day, ok?"

Which, of course, guaranteed that I had a nice day, because how nice of him! I'd had such a bad night, and I was happy to have someone be kind to me.

***

I was in a daze on Wednesday after having been sick on Tuesday. I really shouldn't have been at work. I wasn't at my most functional.

I didn't have much time for lunch as I was trying to finish Tuesday's and Wednesday's work in one day while delirious. I decided to grab a quick slice of pizza at the pizza place downstairs.

After ordering my pizza, I went grab a coke from the cooler, which was three steps away from the cashier to my right, behind me. Three steps!

I turned around, slowly (since I was delirious), when this giant woman, who'd been at the cooler, turned around in the opposite direction and slammed right into me. She nearly knocked me over.

I lost my footing because I was in a daze.

In slooooooowwwwwwwwwwwwwwww motion I almost fell onto two men seated next to the scene. It was one of those cartoon moments - where a building is about to topple but doesn't quite - and I was looking at them hoping that I wouldn't end up in one of their laps with my pizza on the other's lap.

When I didn't fall over, the woman said "Girl, I'm so sorry!"

"No, no, my fault, I'm really out of it right now."

"No, no, I weigh a hundred pounds more than you."

"No, really, its ok."

"Girl, you need to put some MEAT. ON. YOU." She laughed. So did I.

Heh.

I smiled and sat with some strangers since there wasn't really anywhere to sit, and everyone was all "Are you ok?" "Are you alright?" "That was crazy!" and it made me really happy, because everyone was nice.

***

So yeah. Incompetent people. Nice people.

I've been here a year and my assessment of the people in NYC is as follows:

Strangers are nice. People are much more talkative with strangers on the street. People are approachable. You can walk into any bar or restaurant or movie by yourself and find someone to talk to.

Incompetence level, however, is high. Since moving here, I've had to deal with the bitchiest, most incompetent, most impatient people in the world.

I don't know what any of this means.

I do know, however, that I am still a bit delirious and not fully recovered from the flu-ish thing.

***

I am off to The Parents' this weekend to go through old toys and notebooks and goodies so that they will throw away and save what is appropriate. They may actually be moving after 10 years of threating to do so! Very exciting. I am hoping to make a killing on EBay with all of the nostalgia I dig up. Wish me luck! I'm sure I will have more photos of He-Man action figures than you can stand next week.

Anniversary

Today is my one year anniversary of moving to NYC.

I still feel like I just got here. I don't feel like I've accomplished much in this amount of time, I don't feel like I've made any friends, I don't feel at all settled. People say it takes two years. I'll let you know in 2006.

More later when I am not about to go to a meeting...

Show Me That Smile Again....

I got the Growing Pains theme song in everyone's head this morning.

They were much annoyed.

I bet you are too.

Heh.

Did you even know that you remembered it?

Sick Day!

It's not as fun to be at home sick when you can't watch The Price Is Right.

***

I stayed home sick from work yesterday. Some sort of flu thing. Not entirely debilitating, but enough to render me completely ineffective at work.

***

I was semi-productive. I organized my clothes and found some more things to sell at Beacon's Closet - it was an agonizing process of trying on former favorite shirts and dresses that no longer fit, and just admitting to myself that they will never again fit. I think, though, that since these things were favorites and therefore are awesome, I will make some money from selling them. On Monday night I forced D to engage in a farewell vigil to the clothes during which we said things like "Damn that was cute back when I was thinner!" and "If only this still fit!" and "Farewell, fabulous purple suede skirt from 1996, may you find a better home on a smaller ass."

***

I organized paperwork. I went to The Container Store this past weekend and instead of buying little drawers and containers for things like makeup and toiletries, I bought cool bright red expanding folders for the years of paperwork I save for no reason. Old health insurance forms from four jobs ago, offer letters, bank statements from college. My next sick-day project will be to actually go through the paperwork and get rid of it instead of merely transferring it to a more aesthetically pleasing and functional containter.

***

I ate, which was apparently not the best idea.

***

I watched an episode of Curb Your Enthusiasm from season 4 and laughed out loud when Larry David made mention of Party of Five.

***

I tried to nap.

***

I dropped off laundry.

***

I met E to see The Baxter. We saw it at the newly opened IFC Film Center, where I'd also seen Me, You and Everyone We Know. It costs $10.75 to see a movie there, but do I care? No. Why? Because there is an obscene amount of leg room. It's as though they forgot to install every other row. And, you get to sit in gigantic purple fuzzy chairs that you might have in your living room if you were stylish and mod and rich.

