I am currently in Brooklyn. I did not just step off a plane into the warm Florida sun. I will not be able to go to Orlando until late tomorrow afternoon. This change of plans requires my taking a vacation day on Monday.
I am on the verge of a meltdown, because not only did I receive potentially bad/annoying news today, spend approximately four hours in the airport, spend two hours in transit to and from the airport, not really eat (I am starving to death but my mood has rendered me incapable of making a decision on if/what to eat), but I am pissed because I want to use my vacation days to visit *my* family.
I have used 1.5 precious vacation days for this, and I am not happy. I'm not blaming anyone or anything. I'm merely responding rather intensely to my first moment of homesickness since I left MA.
Friday, March 25, 2005
Easter
Easter is apparently this weekend.
People keep asking me "What are you doing this weekend?"
"Going to FL."
"To celebrate Easter?"
"No, to meet my future in-laws," who I hope will not be celebrating Easter as I did not pack my Easter bonnet, nor did I pack anything that I would feel comfortable wearing in a church. I also forgot to pack dyes with which to make Easter eggs because I also forgot to buy the dye. Drat. I bet my future nieces-in-law would have liked to dye eggs, but probably not as much as I'd have liked it.
Easter nostalgia is fierce right now. Competing in the neighborhood egg hunt (I will never forget this - we were running around hunting for eggs and I found this hideous egg that was dyed a light green and had on it a big black dot; the neighborhood posse ridiculed me for having found the mutant egg, until we were informed that the finder of said egg would be the proud recipient of a kite! and then I was much resented), looking forward to charming pink dresses and little white gloves and little white hats, colorful baskets full of candy and other goodness, dying millions of eggs over at Aunty Peggy and Uncle Tommy's house, running around like a lunatic in my grandparents' fenced-in backyard in Roslindale hoping to find the plastic egg with the dollar bill. Sigh.
At any rate, in celebration of Easter, please enjoy reading Fellowship of the Peeps.
Until next time....
People keep asking me "What are you doing this weekend?"
"Going to FL."
"To celebrate Easter?"
"No, to meet my future in-laws," who I hope will not be celebrating Easter as I did not pack my Easter bonnet, nor did I pack anything that I would feel comfortable wearing in a church. I also forgot to pack dyes with which to make Easter eggs because I also forgot to buy the dye. Drat. I bet my future nieces-in-law would have liked to dye eggs, but probably not as much as I'd have liked it.
Easter nostalgia is fierce right now. Competing in the neighborhood egg hunt (I will never forget this - we were running around hunting for eggs and I found this hideous egg that was dyed a light green and had on it a big black dot; the neighborhood posse ridiculed me for having found the mutant egg, until we were informed that the finder of said egg would be the proud recipient of a kite! and then I was much resented), looking forward to charming pink dresses and little white gloves and little white hats, colorful baskets full of candy and other goodness, dying millions of eggs over at Aunty Peggy and Uncle Tommy's house, running around like a lunatic in my grandparents' fenced-in backyard in Roslindale hoping to find the plastic egg with the dollar bill. Sigh.
At any rate, in celebration of Easter, please enjoy reading Fellowship of the Peeps.
Until next time....
Thursday, March 24, 2005
Anemia
My brain is torturing me right now because it has decided to play, on repeat, Belinda Carlisle's "Heaven Is A Place on Earth."
No, I have no theory regarding this song's being triggered by my traitorous neurons.
Bench Buddy said "Wouldn't you rather have 'Heaven isn't too far aw... ay.. ay ...ayyy....' in your head?"
Yes, Bench Buddy, I would, but that is not how it works!!!
Instead I have "Oooh baby do you know what that's worth? Ooooh heaven is a place on earth!" on replay.
I feel weird today. I am attributing the appearance of this song to yet another symptom of whatever weird neural phenomenon I am suffering from. Since Sunday night, my hands and face have been tingly at night. They are not numb. They are Pins and Needles. Today is the first day during which my hands and face have been tingling during the day. Concurrent with the tingling is the inability to type accurately and inability to access words. When my face is feeling numb my brain goes numb as well, and I can't think of basic words to express myself. Nor can I really have a coherent thought, because every other thought is something like "Man, I could totally pass out RIGHT NOW while my boss is talking to me - that would be dramatic!" or "It's weird how my hands go from being in severe pain to having no sensation at all - if my face wasn't numb I'd be psyched about having carpal tunnel so as not to have to work for the next couple of weeks!" or "Having pins and needles in your cheeks is just plain bizarre."
I am wondering if there is more or less hypochondriasis in the world now that self-diagnosis is rendered so easy by the internet.
A majority of my day today was spent searching for things like "hands tngingl" and "fadil numbnss" and "tremos extremeits" and "lightehadedness."
Neuropathy? Low blood pressure? MS? Hormonal issues?
My vote, for now, is near-onset of the flu. Or maybe something anemia-like. Or psychosomatic pre-meeting-the-parents syndrome.
I love the word anemia.
This sort of thing is all very new to me. Normally I am nonresponsive to health-related issues, but having a numb face, I think, is cause for internet investigation.
Bizarrely enough, I had a minor argument with D last night about health issues before he knew about my numb face and hands. I've been trying not to be too much of a nag about his health, but I am definitely allowed to be a bit of a nag. He finally saw a doctor yesterday - my diagnosis was right, although the doctor he saw has advised that he get a second opinion and apparently mine does not count - which precipitated a conversation, finally, regarding his health. I said something like "People have been telling me that men just don't go to see doctors." He said "Look, I just think its a double standard." "Why?" "Because, like with you, you NEVER go to a doctor. You're awful about it." I said "That's because there's nothing wrong with me. You know if I had another kidney stone or I was fainting at work I'd get myself to a hospital in a second."
Or, M would have to call me on the phone and force me to go to the doctor's by saying "EAR INFECTIONS ARE NOT CURED BY SLEEP!"
Right.
"When the night falls down, I wait for you and you come around..."
I must go now, as I have to engage in one of my favorite activies - PACKING!!!
No, I have no theory regarding this song's being triggered by my traitorous neurons.
Bench Buddy said "Wouldn't you rather have 'Heaven isn't too far aw... ay.. ay ...ayyy....' in your head?"
Yes, Bench Buddy, I would, but that is not how it works!!!
Instead I have "Oooh baby do you know what that's worth? Ooooh heaven is a place on earth!" on replay.
I feel weird today. I am attributing the appearance of this song to yet another symptom of whatever weird neural phenomenon I am suffering from. Since Sunday night, my hands and face have been tingly at night. They are not numb. They are Pins and Needles. Today is the first day during which my hands and face have been tingling during the day. Concurrent with the tingling is the inability to type accurately and inability to access words. When my face is feeling numb my brain goes numb as well, and I can't think of basic words to express myself. Nor can I really have a coherent thought, because every other thought is something like "Man, I could totally pass out RIGHT NOW while my boss is talking to me - that would be dramatic!" or "It's weird how my hands go from being in severe pain to having no sensation at all - if my face wasn't numb I'd be psyched about having carpal tunnel so as not to have to work for the next couple of weeks!" or "Having pins and needles in your cheeks is just plain bizarre."
I am wondering if there is more or less hypochondriasis in the world now that self-diagnosis is rendered so easy by the internet.