You must see this movie. Hilarious. Subtle. Michelle Williams is adorable. I am most enamored with the film's sentiment that everyone, at some point in their life, thinks of themselves as a baxter.

***

I took a cab home afterwards as I was feeling ill post-eating again. I thought rice would be ok, but no! Made some phone calls, felt delirious, tried to watch Crash with D but passed out about halfway through.

***

I am at work today and probably shouldn't be, but there is much work to do and not many sick days remaining. I used up my "sick event" with the kidney stone fiasco so now I can't be sick for more than two days for the remainder of the year.

***

In other news, I saw Oldboy this weekend and it was super awesome.

***

I am still a bit delirious so I am going to stop writing now.

***

Hope you are all well.

Less Than Zero

D and I got Less Than Zero from Netflix last week.

D put it in the queue because he decided, a few weeks ago, that he thought Bret Easton Ellis was a good writer because American Psycho , the movie, is so very awesome.

He read Less Than Zero, and when he finished, handed it to me and said "Do you want to read it?"

"Should I?"

"Well..."

"I guess I should, since it's in the queue."

"Yeah, I guess you should."

"Was it good?"

"Well..."

I decided that I'd read half of it, given its very short length, and would decide at that point if I would continue.

D and I had a fight on the night that I started reading it, which resulted in my accidentally read more than half of it as I tried to distract myself from my mood and his snoring.

I had to continue on. After all, the book is short and not much of a time or emotional commitment.

I finished it in a day, and decided that I hated it.

I hated the characters, the story, the lack of plot, the coincidences, the style, the blah. It did nothing for me.

D said "Should we watch the movie?"

We decided that we would, if only to determine what character Robert Downey Jr. was playing. We both admitted that we'd been under the impression that he was the main character, but after reading the book were both convinced he'd be playing Julian.

Turned out Robert Downey Jr. played Julian in the adaptation.

OK.

So the movie was infinitely worse than the book. It was an abomination. Worst. Movie. Ever.

Why?

Because it was a terrible adaptation of a book that I thought I'd hated.

As I watched the movie, I realized that I didn't hate the book at all.

I felt so betrayed by the adaptation. I kept yelling "Did anyone involved in this movie even read the book!?!?!" "They are missing the whole fucking point!" "If James Spader and Robert Downey Jr. don't make out right now, I am going to throw something through your TV!" "Where is the bisexuality?" "Andrew McCarthey is fucking RIDICULOUS! He's not even doing drugs! What book did these people read for the love of god this is the worst movie I have ever seen!"

D said "Where is the ennui?" "This isn't jaded at all!" "Can you explain why Jamie Gertz ever had a career?"

I said "They need to remake this movie."

It was then that I realized that, despite not liking the book, the book is good. The book is damn good. It's the vibe and the theme and the culture. Seeing that culture betrayed drove me insane. It made me laugh. It disgusted me. Reading the book is torture, and I think that's the point.

I don't know what the point of this entry is.

Oh - right - I think I mentioned in a previous entry that reading Less Than Zero made me feel dirty and I would like to retract that statement.

Watching Less Than Zero made me feel dirty.

The book, in contrast, is amazing.

A-D-U-L-T Spelling Bee

On Wednesday night D and I attended and participated in an adult spelling bee!

I've been psyched about this for months. I basically made D go, and said "You are going to be in this spelling bee, and you are going to win!"

I went with the intention of drinking and laughing lots, and taking photos. I'd envisioned it taking place in the club where the horrid open mics occurred (it was at the same center near Central Park West), with hundreds of people, and a lottery determining who got to enter the spelling bee.

D and I hadn't had time to practice our drunk spelling beforehand, so en route to the spelling bee we spelled everything we spoke about.

When we arrived, we were slightly shocked to see that the spelling bee would be held in a very tiny conference room, and that there only about 20 people involved.

This, of course, meant that I had to be in the spelling bee.

Horror of horrors. My fear of public speaking/performance is more of a fear of public anything. And if a microphone is involved, forget it! The setup for this was a small stage on which was only a microphone. Luckily we didn't have to sit on the stage. We were all seated in the audience, drinks in hand, and would be called up when it was our turn.



There were two different types of rounds - the first was just words picked from the official spelling bee list. The second, and far more fun, was a roll-the-dice round, where the number you rolled determined the word category from which you'd have to spell a word. The categories were alcohol, things that are uncomfortable, band names, characters from mythology, and former child stars.





I did pretty well for a while. I got "sandpaper duvet" and "luau" and "gwar" and "streptococcus." I can't believe I got "streptococcus" correct. I feel like sober me would have tripped all over it, but drunk me spelled it with the utmost of confidence.