A majority of my day today was spent searching for things like "hands tngingl" and "fadil numbnss" and "tremos extremeits" and "lightehadedness."
Neuropathy? Low blood pressure? MS? Hormonal issues?
My vote, for now, is near-onset of the flu. Or maybe something anemia-like. Or psychosomatic pre-meeting-the-parents syndrome.
I love the word anemia.
This sort of thing is all very new to me. Normally I am nonresponsive to health-related issues, but having a numb face, I think, is cause for internet investigation.
Bizarrely enough, I had a minor argument with D last night about health issues before he knew about my numb face and hands. I've been trying not to be too much of a nag about his health, but I am definitely allowed to be a bit of a nag. He finally saw a doctor yesterday - my diagnosis was right, although the doctor he saw has advised that he get a second opinion and apparently mine does not count - which precipitated a conversation, finally, regarding his health. I said something like "People have been telling me that men just don't go to see doctors." He said "Look, I just think its a double standard." "Why?" "Because, like with you, you NEVER go to a doctor. You're awful about it." I said "That's because there's nothing wrong with me. You know if I had another kidney stone or I was fainting at work I'd get myself to a hospital in a second."
Or, M would have to call me on the phone and force me to go to the doctor's by saying "EAR INFECTIONS ARE NOT CURED BY SLEEP!"
Right.
"When the night falls down, I wait for you and you come around..."
I must go now, as I have to engage in one of my favorite activies - PACKING!!!
Banksy
Click on this!
This appears on the following lists:
1. Things I Wish I Thought Of
2. Person I Wish I Was Instead Of Myself
3. Person Who Most Likely Did Not Un-Do His Personal Wackiness
Is this national news?
This made me so happy when I found about it yesterday afternoon.
This appears on the following lists:
1. Things I Wish I Thought Of
2. Person I Wish I Was Instead Of Myself
3. Person Who Most Likely Did Not Un-Do His Personal Wackiness
Is this national news?
This made me so happy when I found about it yesterday afternoon.
Monday, March 21, 2005
I Heart Campbell Scott
The weekend was good. It was the first weekend in a long time without visitors, without obligation, with just me and D.
On Friday night we went to the Whitney, which is basically free on Friday evenings. It's "Pay What You Want," so D and his friend M payed $1 each, and I paid $2, because I felt bad. I don't know why I felt bad. I apparently felt like I should pay 2x what everyone else was paying, just because I am me.
The museum is amazing. So much to see, but not as overwhelming as the MOMA. We saw everything, although I didn't get to be as obsessively staring as I'd have liked. Of course I can't remember anything I saw, aside from the Tim Hawkinson exhibit which was the best art exhibit I've ever seen.
http://www.whitney.org/exhibition/feat_hawk.shtml
His work focuses on his awareness of the human body. It's unique and bizarre and inexplicably creepy. Everyone in the exhibit was blissed out and happy, staring with their mouths open at moving sculptures and strange representations of form. It made me feel like a kid. If you get the opportunity, please see it. You will not be disappointed.
We were starving after the Whitney and found ourselves in a rare pocket of NYC where there was nowhere to eat. Well, there were places to eat, but I was craving onion rings and M was craving "pub grub," so our scope was narrow. This being said, the Upper East Side is a barren wasteland devoid of character and entertainment, so there was seriously nowhere to eat.
During our travels, we came upon this, the most unfortunate store window I have ever seen:
I have no idea what this place is doing in New York City. None, folks.
We ended up passing a diner, and I said "Dammit, we're eating there! I am going to turn into a lunatic if we wait another minute!"
D said "OH! That reminds me - there's an awesome diner around the corner - it's the best - you're going to love it... although, with our luck, it will have shut down." Chuckles. I was actually half expecting it to be on fire at that very moment, but it was, of course, only shut down.
We went back to the original diner where we came up with innovative and potentially lucrative business ideas that would take advantage of rich people, and where I ordered the worst omelette I have ever had. It had spinach and broccoli and American cheese mixed in the exact combination that made the omelette completely tasteless. Weird.
On Saturday I attended a bonus class in which Campbell Scott's film Off the Map was screened. I was slightly peeved by having to get up at 8:00 am on a Saturday to see it, but clung to the slight hope that Campbell Scott, who I love for no apparent reason, would be at the class. The film was darling - it was sweet, subtle, had depth of character. It's one of those movies that makes you root for everyone in it.
And yes, Campbell Scott was there! I half expected him to be smarmy and slick, because he always plays smarmy and slick. I was delighted to learn that he is spastic and lively and down-to-earth and brilliant and obscenely good looking and that he wears glasses, which, as you know, makes me love someone even more. When the question and answer session began, I kept wanting to ask "What are the chances of you coming home with me and my boyfriend?" since D is apparently also in love with him.
The Q and A was awesome. I learned many things, and actually came up with a good band name in the process.
After the movie I headed back to Brooklyn to eat and to just be. I hadn't been in my apartment for a while, and wanted to make sure Roommate was all set for our housewarming party, which I decided not to host but instead to attend. All was good. I did things like read mail and play piano (bliss!) and record rough cuts of things I know I'll forget because I know I won't touch the piano for another month.
I then went back to D's, who had made quiche. We then went to Caroline's in Times Square (we had to walk about 8 blocks through Times Square and I thought D was going to shoot someone - its interesting how Times Square changes once you live in New York - instead of being something to gawk at, it becomes something to navigate as efficiently as possible so as not to grow homicidal towards tourists) to see Mitch Hedberg, who is the funniest man alive.
Here he is: (awful picture)
Like the last time I saw him, about 50% of the audience didn't get it. Mitch Hedberg jokes about the mundane, the innocent, the quirky things that get you through your days. I encourage you to listen to his stuff. He's not political, sexual, or even aware. He's a grown up stoner who observes the inane and turns it into the funniest thing you've ever heard.
D was dying. He couldn't stop laughing. Everyone's Favorite Physicist said something like "Liking Mitch Hedberg Is A Litmus Test For Cool," and D passed. Our friend R and J were also dying, so success! Yeah!!! My friends are cool!
We headed back to Brooklyn again to attend Roommate's party. It's bizarre attending a party at your own house. When I got there my room was being used as a dressing room by the band who was playing. I carried my pocketbook around with me throughout the entire night as though I was at someone else's house.
The party was cool - very New York. My apartment has never looked better. There were many hipster and scenester people there. The vibe was serious. The people were beautiful. The music was provided by a DJ. It was cute to see turntables in my kitchen, and cuter to see a drum set in the living room.
My friend LL turned up (she was the only one I invited outside of D, R, and Bench Buddy) eventually, but we didn't last long. I knew this party would go until 6 am-ish, so I went back into the city and slept. Lots.
Yesterday was the first relaxing day I've had in ages. I slept in. D made crepes with bananas and strawberries and chocolate. We tried to listen to a Bach cantata at a church, but the church website was misleading and there was no Bach to be heard. The church was gorgeous, though, so it wasn't a total loss. Because D becomes more and more perfect each day, he said, "Well, this gives us more time to shop for shoes!" We walked down 8th St. in the rain and looked at millions of shoes but bought none. When we got back to his apartment, we read. I haven't read in so long. I started and finished "Sandman: Endless Nights" and felt profoundly sad about the stories but profoundly giddy about having had time to read. We ate dinner and then spent the night doing a jigsaw puzzle and being silly and being thrilled about having time to do a jigsaw puzzle.
As of this moment I am starting to feel sick, but don't care because I am still riding the happiness from the weekend.
This being said, I should stop typing and should be catatonic so as to get better.
Word.
On Friday night we went to the Whitney, which is basically free on Friday evenings. It's "Pay What You Want," so D and his friend M payed $1 each, and I paid $2, because I felt bad. I don't know why I felt bad. I apparently felt like I should pay 2x what everyone else was paying, just because I am me.
The museum is amazing. So much to see, but not as overwhelming as the MOMA. We saw everything, although I didn't get to be as obsessively staring as I'd have liked. Of course I can't remember anything I saw, aside from the Tim Hawkinson exhibit which was the best art exhibit I've ever seen.
http://www.whitney.org/exhibition/feat_hawk.shtml
His work focuses on his awareness of the human body. It's unique and bizarre and inexplicably creepy. Everyone in the exhibit was blissed out and happy, staring with their mouths open at moving sculptures and strange representations of form. It made me feel like a kid. If you get the opportunity, please see it. You will not be disappointed.
We were starving after the Whitney and found ourselves in a rare pocket of NYC where there was nowhere to eat. Well, there were places to eat, but I was craving onion rings and M was craving "pub grub," so our scope was narrow. This being said, the Upper East Side is a barren wasteland devoid of character and entertainment, so there was seriously nowhere to eat.
During our travels, we came upon this, the most unfortunate store window I have ever seen:
I have no idea what this place is doing in New York City. None, folks.
We ended up passing a diner, and I said "Dammit, we're eating there! I am going to turn into a lunatic if we wait another minute!"
D said "OH! That reminds me - there's an awesome diner around the corner - it's the best - you're going to love it... although, with our luck, it will have shut down." Chuckles. I was actually half expecting it to be on fire at that very moment, but it was, of course, only shut down.
We went back to the original diner where we came up with innovative and potentially lucrative business ideas that would take advantage of rich people, and where I ordered the worst omelette I have ever had. It had spinach and broccoli and American cheese mixed in the exact combination that made the omelette completely tasteless. Weird.
On Saturday I attended a bonus class in which Campbell Scott's film Off the Map was screened. I was slightly peeved by having to get up at 8:00 am on a Saturday to see it, but clung to the slight hope that Campbell Scott, who I love for no apparent reason, would be at the class. The film was darling - it was sweet, subtle, had depth of character. It's one of those movies that makes you root for everyone in it.
And yes, Campbell Scott was there! I half expected him to be smarmy and slick, because he always plays smarmy and slick. I was delighted to learn that he is spastic and lively and down-to-earth and brilliant and obscenely good looking and that he wears glasses, which, as you know, makes me love someone even more. When the question and answer session began, I kept wanting to ask "What are the chances of you coming home with me and my boyfriend?" since D is apparently also in love with him.
The Q and A was awesome. I learned many things, and actually came up with a good band name in the process.
After the movie I headed back to Brooklyn to eat and to just be. I hadn't been in my apartment for a while, and wanted to make sure Roommate was all set for our housewarming party, which I decided not to host but instead to attend. All was good. I did things like read mail and play piano (bliss!) and record rough cuts of things I know I'll forget because I know I won't touch the piano for another month.
I then went back to D's, who had made quiche. We then went to Caroline's in Times Square (we had to walk about 8 blocks through Times Square and I thought D was going to shoot someone - its interesting how Times Square changes once you live in New York - instead of being something to gawk at, it becomes something to navigate as efficiently as possible so as not to grow homicidal towards tourists) to see Mitch Hedberg, who is the funniest man alive.
Here he is: (awful picture)
Like the last time I saw him, about 50% of the audience didn't get it. Mitch Hedberg jokes about the mundane, the innocent, the quirky things that get you through your days. I encourage you to listen to his stuff. He's not political, sexual, or even aware. He's a grown up stoner who observes the inane and turns it into the funniest thing you've ever heard.
D was dying. He couldn't stop laughing. Everyone's Favorite Physicist said something like "Liking Mitch Hedberg Is A Litmus Test For Cool," and D passed. Our friend R and J were also dying, so success! Yeah!!! My friends are cool!
We headed back to Brooklyn again to attend Roommate's party. It's bizarre attending a party at your own house. When I got there my room was being used as a dressing room by the band who was playing. I carried my pocketbook around with me throughout the entire night as though I was at someone else's house.
The party was cool - very New York. My apartment has never looked better. There were many hipster and scenester people there. The vibe was serious. The people were beautiful. The music was provided by a DJ. It was cute to see turntables in my kitchen, and cuter to see a drum set in the living room.
My friend LL turned up (she was the only one I invited outside of D, R, and Bench Buddy) eventually, but we didn't last long. I knew this party would go until 6 am-ish, so I went back into the city and slept. Lots.
Yesterday was the first relaxing day I've had in ages. I slept in. D made crepes with bananas and strawberries and chocolate. We tried to listen to a Bach cantata at a church, but the church website was misleading and there was no Bach to be heard. The church was gorgeous, though, so it wasn't a total loss. Because D becomes more and more perfect each day, he said, "Well, this gives us more time to shop for shoes!" We walked down 8th St. in the rain and looked at millions of shoes but bought none. When we got back to his apartment, we read. I haven't read in so long. I started and finished "Sandman: Endless Nights" and felt profoundly sad about the stories but profoundly giddy about having had time to read. We ate dinner and then spent the night doing a jigsaw puzzle and being silly and being thrilled about having time to do a jigsaw puzzle.
As of this moment I am starting to feel sick, but don't care because I am still riding the happiness from the weekend.
This being said, I should stop typing and should be catatonic so as to get better.
Word.
Simplify Your Life For Success!
Because I am an adult with a short attention span (which unnerves me, since as a child I had the ability to focus on things indefinitely which allowed me to get good grades; if I ever went back to school now it would be a disaster!), I can't read newspapers. Nor can I read the news online. Unless its in short attention span form, such as in publications like am New York.
I just read today's edition of am New York. Well, not really. I read the gossip page, my horoscope, and perused the am Careers section. In her article entitled "Simplify Your Life For Success," Karen Salmonsohn points out that 80% of your results come from only 20% of your activity, so its not so much what you SHOULD be doing as it is what you should NOT be doing. Instead of doing, un-do!
She suggests making an "Un-Do List," which includes the following:
1. Undo unimportant meetings
2. Undo unclear assignments
3. Undo energy sapping people (yes!) and
4. Undo personal wackiness
OK. I agree with 1, 2, and 3. This is fairly intuitive. It pains me that people might have to see these things in published list form to consider them. Number 3 especially. This is a good philosophy for life in general. Yes, Karen, yes!
But.
Wtf is "undo personal wackiness?" Never, Karen, never!
Isn't "personal wackiness" the key to success? If we didn't have personal wackiness, we'd be a bunch of worker drones and that would not be productive. Everyone would be so bored and boring that nothing creative or interesting would ever be accomplished.
Oh, wait, right, that's actually how it is. "Personality" and "personal wackiness" aren't rewarded. We can't be individuals. We can't have ideas. We can't do things differenly and chaotically.
I hate Karen and Karen's world.