The beauty of this spelling bee was that you weren't out until you got two incorrect. D faltered early as he was unable to spell "Bonaduce" in "Danny Bonaduce."

When one girl had to spell "Hennessey" and jokingly asked for it to be used in a sentence, I said "Or, how about a hip hop lyric instead?" and a bunch of people, myself included, busted out with Digital Underground's "Humpty Dance." Best spelling bee of all time, folks.



Another girl had to spell "Snoop Doggy Dogg," and spelled it incorrectly. She spelled the final "Dogg" with only one "g." It was funny, given that earlier on I'd been joking about my inability to spell in public, and how my first word would most likely be "dog" and how I'd spell it "D-O-double-G." Heh. The MC was all "Dude, haven't you ever heard any of his songs? He always spells his name in them."



The MC's brother participated in the spelling bee and was hilarious. Seriously. This guy was the ultimate in comic relief. He got up and rolled "Former Child Stars" and got "Mayim Bialik." He said "If I don't spell that right in this place I'm going to get killed," which was funny given that the spelling bee was being held in a Jewish Cultural Center. He had no idea how to spell it, but we decided that if he could reenact the opening credits, complete with singing of the theme song and doing the Blossom dance, he could stay in. He unfortunately didn't do the dance very well, so got eliminated. Luckily, there were two girls there who could do the dance, so we were very entertained.

When it was down to five people remaining, we had to stand on the stage.



I had one wrong at this point. I'd misspelled "meticulosity" because, thinking of my friend Kris' made-up word "awesomenocity," I misspelled it as "M-E-T-I-C-U-L-O-C-I-T-Y." When the MC gave me the word, I said "You totally made that up! It's meticulousness!" Everyone agreed with me, but whatever. It is, however, a word. I just looked it up.

The second word I went out on I can't even remember, because I, and everyone else in there, had never heard of it. Never! I had him repeat it like 10 times and had him use it in a sentence and give me the definition and still nothing. No idea. Out. I think the MC had it in for me. I could have spelled any other word in the whole bee. Damn, son.

The finalists were D and this older woman who was an amazing speller.



D, drunker than I've ever seen him, spelled amazingly!



He was also doing The D Show, and I think it psyched the lady out. He was rolling around on the stage and being nuts. The crowd loved him.



When the lady got her first word wrong, D ran to the side of the stage and gave me a huge kiss, Rocky-style. It was awesome.

And then D won!!!

We had an awesome time, even though winning didn't actually involve a prize. I made a new friend, and D and I hung out with the MC, his funny brother, and the bartender afterwards. We got to drink the remaining wine, and had some cool conversations. Hopefully we'll see these people again. And hopefully there will be more spelling bees!!!

Florida... Again

I went to Florida this weekend.

We departed on Friday morning, thus having an extra day off! My boss said "No, no, I'm cool with this..." when I asked him to sign the paperwork for the vacation day, so it ended up being a free day off! Woo hoo!!!

The flights went as planned. We connected in Atlanta and were in Orlando by 1pm. We picked up the rental car and headed straight for the beach.

We were met by torrential downpours. Rainy season. Drat. Who knew?

We grabbed lunch at a diner right near the beach, where we were told "Don't even try to go to the beach. It's gon' rain for in en hourrr', fer an hourrr." The waitstaff were overly friendly. D said "Why do you think they're so friendly? What do they want from us?" I said "I think they're just friendly. Scary, huh?"

We decided to ignore their warnings and headed to the beach.



There were a few people there.



D frolicked in the ocean while I attempted to sleep.



While attempting to sleep, I overheard a girl near me say the following:

"You know, well, they called me into HR." When asked why she continued "Well, you know, you know how when you're at work you touch people on the butt? Yeah, well, you know how it is. So I go in there and I'm like 'Look, the person who you should be talking to is not me, it's that girl. I mean, you know, the one who has a problem with this. She is the one with the issues. You know. She's a mess.'"



I got some decent sleep.



I also took some photos, including this one which was, I swear, an accident.



I sat on the beach for a while, not swimming because it was actually quite cold out. D came out of the water right before it started to pour. We leisurely walked back to the car (is there anything better than being in a rain storm while wearing a bathing suit?) and headed to his folks' house.

They were happy to see D. We freshened up post-beach, chatted with the parents for a bit, and then headed out for a date. I'd said "Dude, I really want to find the cheesiest restaurant possible and eat at it. You know. People in costumes, animatronics, ultimate tourist trap type of place. I want drinks with cute names and a dinner show." We unfortunately missed the pirate dinner show and all other dinner shows because we didn't make a plan, so we drove around randomly looking for something after D's parents said "All of the restaurants around here are cheesy."