Personally, I'd be more productive if people in the workplace would indulge their "personal wackiness." A disorganized and wacky work machine, in my opinion, would encourage me to get more done because it would be more exciting, unpredictable, and ZANY!
I don't even know where I'm going with this.
I guess I just enjoyed seeing the word "wackiness" printed in a newspaper.
Heh.
I just read today's edition of am New York. Well, not really. I read the gossip page, my horoscope, and perused the am Careers section. In her article entitled "Simplify Your Life For Success," Karen Salmonsohn points out that 80% of your results come from only 20% of your activity, so its not so much what you SHOULD be doing as it is what you should NOT be doing. Instead of doing, un-do!
She suggests making an "Un-Do List," which includes the following:
1. Undo unimportant meetings
2. Undo unclear assignments
3. Undo energy sapping people (yes!) and
4. Undo personal wackiness
OK. I agree with 1, 2, and 3. This is fairly intuitive. It pains me that people might have to see these things in published list form to consider them. Number 3 especially. This is a good philosophy for life in general. Yes, Karen, yes!
But.
Wtf is "undo personal wackiness?" Never, Karen, never!
Isn't "personal wackiness" the key to success? If we didn't have personal wackiness, we'd be a bunch of worker drones and that would not be productive. Everyone would be so bored and boring that nothing creative or interesting would ever be accomplished.
Oh, wait, right, that's actually how it is. "Personality" and "personal wackiness" aren't rewarded. We can't be individuals. We can't have ideas. We can't do things differenly and chaotically.
I hate Karen and Karen's world.
Personally, I'd be more productive if people in the workplace would indulge their "personal wackiness." A disorganized and wacky work machine, in my opinion, would encourage me to get more done because it would be more exciting, unpredictable, and ZANY!
I don't even know where I'm going with this.
I guess I just enjoyed seeing the word "wackiness" printed in a newspaper.
Heh.
Best Weekend Ever
The weekend was fantastic. I will write more later, when I can also upload photos.
In the meantime, I am laughing at this:
"You know they call corn on the cob, corn on the cob, but that's how it comes out of the ground, man. They should call that corn, they should call every other version corn off the cob. It's not like if you cut off my arm you would call it Mitch. Then reattach it and call me Mitch-all-together..."
- Mitch Hedberg (funniest man alive)
In the meantime, I am laughing at this:
"You know they call corn on the cob, corn on the cob, but that's how it comes out of the ground, man. They should call that corn, they should call every other version corn off the cob. It's not like if you cut off my arm you would call it Mitch. Then reattach it and call me Mitch-all-together..."
- Mitch Hedberg (funniest man alive)
Friday, March 18, 2005
Marine Mammals are the New Unicorn
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.
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.
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.
Friday, March 11, 2005
Diplodocus
Ah, what a night.
I feel slightly more like my normal self.
Most likely because I have arrived at work exhausted, recovering from an exciting and bizarre New York night.
It is so nice to be reacquainted.
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The night began with a burrito, followed by a bonus movie class. Before the class, the professor said "Are any of you journalists?" and told us not to write about what happened.
Now.
Does a blog count? It is published writing, so I feel like I shouldn't write about it.
This being said, I think its acceptable to write about things very vaguely and then in the summer, when this movie is released, I can reveal all!
Basically, we got to screen a rough cut of a film from a very famous director, who is old and adorable and who wanted to screen the film to an audience of film-goers and film-lovers, not critics. He wanted to see how the film played, if laughs came in the right places, if the audience responded as intended, if we understood what was going on.
The movie itself was amazing. It far exceeded my expectations, not because I didn't have faith in the director but because I, like everyone there, lacked faith in his main casting choice. It ended up being a non-issue. The movie was charming and riveting and enjoyable. I will recommend it to you when its actually out.
Hearing a director talk about his movie mid-process was an interesting experience. I kept wondering if he felt at all insecure, what he must have been feeling while we watched the movie, how disappointing it must be for people to watch bad movies they've made.
I like feeling like I am protecting secret information.
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After class I went to meet my friend DD at a bar called 12'' in the East Village. As soon as I walked in there, I recognized someone.
Those of you who know me might remember how I stumbled upon a stalker's dream on Friendster last year, when I found a link to a website/blog kept by a Dude I went to middle school with. This website is a photoblog chronicling the past few years, during which this Dude documented a variety of activities involving people I went to high school with.
If you know me, you also know that I suffer from a serious disconnect from high school. Prior to encountering this website, it felt like fiction to me. Almost as though it never happened, since it had no impact on the person I became. Seeing these people - seeing that they are still together and that they still have something - was a huge mind fuck for me. I went nuts and wrote songs and thought things like "Why did I disconnect? Do I want this? Do I want a reliable entourage? Do I want a posse comprised of people I can count on? Why don't I have a group? Why don't I care about these sorts of things? Why does my past make me so uncomfortable?"
In a way I was jealous of them. I was jealous of their having something old and comfortable and a given. I was jealous that they've found new lives but still preserve the old. I was jealous of their adventures. And, most importantly, I was jealous of this Dude's blog. But not super jealous, because he does techy things for a living.
Anyway, long story longer, I walked into this bar last night and saw this Dude's brother. Not that I ever met his brother in real life. No, folks, I recognized him from the photos on the blog.
I also know, from the blog, that these two travel as a pair, so I knew it wasn't long before Dude appeared.
I should also say that I am not surprised by any of this, since I knew that Dude hosts parties in the East Village often. I guess I knew it was only a matter of time.
Meanwhile, I pounded my Mad Dog cosmopolitan while I hung out with DD and D, who was having vertigo and also making no sense because he can't hear well, and the music was loud, and he rarely goes out to bars because he can't have conversations with people because he can't hear them, but tries so hard to be part of things.
Soon Dude appeared and I acted very surprised! and what are you doing here! and wow this is weird!!! I basically pretended like I had no idea what he was doing in NYC, and asked things like "Where do you live?" even though I know his apartment is a few blocks away and know what it looks like because there are pictures of it on his website and "What do you do?" even though I know he owns his own company and I know what it does and I know he's teaching courses at NYU.
Awkward. He shook D's hand and acted friendly. We didn't talk for long, because he knew everyone there and because I was having an existential crisis.
I eventually ended up sitting along the wall with D, who I tried to make feel secure - why does alcohol make people so insecure? - and DD, who I danced with while seated, and DD's friend, who looked just like Tommy Lee (!) and who was DJ-ing a bit that night.
It felt good to be out. To talk to people. To have conversations. I took Dude's card and emailed him today, asking to be put on the mailing list for his functions. Maybe I'll actually make some friends.
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At around 12:15 we headed over to Rothko, where we saw Diplo spin. That was the whole point of the evening. The drinking and existential crises delayed our getting there, so we only stayed for about an hour or so.
It was awesome. Again, it felt good to be out and to be dancing! It's been too long.
He's quite good. Lots of reggae and hip hop and Ah-Ha.
Only downside was that it was smokey, and I smell smoke-y today because I stayed at D's and am wearing the same black hoodey and jeans I wore last night. Gross, I know, but D lives a 4 minute walk from work and obviously I wasn't going to go back to Brooklyn after the show when I could take a 3-minute-cab to his apartment and get an extra hour of sleep the following morning.
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I am exhausted, but in a lovely and familiar way.
The way in which you know fun was had and the exhaustion is worth it.
I can recover tonight while I wait for PW to arrive from Boston! And whilst waiting for PW, I am going to do fun Friday-night activities such as laundry! and taxes! and sorting through mail from the past week since I haven't been home since Monday! and doing dishes! and buying food! and settling up the bill with Roommate!
It's all good, because the next two weeks are going to be non-stop.
And then I go to Orlando to "meet the family."
And then, around May, I can get some sleep.
I feel slightly more like my normal self.
Most likely because I have arrived at work exhausted, recovering from an exciting and bizarre New York night.
It is so nice to be reacquainted.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The night began with a burrito, followed by a bonus movie class. Before the class, the professor said "Are any of you journalists?" and told us not to write about what happened.
Now.
Does a blog count? It is published writing, so I feel like I shouldn't write about it.
This being said, I think its acceptable to write about things very vaguely and then in the summer, when this movie is released, I can reveal all!
Basically, we got to screen a rough cut of a film from a very famous director, who is old and adorable and who wanted to screen the film to an audience of film-goers and film-lovers, not critics. He wanted to see how the film played, if laughs came in the right places, if the audience responded as intended, if we understood what was going on.
The movie itself was amazing. It far exceeded my expectations, not because I didn't have faith in the director but because I, like everyone there, lacked faith in his main casting choice. It ended up being a non-issue. The movie was charming and riveting and enjoyable. I will recommend it to you when its actually out.
Hearing a director talk about his movie mid-process was an interesting experience. I kept wondering if he felt at all insecure, what he must have been feeling while we watched the movie, how disappointing it must be for people to watch bad movies they've made.
I like feeling like I am protecting secret information.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
After class I went to meet my friend DD at a bar called 12'' in the East Village. As soon as I walked in there, I recognized someone.
Those of you who know me might remember how I stumbled upon a stalker's dream on Friendster last year, when I found a link to a website/blog kept by a Dude I went to middle school with. This website is a photoblog chronicling the past few years, during which this Dude documented a variety of activities involving people I went to high school with.
If you know me, you also know that I suffer from a serious disconnect from high school. Prior to encountering this website, it felt like fiction to me. Almost as though it never happened, since it had no impact on the person I became. Seeing these people - seeing that they are still together and that they still have something - was a huge mind fuck for me. I went nuts and wrote songs and thought things like "Why did I disconnect? Do I want this? Do I want a reliable entourage? Do I want a posse comprised of people I can count on? Why don't I have a group? Why don't I care about these sorts of things? Why does my past make me so uncomfortable?"
In a way I was jealous of them. I was jealous of their having something old and comfortable and a given. I was jealous that they've found new lives but still preserve the old. I was jealous of their adventures. And, most importantly, I was jealous of this Dude's blog. But not super jealous, because he does techy things for a living.
Anyway, long story longer, I walked into this bar last night and saw this Dude's brother. Not that I ever met his brother in real life. No, folks, I recognized him from the photos on the blog.
I also know, from the blog, that these two travel as a pair, so I knew it wasn't long before Dude appeared.
I should also say that I am not surprised by any of this, since I knew that Dude hosts parties in the East Village often. I guess I knew it was only a matter of time.
Meanwhile, I pounded my Mad Dog cosmopolitan while I hung out with DD and D, who was having vertigo and also making no sense because he can't hear well, and the music was loud, and he rarely goes out to bars because he can't have conversations with people because he can't hear them, but tries so hard to be part of things.
Soon Dude appeared and I acted very surprised! and what are you doing here! and wow this is weird!!! I basically pretended like I had no idea what he was doing in NYC, and asked things like "Where do you live?" even though I know his apartment is a few blocks away and know what it looks like because there are pictures of it on his website and "What do you do?" even though I know he owns his own company and I know what it does and I know he's teaching courses at NYU.
Awkward. He shook D's hand and acted friendly. We didn't talk for long, because he knew everyone there and because I was having an existential crisis.
I eventually ended up sitting along the wall with D, who I tried to make feel secure - why does alcohol make people so insecure? - and DD, who I danced with while seated, and DD's friend, who looked just like Tommy Lee (!) and who was DJ-ing a bit that night.
It felt good to be out. To talk to people. To have conversations. I took Dude's card and emailed him today, asking to be put on the mailing list for his functions. Maybe I'll actually make some friends.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
At around 12:15 we headed over to Rothko, where we saw Diplo spin. That was the whole point of the evening. The drinking and existential crises delayed our getting there, so we only stayed for about an hour or so.
It was awesome. Again, it felt good to be out and to be dancing! It's been too long.
He's quite good. Lots of reggae and hip hop and Ah-Ha.
Only downside was that it was smokey, and I smell smoke-y today because I stayed at D's and am wearing the same black hoodey and jeans I wore last night. Gross, I know, but D lives a 4 minute walk from work and obviously I wasn't going to go back to Brooklyn after the show when I could take a 3-minute-cab to his apartment and get an extra hour of sleep the following morning.
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I am exhausted, but in a lovely and familiar way.
The way in which you know fun was had and the exhaustion is worth it.
I can recover tonight while I wait for PW to arrive from Boston! And whilst waiting for PW, I am going to do fun Friday-night activities such as laundry! and taxes! and sorting through mail from the past week since I haven't been home since Monday! and doing dishes! and buying food! and settling up the bill with Roommate!
It's all good, because the next two weeks are going to be non-stop.
And then I go to Orlando to "meet the family."
And then, around May, I can get some sleep.
Thursday, March 10, 2005
Comedy
I went to see Bench Buddy do a standup comedy open mic last night.
I was expecting for people to be not-very-funny, but, like the open mic I did, everyone was really good.
Well, not everyone, but I'd say 75% of the people were really funny.
It was a pleasant surprise.
I actually enjoyed myself. I thought it was going to be like attending a kid's 5th grade band concert, writhing in agony while convinced that your kid is absolutely brilliant.
I suppose its not surprising that there are actually good standup comics lurking about in obscurity in NYC.
Bench Buddy was funny. It was interesting to see him on stage. The beauty of his everyday humor is that it's subtle, observational, and understated. He's mellow and low key. His comedian persona, however, was enthusiastic and happy and spastic and wow!!!
A good portion of the comedians had routines that revolved around their weight, having lost insane amounts of weight, needing to lose weight, etc.
It just seemed like an unusually high percentage of people who had lost weight. I'm talking 100's and 100's of pounds. The comedians who weren't going to talk about weight ended up talking about it anyway, because everyone else was and that's funny.
Then I wondered - is there a correlation between weight and humor?
Did I overcompensate for my childhood scrawniness and comprehensive lack of athletic ability by studying too much?
Is there a similar trait that causes someone to become the class clown?
Hmmmm.
Regardless, fun was had. He's going to do it again in a couple of weeks.
Additionally, D, inspired by Bench Buddy's performance, has decided to become a standup comedian. He has taken to carrying around a little black spiral-bound notebook labeled "JOKES" with yellow lab tape. Every five seconds he pulls it out and scribbles something frantically, and then starts laughing.
I had to say "You know, when you get up there, it's probably not awesome to like laugh hysterically at your own jokes."
He's trying to figure out his persona, his vibe.
I am excited for him. I love being around people who are inspired. He's punchy and lively and thrilled with life right now. He's obsessed and driven. I am jealous. I can't wait for the Bench Buddy / D double bill in two weeks.