What they did not tell us was that all of the restaurants around there were bad. Bad bad bad. We ended up at a Mexican restaurant with the worst food imagineable. It was a quiet date. D seemed a little moody. He is different around his family. I tried to be light and happy, but I am different around his family as well. Feeling invisible will do that to a person.

We headed back to his parents' house, where they were waiting up for us to make sure we got into the garage ok with the code. They talked for a bit, while I remained quiet because of sangria and invisibility. I also really wanted a cold glass of water, but D's parents are adorable in that both of them have teeth that are hypersensitive to cold. They keep their Brita at room temperature, and there is literally no ice in the house. At all. His father even goes so far as to microwave apple juice that's been stored in the refrigerator prior to his drinking it.

The following morning we got a late start - D got up well before me and disappeared. I felt awkward and didn't want to just appear, so stayed in bed. He got coerced into doing yardwork. I was slightly cross because there was all of this urgency to "get to the beach before the rain - get UP - HURRY UP!" when he returned after the initial disappearing, and then I waited around for a couple of hours. This delay, however, gave me time to watch the news.

I hadn't seen any live footage of the hurricane up until that point. I'd read plenty and listened to the radio, but I hadn't seen a moving image since I do not have TV.

I cried a bit and compiled the statistics and became annoyed and distressed and angry and devastated and decided, instead, to read the paper.

D, finished with yardwork, organized a cooler of goodies for us and we hit the road about half an hour later.

And, of course, we hit torrential downpours on our way to the beach.

We went to the beach anyway, and again, nobody on it. Bliss! It was sunny by the time we arrived. I applied sunscreen and lied down in just enough time for it to start raining. It only rained for a few seconds. I feel asleep.



And then I woke up. And fell asleep again. And then it rained. And I fell asleep as it was raining. And then I woke up and D was gone and I thought "What if he never comes back? I am fucked," and then fell asleep while cold rain droplets hit my burning skin.

Bliss, folks, bliss.

D woke me up eventually and said "Come frolick!" I rain into the ocean, which was warmer than the air. Heaven! The waves were intense, and every time one hit the beach, I could feel the sand under my toes being dragged away by the current and I felt like I was floating and would fall and then be sucked under.

I frolicked for about three seconds before I decided that the current was freaking me out and that the waves being taller than me was unsettling, so I ran onto the beach and wrote "Leah Lar Hearts D" with my toes. D added "4-EVER" and then it, of course, started to pour, erasing out artwork.

We quickly gathered up the food and camera and glasses and ran to the car.

We were soaked. We decided to find a movie theater. We found one, but the movie times were not good. D wanted to eat at Steak and Shake, where the service was bad but the salad dressing was delicious.

We headed back to D's parents' house, where D engaged in further yardwork while I watched the news for about three minutes, thought better of it, and instead watched Alive on The History Channel.

D returned and instantly fell asleep on the living room floor. I decided that I too would take a nap, so went to our room and fell asleep within two seconds.

Naps galore, folks. Does life get any better?

D's mother made manicotti for dinner. We ate and drank champagne and I said little other than "This is so good."

After dinner, we played cards with the parents. D's father cheated. I knew he was cheating and tried to explain this, but neither D nor I are assertive enough. His father wasn't doing it on purpose. He didn't know. He hasn't enough experience with cards. He slaughtered all of us, but he cheated! I love his father, though, so I'll let it go.

D wanted to play scrabble, but I wanted to read. My goals for the trip were Beach, Books, and Naps. I needed some Book time, and needed some time away from The D Show.

Plus, I imagine D's mother wanted some time alone with her son.

The following day, I read more in the morning because D, again, disappeared.

We then went to a pizza buffet. All-you-can-eat pizza, breadsticks, salad, and dessert for $3.99!!!!

We headed back to his parents' house. D mowed the lawn while I sat with his parents, reading, while they said nothing as they read the newspaper.



I finished Atonement by Ian McKewen and started Less than Zero by Bret Easton Ellis.

Finishing a good book, like Atonement, is like amazing sex. The buildup is blissful, you want it to go on forever, and when it does end, YEAH! And then the exhaustion sets in.

Terrible books like Less Than Zero just make you feel dirty.

When D returned from mowing the lawn, The D Show was on again and his parents perked up, got chatty, put out food.

We socialized for a bit and were then off to the airport.

We got on an earlier flight than that scheduled, and this one was direct! We had lofty expectations for all of our bonus time in NYC, but of course we ended up just falling asleep.