And, I love New York and that the people here are wicked funny.
I was expecting for people to be not-very-funny, but, like the open mic I did, everyone was really good.
Well, not everyone, but I'd say 75% of the people were really funny.
It was a pleasant surprise.
I actually enjoyed myself. I thought it was going to be like attending a kid's 5th grade band concert, writhing in agony while convinced that your kid is absolutely brilliant.
I suppose its not surprising that there are actually good standup comics lurking about in obscurity in NYC.
Bench Buddy was funny. It was interesting to see him on stage. The beauty of his everyday humor is that it's subtle, observational, and understated. He's mellow and low key. His comedian persona, however, was enthusiastic and happy and spastic and wow!!!
A good portion of the comedians had routines that revolved around their weight, having lost insane amounts of weight, needing to lose weight, etc.
It just seemed like an unusually high percentage of people who had lost weight. I'm talking 100's and 100's of pounds. The comedians who weren't going to talk about weight ended up talking about it anyway, because everyone else was and that's funny.
Then I wondered - is there a correlation between weight and humor?
Did I overcompensate for my childhood scrawniness and comprehensive lack of athletic ability by studying too much?
Is there a similar trait that causes someone to become the class clown?
Hmmmm.
Regardless, fun was had. He's going to do it again in a couple of weeks.
Additionally, D, inspired by Bench Buddy's performance, has decided to become a standup comedian. He has taken to carrying around a little black spiral-bound notebook labeled "JOKES" with yellow lab tape. Every five seconds he pulls it out and scribbles something frantically, and then starts laughing.
I had to say "You know, when you get up there, it's probably not awesome to like laugh hysterically at your own jokes."
He's trying to figure out his persona, his vibe.
I am excited for him. I love being around people who are inspired. He's punchy and lively and thrilled with life right now. He's obsessed and driven. I am jealous. I can't wait for the Bench Buddy / D double bill in two weeks.
And, I love New York and that the people here are wicked funny.
Wednesday, March 09, 2005
Last night....
... I had this dream, in which I was walking to class in the snow. It was snowing so hard. The city was a sheet of ice. Per usual, I was dressed inappropriately and wearing chucks in the dead of winter. I kept slipping around. The wind was fierce. People were being blown over, dropping to my left and right. At one point the wind was so fierce that it actually dragged me across the ice and almost into the road. I held onto a traffic light for dear life for a few moments while the wind gusted.
I finally arrived at the class, which was being held at this giant theater with red velvet curtains and balconies. Very fancy. I waited in a long line populated by various society folk wearing fur coats and finally found my way to a seat. I looked across the aisle, and realized I was sitting across from Michael Imperioli from The Sopranos. He looked just like he looks on TV and in the movies. I kept having thoughts like "I should say something to him, and then we can be friends, and then someday our kids can play together and they can share Italian American traditions. How lovely would that be!"
While trying not to stare, I realized that he was seated next to Warren Beatty. No - wait - it wasn't Warren Beatty, but he looked a lot like Warren Beatty. I kept thinking "I somehow know this man who is not Warren Beatty, but who is he?"
It finally occurred to me that it was John Shea, the actor who played Lex Luther on the early 90's TV sensation Lois and Clark, which is one of my favorite shows of all time. Comics and Teri Hatcher - does life get any better? I kept having thoughts like "I should say something to him, and tell him how much I loved Lois and Clark and how I loved the complexity he brought to Lex Luther." Instead I said nothing and tried not to stare, and waited patiently for class to begin.
Class began pompously. The professor said that he'd had dinner with Dr. Ruth earlier in the week, and that she'd told him to "warm up the crowd" by telling a joke. He told Dr. Ruth's joke, which was actually quite funny, and then gave a brief history of "the movies," which included various anecdotes about Edison and nickelodeons and Hollywoodland.
We watched a movie, and at the end, the professor reappeared and said "Well, I have to say, I think Dr. Ruth's joke really set the tone for the evening and for the entire class, and we should thank her!"
Dr. Ruth then appeared from behind the red velvet curtains, carrying a dozen red roses. All 4 feet and 8 inches of her looked adorable in her hot pink suit.
She said, in her unmistakable Dr. Ruth accent, "I haff to commend you all - for coming outtt in the vind and snow on suchh an awfful nightt - I promisss you that you will all haf GREAT SEX for the rest of your lives!"
I then went back out into the snow, where my Spidey Sense started tingling. A man approached me on the street and said "Hi!" and I said "Hello," and kept walking. He stopped and said "Come on, baby, can't I come home with you to warm you up?" I kept walking, not looking back, but I could tell that he was following me. He eventually gave up and turned around, which was good, because I didn't want the dream to end in violence.
Then I woke up.
Not really.
Then I got to D's and said "What a freaking weird night."
Weird night, eh? Ah, New York.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Incidentally, the movie we saw was called "In My Country" and starred Juliette Binoche and Samuel L. Jackson in a story that follows two journalists as they experience the post-apartheid Reconciliation, a series of trials in which those who committed atrocities confronted their victims and were then granted amnesty.
Conceptually interesting - I didn't even know that these trials happened.
Instead of actually being interesting, though, it resorted to awful cliches and romance and didn't have the depth that a story that takes place during this time should have.
Additionally, I had a really hard time with some of the South African accents. Some of them were good, but I couldn't understand some of the people. They didn't sound South African. Juliette Binoche's accent sounded like a combination of Scottish and Russian.
Please do not see it.
Thank you.
I finally arrived at the class, which was being held at this giant theater with red velvet curtains and balconies. Very fancy. I waited in a long line populated by various society folk wearing fur coats and finally found my way to a seat. I looked across the aisle, and realized I was sitting across from Michael Imperioli from The Sopranos. He looked just like he looks on TV and in the movies. I kept having thoughts like "I should say something to him, and then we can be friends, and then someday our kids can play together and they can share Italian American traditions. How lovely would that be!"
While trying not to stare, I realized that he was seated next to Warren Beatty. No - wait - it wasn't Warren Beatty, but he looked a lot like Warren Beatty. I kept thinking "I somehow know this man who is not Warren Beatty, but who is he?"
It finally occurred to me that it was John Shea, the actor who played Lex Luther on the early 90's TV sensation Lois and Clark, which is one of my favorite shows of all time. Comics and Teri Hatcher - does life get any better? I kept having thoughts like "I should say something to him, and tell him how much I loved Lois and Clark and how I loved the complexity he brought to Lex Luther." Instead I said nothing and tried not to stare, and waited patiently for class to begin.
Class began pompously. The professor said that he'd had dinner with Dr. Ruth earlier in the week, and that she'd told him to "warm up the crowd" by telling a joke. He told Dr. Ruth's joke, which was actually quite funny, and then gave a brief history of "the movies," which included various anecdotes about Edison and nickelodeons and Hollywoodland.
We watched a movie, and at the end, the professor reappeared and said "Well, I have to say, I think Dr. Ruth's joke really set the tone for the evening and for the entire class, and we should thank her!"
Dr. Ruth then appeared from behind the red velvet curtains, carrying a dozen red roses. All 4 feet and 8 inches of her looked adorable in her hot pink suit.
She said, in her unmistakable Dr. Ruth accent, "I haff to commend you all - for coming outtt in the vind and snow on suchh an awfful nightt - I promisss you that you will all haf GREAT SEX for the rest of your lives!"