On Monday I saw Century of the Self Parts 1 and 2, which were both letdowns. This was good, though, because now there is no pressure to see parts 3 and 4.

After the movie, we walked around the city and enjoyed the lack of people. If New York was always as barren as it was on Labor Day, I'd be a much happier person. We walked around the Bowery in search of a floor lamp for D's grownup apartment, did some other shopping, took a nap, read, went out on a date for dinner, and then watched Kontroll back at my apartment. I think I liked it but I feel stupid because I don't think I get it.

And that, folks, was the Long Weekend.

Wish I could say that I still feel rested and unwound. Oh well. Hopefully sleep will be had this weekend.

Serious

I went on a nearly blind friend date with N last night.

She really wanted to see The Constant Gardener. I had no desire to see it, but since I think that City of God is one of the best movies I've ever seen, I figured I'd give it a shot. Plus, the reviews were in and the reviews were good.

While we were in line I said "You know, yet another reason why Loew's 34th Street is such a great theater, in addition to their having real food and being the cheapest theater in the city and being around the corner from my apartment, is the fact that the previews start 10 minutes prior to the movie start time on moviefone, so getting to a movie early is actually rewarded!" I didn't mention the long list of reasons why Loew's 34th Street sucks, which includes the reliably unruly crowds and the fact the bathroom is on a separate floor from the theater and is, without fail, grotesque.

N said "My friends all think I am a nerd because I like the previews. The previews are my favorite part!"

"I know," I said, realizing that N and I might actually become friends.

OK.

So.

The Constant Gardener. Intense. Artful. Ralph Fiennes in a t-shirt - the second best thing ever. The romance was believable and adorable. The conspiracy got boring after a while.

I'd recommend it because its beautiful to look at, but its more of a rental. And be prepared to suffer from motion sickness - the camera work is brilliant - I'd compare it to more of a series of gorgeous still art photography, so it jumps around a lot. But man is it gorgeous. It's organic and grainy and lush and wonderful.

Ralph Fiennes. He is always so. Serious. The man never smiles. I want Ralph Fiennes to be in, like, 45 Year Old Virgin next year. I want to see him laugh!

So, back to the point of this entry.

The point is: the previews, in this care, were the best part because they showed a preview for Brokeback Mountain and I'm not kidding when I say that I gasped a few times while watching it.

Can you think of anything better than Jake Gyllenhaal and Heath Ledger being involved in a secret gay love affair as cowboys?!?!?!

Gasp. I practically burst into tears just watching the preview.

I cannot wait for this movie. I seriously can't wait. I can't. I love Jake Gyllenhaal much more than I should given that he is like 14.

I also love tragic men. Ralph Fiennes was very tragic in The Constant Gardener and I enjoyed it. I think male tears work so well on screen because women would probably like to see more of male tears in real life.

Well, maybe not. I guess nobody wants to see more tears. Tears suck.

But. Jake Gyllenhaal crying? It's like I'm in middle school all over again watching Dead Poets Society and all of my friends and I fall in love with Ethan Hawke because he flips out at the end because Robert Sean Leonard has killed himself.

I can't wait!!!!

Strong Teeth

I went to the dentist this morning.

What better way to ease back into life after being away, relaxed, for a long weekend? How I love being welcomed back into Normal Life by bloody gloves in your face and the Steve Martin remake of Cheaper By the Dozen!

My dentist shows movies in the waiting room, and then while you're having your teeth cleaned, they show that same movie without sound.

I am ashamed to admit that I was starting to get into Cheaper by the Dozen in the waiting room, and was annoyed when I didn't know what was going on whilst having my mouth excavated. Bizarre, no? Bizarre that I couldn't really tell what was going on without the sound. I'd imagined it to be far more predictable. There was something with Hillary Duff, in a towel, being mortified after stepping out of the shower only to find that the high school football team was in her house. I have no idea.

At any rate, while I was having my teeth cleaned, I was thinking about two things:

1. My original NYC Dentist Experience. I found out today that those bastards didn't send my x-rays to the new dentist. Bastards!!!

2. How in the future going to the dentist will be like something out of Star Wars, with a cute robot dentist that is programmed to say things like "Fabulous lack of plaque!" and "This isn't the worst thing ever, you know" and will then list all of the more torturous things you could be doing prior to work on a Tuesday. This will be helpful in avoiding the awkwardness of staring into your hygenist's pretty eyes and being observed by a human being while you choke on your own spit.

Could the dentist suck any more?