I then went back out into the snow, where my Spidey Sense started tingling. A man approached me on the street and said "Hi!" and I said "Hello," and kept walking. He stopped and said "Come on, baby, can't I come home with you to warm you up?" I kept walking, not looking back, but I could tell that he was following me. He eventually gave up and turned around, which was good, because I didn't want the dream to end in violence.
Then I woke up.
Not really.
Then I got to D's and said "What a freaking weird night."
Weird night, eh? Ah, New York.
----------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Incidentally, the movie we saw was called "In My Country" and starred Juliette Binoche and Samuel L. Jackson in a story that follows two journalists as they experience the post-apartheid Reconciliation, a series of trials in which those who committed atrocities confronted their victims and were then granted amnesty.
Conceptually interesting - I didn't even know that these trials happened.
Instead of actually being interesting, though, it resorted to awful cliches and romance and didn't have the depth that a story that takes place during this time should have.
Additionally, I had a really hard time with some of the South African accents. Some of them were good, but I couldn't understand some of the people. They didn't sound South African. Juliette Binoche's accent sounded like a combination of Scottish and Russian.
Please do not see it.
Thank you.
A Very Bagel Special
Hello all.
I am swamped at work and haven't had time yet to tell you about my fabulous weekend with M and A, who visited yet again from Worcester! They are such great friends, and always bring thoughtful little gifts. This time they brought me hot fudge from Friendly's, which is one of my favorite things on the planet and hard to come by in NYC.
M, who did have time to write about our fabulous weekend, has allowed me to utilize her as a guest writer for the second time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other NYC story
On Sunday, we had big plans. We were going to have brunch, go see the new, free art installation, go to B&H Photo Video, and go to SoHo to buy the lamp that The Husband and I found last December but thought was too expensive. Little did we know that lamps are really expensive, and usually boring. The brunch part was wonderful, but the plans began to go a bit sour on the way to the art exhibit. For although it was only 54 or so degrees outside, the wind made it feel like 20 or something. Plus, I was wearing tall boots because I had on brown pants that require heels. (The Doktah advised against getting them hemmed; she said I should just wear heels. Curse her.) These boots are actually pretty comfy as heels go due to the chunkiness of the heel, but it turns out that I should not wear them two days in a row if I'm doing a lot of walking, because chunky or no, heels are heels.
So we schlepped over to the art installation on very painful ankles (well, I was the only one with painful ankles), and it turns out the art installation was not free. We paid anyway, if only to get out of the cold, because the damn thing was right on the water and the wind was making me miserable. I was not dressed for the weather at all. But it is a temporary structure, so it wasn't much warmer inside. The exhibit consisted of a long hallway of painting after painting of Tibetan people with elephants, birds, or leopards. Each painting was individually quite beautiful, but after a hundred pictures of people with closed eyes posing with elephants, it begins to get repetitive. Plus the fact that every single person had their eyes closed really started to get on my nerves. It's like they were saying, "Oh, look at me, I'm so spiritual and communing with this elephant. Don't you wish you were as deep as I am? Look, I'll meditate right now. Meditating is like second nature to me. Ohhmmm....." At the end of the hallway was a looped film of the same images. The artists had obviously made the film, and then used it as the model for the paintings, so it was even more repetitive. And the film was run in slow motion, to really drive home the deep spirituality of the subjects, which did not add to my enjoyment. And did I mention that it was cold in there? And that it wasn't free?
OK. So we ended up having to skip B&H because things just took too long, and wound up in SoHo where, luckily, the lamp was still for sale, and for $10 less than in December! So we bought it, and asked for one in a box because we had to drive back to Massachusetts with it. It came in a really tall box, and when we hailed a cab to go back to Brooklyn, we discovered it would not fit. Since the L train to Brooklyn was not running, we were forced to walk ten minutes more in the freezing cold on sore ankles, carrying a very cumbersome tall box, and catch the J train over the bridge and then wait and wait for the shuttle, which turned out not to be a "shuttle" so much as a bus because it stopped a lot.
The only thing motivating us was the thought of the awesome bagels we were going to buy from the best bagel store ever, 4 blocks up from Leah Lar's apartment, and then the thought of eating said bagels in the lovely, lovely warmth of the apartment. And also the bathroom.
So The Husband and D headed back to the apartment to get our stuff all packed up, and Leah Lar and I ordered the bagels. I ordered 1 toasted pumpernickel bagel with garlic and herb cream cheese, and 1 toasted sesame bagel with the same cream cheese. Leah Lar ordered 1 toasted everything bagel with plain cream cheese and 1 toasted wheat bagel with garlic and herb cream cheese. I ordered first, and several minutes later the guy who took my order said, "You wanted 1 pumpernickel and 1 sesame, right?" Right. "You wanted them toasted, right?" Right. "You wanted garlic and herb cream cheese, right?" Right.
So when we got back to the apartment, we found the following 4 bagels: 1 toasted everything with plain cream cheese, 1 untoasted wheat with plain cream cheese, and 2 untoasted sesame bagels with olive and red pepper cream cheese. I'll give you a second to go back and check what we ordered.
So D was golden, because they got his right. And Leah Lar was disappointed at the lack of toasting on her wheat bagel, but her order-taker had told her there was no more garlic and herb cream cheese, so she was prepared for that. But as for me and The Husband, I guess my guy was just toying with me with all the double checking.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Incidentally, I would like to point out that as we were leaving the bagel shop, I said to M "I have a very bad feeling about our order." I just had a bad feeling. And I was right, dammit! I am mad, but not mad enough to never order bagels there again, because they are fabulous bagels when prepared correctly.
I'd also like to add that the structure that housed the exhibit is a nomadic museum constructed mostly out of recyclable and reuseable material. Very impressive and regal.
Here is information about the architect:
http://www.time.com/time/innovators/design/profile_ban.html
I didn't like the exhibit. One photo, fine. 100? Not fine. It was a redundant collection and really distracted from the museum.
Here is the link to the exhibit:
http://ashesandsnow.org/home.html
The fact that it was freezing didn't help. Perhaps I'd have enjoyed it more had the weather been better.
This is M's account of Sunday. On Saturday night, we saw a play called After Ashley that features Kieran Culkin (who I thought was amazing; M and A didn't think so and M was bothered by his hair), Anna Paquin (who we all agreed was unbearably bad and was trying real hard to act) and the guy who played Miles on Murphy Brown. I really liked the play, although I felt that it only scraped the surface of the themes it tried to explore.
http://www.vineyardtheatre.org/AfterAshley.html
M told me this weekend how to make these links clickable, but I've already forgotten. Sorry, readers, for making you primitively copy and paste these links.
After the play we went for drinks at Antique Lounge, which is lovely because it is three blocks from my apartment and because they give you animal themed snacks, such as Goldfish and Animal Crackers, in martini glasses.
We were going to have ice cream with Friendly's hot fudge afterwards, but because we are old, we went to bed instead.
Stay tuned for the futher adventures of M and A in NYC!
I am swamped at work and haven't had time yet to tell you about my fabulous weekend with M and A, who visited yet again from Worcester! They are such great friends, and always bring thoughtful little gifts. This time they brought me hot fudge from Friendly's, which is one of my favorite things on the planet and hard to come by in NYC.