The hygenist with pretty eyes said "Your face is going to get really wet but don't worry. I'll wipe it for you." She wasn't kidding! I'd never experienced having water shot up my nose during a dentist appointment. As if it wasn't already bad enough!

When the dentist came in to look things over, she said "Did you ever have braces?" "No." "You have remarkably straight teeth!" Awww, shucks. I finally admitted that I'd had a retainer. I try so desperately to block out those years.

She then said "Your teeth are so strong. You have solid teeth. Good for you."

Do people have non-solid teeth?

She said "But don't let that stop you from taking care of them. Sometimes people with teeth like yours stop taking care of things. You still have to floss, and brush well."

What?

First of all, how do people with solid teeth know that their teeth are unusual? Is this unusual? Solid teeth? What? And second of all, why would that prevent one from brushing one's teeth well? Do solid teeth imply some sort of immunity? Am I gifted in having solid teeth?

I don't know.

I do love the sensation of smooth, polished teeth.

I do, however, hate dentists.

But I hate the thought of a root canal more, so I force myself to go.

OK. This dentist talk is boring.

I'll write more later.

Dude.

Gilligan died.

Sad.

Foiled Again... and again... and then again

I wanted to go to the movies last night.

There's a documentary on William Eggelston playing at the theater around the corner. It opened last night, and the director was going to be there for discussion after the first two showings. I went to the theater the night before to buy tickets because purchasing them online cost at extra $1 per ticket which seemed assinine given I could save $2 by walking for one minute, and was told that the 6:20 showing was already sold out but that there were still tickets to the 8:20 available. I said "Can I buy them now?" to which they responded with "Day of show only."

D was sick that night, so we talked briefly about the possibility of going. He said "Well, I think I'll probably feel better tomorrow so I'll probably want to ride. But maybe not."

Cool.

I emailed him yesterday morning and said "Are you going to ride? Should I get you a ticket?" I checked online to verify that the 8:20 hadn't sold out, and it had not.

I hadn't heard from him by 1:30. I checked again to make sure there were still tickets. There were. As I walked by the theater at lunch, I thought "I should just get two tickets. Worst case scenario I have an extra ticket and I can sell it because there will probably be people standing by."

I didn't get the tickets. I don't know why. I think it's the nerdiness I feel about planning ahead, being cautious, worrying about such things.

At 3:00 he wrote back and said he'd like to go. I went online and, of course, sold out.

Fuck.

No director present when I will see this movie, if I see this movie because its playing for a little over a week and I have plans most nights.

I decided that, instead, I'd go to see The Baxter. Originally I'd intended to see both The Baxter and the Eggleston documentary. I'd mentioned to D that I might see The Baxter and just meet him at the Eggleston documentary when I'd thought there were tickets.

There was more "Maybe I'll ride" or "Maybe I'll paint" or "Maybe I'll go for a run" or "Maybe we will go on a date!"

At around 4:30 I realized that I'd finished my work for the day, so I totally had time to see The Baxter. I called D to see if he wanted to join me and if he didn't, if he wanted to do something after his ride/run/painting.

He said "Are you done? Why don't we go see Century of the Self at 5:45 instead?"

"YES! BRILLIANT!" I said, because I've been wanting to see Century of the Self for a really long time and its been oh-so-challenging. It's a four-part documentary on Freud. Parts 1 and 2 show at 5:25 and 10:05, whereas parts 3 and 4 show at 7:45, which is manageable. But - you can't see 3 and 4 without having seen 1 and 2, but seeing 1 and 2 is nearly impossible.

I was psyched, because this was like the first time ever I'd gotten out of work in enough time to see it! YAY!

We left work at about 5:15 and started walking to the theater. D was like "Do you mind if I stop home and freshen up?" He changed and meandered and ate some chewy Chips Ahoy while I watched people walking by, hoping that they'd steal the company-logo-bag I'd left on the street. Fascinating. As we walked to the theater, I began to panic because it was 5:45 and we still had about another 5 minutes' walk remaining.

We got to the window and I was like "Motherfuckerfuckitwasatfucking5:25!!!"

Now. I knew this. I knew it was earlier than 5:45, because 5:45 seems manageable. I can, in theory, get out of work by 5:00. Going to a 5:25 movie requires getting
out before 5:00, which is difficult.

I was like "I can't believe I didn't see the Eggleston documentary OR The Baxter OR Century of the Self."

D is not to blame. Not at all. I can only blame myself for not sticking to my original plan, which was to see both the Eggleston documentary and The Baxter by myself. By involving someone else, I effectively didn't get to do any of the things I wanted to do. I also knew the movie was at 5:25. I knew it, because I am anal and know things like that. But I doubted myself, and I shouldn't have.