M, who did have time to write about our fabulous weekend, has allowed me to utilize her as a guest writer for the second time.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
The other NYC story
On Sunday, we had big plans. We were going to have brunch, go see the new, free art installation, go to B&H Photo Video, and go to SoHo to buy the lamp that The Husband and I found last December but thought was too expensive. Little did we know that lamps are really expensive, and usually boring. The brunch part was wonderful, but the plans began to go a bit sour on the way to the art exhibit. For although it was only 54 or so degrees outside, the wind made it feel like 20 or something. Plus, I was wearing tall boots because I had on brown pants that require heels. (The Doktah advised against getting them hemmed; she said I should just wear heels. Curse her.) These boots are actually pretty comfy as heels go due to the chunkiness of the heel, but it turns out that I should not wear them two days in a row if I'm doing a lot of walking, because chunky or no, heels are heels.
So we schlepped over to the art installation on very painful ankles (well, I was the only one with painful ankles), and it turns out the art installation was not free. We paid anyway, if only to get out of the cold, because the damn thing was right on the water and the wind was making me miserable. I was not dressed for the weather at all. But it is a temporary structure, so it wasn't much warmer inside. The exhibit consisted of a long hallway of painting after painting of Tibetan people with elephants, birds, or leopards. Each painting was individually quite beautiful, but after a hundred pictures of people with closed eyes posing with elephants, it begins to get repetitive. Plus the fact that every single person had their eyes closed really started to get on my nerves. It's like they were saying, "Oh, look at me, I'm so spiritual and communing with this elephant. Don't you wish you were as deep as I am? Look, I'll meditate right now. Meditating is like second nature to me. Ohhmmm....." At the end of the hallway was a looped film of the same images. The artists had obviously made the film, and then used it as the model for the paintings, so it was even more repetitive. And the film was run in slow motion, to really drive home the deep spirituality of the subjects, which did not add to my enjoyment. And did I mention that it was cold in there? And that it wasn't free?
OK. So we ended up having to skip B&H because things just took too long, and wound up in SoHo where, luckily, the lamp was still for sale, and for $10 less than in December! So we bought it, and asked for one in a box because we had to drive back to Massachusetts with it. It came in a really tall box, and when we hailed a cab to go back to Brooklyn, we discovered it would not fit. Since the L train to Brooklyn was not running, we were forced to walk ten minutes more in the freezing cold on sore ankles, carrying a very cumbersome tall box, and catch the J train over the bridge and then wait and wait for the shuttle, which turned out not to be a "shuttle" so much as a bus because it stopped a lot.
The only thing motivating us was the thought of the awesome bagels we were going to buy from the best bagel store ever, 4 blocks up from Leah Lar's apartment, and then the thought of eating said bagels in the lovely, lovely warmth of the apartment. And also the bathroom.
So The Husband and D headed back to the apartment to get our stuff all packed up, and Leah Lar and I ordered the bagels. I ordered 1 toasted pumpernickel bagel with garlic and herb cream cheese, and 1 toasted sesame bagel with the same cream cheese. Leah Lar ordered 1 toasted everything bagel with plain cream cheese and 1 toasted wheat bagel with garlic and herb cream cheese. I ordered first, and several minutes later the guy who took my order said, "You wanted 1 pumpernickel and 1 sesame, right?" Right. "You wanted them toasted, right?" Right. "You wanted garlic and herb cream cheese, right?" Right.
So when we got back to the apartment, we found the following 4 bagels: 1 toasted everything with plain cream cheese, 1 untoasted wheat with plain cream cheese, and 2 untoasted sesame bagels with olive and red pepper cream cheese. I'll give you a second to go back and check what we ordered.
So D was golden, because they got his right. And Leah Lar was disappointed at the lack of toasting on her wheat bagel, but her order-taker had told her there was no more garlic and herb cream cheese, so she was prepared for that. But as for me and The Husband, I guess my guy was just toying with me with all the double checking.
------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Incidentally, I would like to point out that as we were leaving the bagel shop, I said to M "I have a very bad feeling about our order." I just had a bad feeling. And I was right, dammit! I am mad, but not mad enough to never order bagels there again, because they are fabulous bagels when prepared correctly.
I'd also like to add that the structure that housed the exhibit is a nomadic museum constructed mostly out of recyclable and reuseable material. Very impressive and regal.
Here is information about the architect:
http://www.time.com/time/innovators/design/profile_ban.html
I didn't like the exhibit. One photo, fine. 100? Not fine. It was a redundant collection and really distracted from the museum.
Here is the link to the exhibit:
http://ashesandsnow.org/home.html
The fact that it was freezing didn't help. Perhaps I'd have enjoyed it more had the weather been better.
This is M's account of Sunday. On Saturday night, we saw a play called After Ashley that features Kieran Culkin (who I thought was amazing; M and A didn't think so and M was bothered by his hair), Anna Paquin (who we all agreed was unbearably bad and was trying real hard to act) and the guy who played Miles on Murphy Brown. I really liked the play, although I felt that it only scraped the surface of the themes it tried to explore.
http://www.vineyardtheatre.org/AfterAshley.html
M told me this weekend how to make these links clickable, but I've already forgotten. Sorry, readers, for making you primitively copy and paste these links.
After the play we went for drinks at Antique Lounge, which is lovely because it is three blocks from my apartment and because they give you animal themed snacks, such as Goldfish and Animal Crackers, in martini glasses.
We were going to have ice cream with Friendly's hot fudge afterwards, but because we are old, we went to bed instead.
Stay tuned for the futher adventures of M and A in NYC!
Tuesday, March 08, 2005
Eminem
Bench Buddy is doing a standup comedy open mic tomorrow night and I am giddy. I am hoping to catch him, as I have Expensive Haircut #2 tomorrow night that will rectify the abomination that is Expensive Haircut #1.
We were just talking about it, and he said "Hey, did you ever find out about the open mic at Cafe Vivaldi?" to which I responded "No, well, I'm just not ready yet. Maybe someday soon, but not yet."
He said "I'll have to, like, secretly look into it..."
Then he got really excited and said "You'll be just like Eminem in '8 Mile!' I'll go and secretly sign you up for the battle and you'll be thrown into the fire and then you'll kick ass..." Then he started performing excerpts from the battles.
I said "Yes, Bench Buddy, I am just like Eminem."
I never thought I'd ever be compared to Eminem. In some weird way, it actually did motivate me. Someone said that "8 Mile" is the "Karate Kid" of the new millennium, and they were right.
And Bench Buddy is my own personal Mr. Miyagi.
Yes, I am inspired.
We were just talking about it, and he said "Hey, did you ever find out about the open mic at Cafe Vivaldi?" to which I responded "No, well, I'm just not ready yet. Maybe someday soon, but not yet."
He said "I'll have to, like, secretly look into it..."
Then he got really excited and said "You'll be just like Eminem in '8 Mile!' I'll go and secretly sign you up for the battle and you'll be thrown into the fire and then you'll kick ass..." Then he started performing excerpts from the battles.
I said "Yes, Bench Buddy, I am just like Eminem."
I never thought I'd ever be compared to Eminem. In some weird way, it actually did motivate me. Someone said that "8 Mile" is the "Karate Kid" of the new millennium, and they were right.
And Bench Buddy is my own personal Mr. Miyagi.
Yes, I am inspired.
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