D was like "Let's see something else!" and suggested just walking around the city to various theaters to see what was playing. It was 100 degrees last night and I didn't want to walk around anymore and I had raging PMS and didn't want to not see any other movies I really wanted to see. I was like "Can't we just call? Please!?!?" I finally convinced him to look in the paper.

He said "Let's see Pretty Persuasion!" This is last on my list (top of his), but it was on the list so I was like "Cool, yeah!"

We saw the movie.

My review:

Pretty Persuasion = Least Subtle Movie of All Time

D said "I feel dirty."

"Me too!" I said, but apparently we said this for different reasons.

I have this history of viscerally loathing movies that other people love. I hate them so very much and it is therefore completely out of the realm of possibility that other people could like them. It's not possible. It is obvious that the movie is bad and there is no way anyone could ever find something redeeming about it.

This is how I felt about 25th Hour. After the movie, PD was like "What did you think?" and I was like "I think it goes without saying." "Yeah." "Like I had no idea a movie could be that bad." "What? Oh. Um. I really liked it."

Awkward.

This was how it went last night as well. D said "Do you want to find someone with a ticket stub?" (Long story - I save ticket stubs for movies for some yet-to-be-determined movie-ticket-stub future project; I don't like going to the Sunshine because D insists on buying tickets from the machine which gives receipts instead of tickets and also charges you like 4 times for one transaction).

I said "No way, man, I just want to forget that this ever happened."

"Me too."

"Man. I think that could be on the list of the top 10 worst films I've ever seen!"

"What? You didn't like it?"

Awkward.

He tried to convince me that it had some redeeming qualities but the only good thing about it was a certain scene with Ron Livingston.

I can't be convinced to like something that I hated. With 25th Hour, I didn't completely hate it. When PD, MS and I talked about it, I came around a bit and didn't hate it as much by the time we'd finished talking.

But man. Pretty Persuasion. I felt a little bad because I was nothing but raging negativity and D really liked it, so we just stopped talking about it.

I won't write a review of it because I might be wrong about this one. Hard to tell. You should just see it for yourself if you have any interest because there must be good things that I, for whatever reason, cannot see.

I think it's because I've seen it all before, but better.

OK. Must work a bit. More later.

Life Out of Balance - Part 2

There was a lot to digest last night. A weird night. Weird. Am feeling a bit old, a bit ineffective, a bit insecure, a bit mortal. I'll write more on this later. Nevertheless...

In my attempt to blaze through Netflixes prior to leaving for Orlando, I decided to watch The Sea Inside. Not the best movie to watch when one is feeling bizarre, but man. Javier Bardem. I completely forgot that he wasn't a 60-year-old quadripalegic, which is pretty hard given that he's one of the most beautiful people to have ever graced the planet. Good movie.

The plan was to then go to D's to watch Koyaanisqatsi, which we decided would be really really amazing or trite. My vote leaned towards pretentious, but I said I'd give it a chance.

First of all, the opening song. OK. Do I like Philip Glass? I can't decide. It depends on my mood. I can't get the goddamn song out of my head. Male voices chanting Koyaanisqatsi really lowly, really slowly, really monotonously. I can't get them to stop!!! It's infuriating.

Second of all, it is possible that I've seen it before! This boy I knew shortly after graduating college, who I did not kiss although I really wanted to, took me to see a Philip Glass scored film at the Wang Center. I was dragged, but I'd have done anything to spend time with him. All I remembered was the Philip Glass music and people moving around really frenetically in a city. Weird.

Third of all, the reason that I didn't remember having seen it was because I had terrible violent food poisoning during my viewing it! Crazy! I kept saying "I think I have seen this but its so foggy because I had food poisoning... I was so delirious... and I kept having to run out... and this might actually be why I hold slight animosity towards Philip Glass for no reason at all!"

Therefore, Koyaanisqatsi is to blame for D's food poisoning.

Palm Pilot

I am trying to sell my palm pilot on Craigslist.

Yes, folks, I have a palm pilot.

And no, I don't ever use it. I used it in Boston - in Boston I had a social life to manage. In New York City, where I know few people and where people tend not to make plans in advance, the palm pilot is useless. It would come in handy, however, to keep track of all of the goings-on in NYC - shows, exhibits, openings, etc., but I have no time to look at it. Ever.

In Boston I also used it for things like lists - lists of things I wanted to buy (ah! I long for the days when there was extra money to manage and when I could make lists of stereo components I eventually wanted to own, CD's I wanted to purchase, etc.), trips I wanted to take, phone calls that needed to be returned, boys I'd kissed...

Yes, folks, I kept a list, in my palm pilot, of all the boys I've ever kissed.

I am a sentimental idiot. They all mean something to me, for varied reasons. I always liked to be "Oh my god I totally forgot about so-and-so that was such a cute time!" or "Oh my god I totally forgot about so-and-so thank god because that was weird and awful." But I am a sentimental fool for the good and the bad.

Or I am a dork. Yeah. I am a dork.

I digress...

I also used it for the backlog of songs that needed to be recorded, and what had already been recorded and what remained to recorded. I had a few addresses in there. I never bothered to sync it with a computer. I never bought a memory card for it. I never put photos on it. I never tried to beam something through thin air from someone else's palm to my own.

Basically, my palm pilot was a giant post-it note.

And now I want to sell it.

On Saturday I decided to delete all of the information it contained prior to selling it. I turned it on and thought "Well, I should look one last time at the list of boys, because hopefully the list is now complete."

The list, and everything else, was gone. I guess it had decharged or whatever and everything is gone. Tragic. Now I'll never know how many boys I've kissed!

The palm pilot is now on Craigslist, and I got one response from a guy who wants me to ship it to him and another from a guy who offered me less than I want. I'll take less just to get rid of it. I responded to him and am now anxiously awaiting his response. This is like dating - will he write back? When? I can't wait! He hasn't written back and its been over an hour. Man. I want to be rid of the palm pilot. And what's with the guy who wants me to ship it? No way. That defeats the point of Craigslist. If I was going to ship it I'd have put it on EBay. Craigslist should involve no effort by me, especially my waiting in line at a post office.

I am feeling a little guilty because the palm pilot was a gift. My parents gave it to me for Christmas. But I never use it! Plus, do they have to know? They'll never know. Father would be proud. Right. I have to keep telling myself that.

So wish my luck. I've had good luck with Craigslist. Hopefully I'll be rid of the palm pilot by week's end, and I'll have money to put towards the list of things that I will now never be able to buy!

Life Out of Balance - Part 1

It amazes me that D can still remain cute when sick.

D was very ill last night. The current theory is food poisoning. My feeling is that a tomato left at room temperature for a little less than a week in a very hot apartment is the likely culprit. He blames "weird cheeses put in an omelette."

Either way, it was a rough night.

I am consumed with feelings of both sympathy and helplessness. I realize that there is nothing I can do. I just want him to be better. I don't want him to suffer. Ever. I can't stand it.

I am fairly convinced that I should never, ever have children.

I woke up at about 5am after having gone to sleep at about 1am, and remained awake listening to D sigh loudly while he tossed and turned and fidgeted and moaned and said "Is it hot in here? I'm hot" and then two minutes later "I'm freezing. Where are the blankets?" Awful. I couldn't sleep at all. He was suffering and I couldn't get that, as well as other things, off my mind.

I am dead tired.

I am wondering if D is ok. I think I will stop by after lunch to see how he is doing. I asked him if he wanted me to (he was so delirious) and he was all smiley and "Yes, I would like you to take care of me." In the same situation, I'd have said "No, don't worry about it" even though I meant "Yes, please, I need you. And bring apple sauce with you!"

I also can't help thinking "I wish I were sick." Some deranged part of my psyche is hoping that D has a one day flu and that I will catch it. Why? Because I want to stay home. I want to sleep late. I want to watch movies and not feel guilty about it and not feel that I am wasting time. Yes, I realize that being sick is terrible. I never get sick. Ever. I never miss work for something like a cold or flu or infection. I miss work for things like kidney stones and minor surgeries. I never have allergies or transient flus. I had an ear infection earlier in the year, and I may have missed like half a day.

I had food poisoning earlier in the year. It was bad. It was when D and I were first dating. I'd spent the night at his house - it was maybe the fourth or fifth time ever - and I was mortified, embarrassed, pale, pouting. I stayed home from work that day, and you know what? It was awesome! Granted, I couldn't eat and my bowels were ripping themselves to shreds, but I got to do the dishes! And I watched TV! And read blogs! And made a mix CD for D! And I slept. Lots.

So yeah. I'm tired and worried and lame today. It's weird because I am used to D being around and he's not and that makes me sad. Lame lame lame.

I also don't have much work to do, which makes things worse. Plenty of time for my mind to wander and think things like "What if it isn't the flu? What if there's something wrong with him again? What if it's like last time?"

My stomach churns just thinking about last time.

I am such a zombie right now.

I should work a bit.

More later.

MOMA Field Trip - 8.27.05