Monday, October 31, 2005
Happy Halloween!
Clearly they got more out of it than I. (You did well for yourselves, J.)
Spook
Big night, if you're into this sort of thing. At the insistence of several coworkers ("you've gotta do it once!"), I swung by--"but just for 20 minutes or so." Pretty entertaining, even if my brand of photography leaves something to be desired.
Sunday, October 30, 2005
My blog is worth $2,822.70.
How much is your blog worth?
Saturday, October 29, 2005
3:53:02
Rewind seven days. Absent the usual frenzy fueled by *oh eff, the alarm didn't go off!?* and such, our journey to LGA went off w/o a hitch--peaceable and smooth. We arrived a good deal early, beating even the ever-timely-to-the-point-of-ridiculous Pa, who was en route on a bus from JFK.
An hour later found us on the smallest aircraft I've flown, maybe a 60-seater. The flight to Buffalo was noisy and uncomfy, but at an hour long, doable. From Buff we took a pricey cab to the town of Niagara Falls, which is the trappiest tourist trap I've seen in awhile. (I'd argue that gift shop magnet selection is a strong indicator, and believe you me, what I saw was expansive. Further testament, there's a Planet Hollywood and a Hard Rock, and NF is not a large place.) Lengthening the downside was the fact that it came down in sheets all day Saturday, making leisurely exploration a little less attractive. At least the day was clear enough, permitting incredible views of the falls. The only thing that stood in the way of 100 percent clarity was the smoke-like mist that jets up from the base, which in itself is a pretty cool sight.
We took a shuttle to the race-sponsored expo, where Pea modeled his first article of winter running gear.
From there it was on to dinner--for Pops and I, Pea had to hit the books--where preparatory carbs were consumed by the truckful. Sadly, Hard Rock delivered them.
The next morning...
Dressed (painstakingly, always painstakingly, for as all runners know, tights vs. shorts and long sleeves vs. short sleeves and cap vs. no cap makes all the difference in the world), loaded up (bib, timing chip, ample Gu), and theoretically ready for action, we boarded a bus that would shuttle us to the starting line. The race, see, started in downtown Buffalo and finished in Niagara Falls, CAN. It's one of only a couple of races of its kind. Supposedly there's one in Detroit w/ the same idea (heard of it, Mendy?). This year the holding area was a modern art gallery in Buff, which if I'd been less on-edge I would have been able to enjoy. I was lucky enough to catch sight of an especially-close-to-my-heart Mondrian painting, and this I decided to consider a good omen.
The gun went off right at 10:00, and this is roughly what followed. Clearly, the breakdown is more for my sake than anyone else's.
Miles 1-5: Too fast. Went out too fast. Pa and I had decided on an approx 8:20/mile pace, needing an average of 8:23/mile to re-qualify for Boston. Instead, these miles averaged around 8:08, mostly courtesy of the adrenaline factor, fellow overeager participants, and a tendency to inadvertently pick up the pace when the two of us are running together. During these miles, I felt strong enough, yet I recall an anxious twinge, an early inkling that this wasn't a pace I'd be able to keep up. We repeatedly encouraged one another to slow down, slow down, but the pace remained fairly constant.
Miles 6-10: I think this stretch was my strongest. I had my first Gu around 6, which always gives me a helpful lift. We continued at a faster clip than planned, although I believe we'd slowed to around 8:20. Still, knowing we had more than a couple of minutes in the bank felt good mentally. I remember thinking how fast the miles were ticking by... Oh, "Eye of the Tiger" may have begun streaming through my head at this point. (I could have done worse, and in fact, I did later on.) Unusually, surrounding chatter was kept to a minimum. (Typically runners blather on through at least the first eight miles or so, Pa and I included. I don't know though, the silence almost made us self-conscious, like talking wouldn't be appreciated. So we basically followed suit, which actually didn't bother me too much, considering I was mentally at ease.)
Miles 11-15: My body started talking to me--you're pushing me, girl--at around 12. This was nervewracking considering we hadn't even hit the half-marathon mark yet, but I remained strangely positive. This was also the point at which I knew ol' Pops* had more in him than I, and I repeatedly said as much. Honestly, my mind would've messed w/ me to no end if I'd contined to worry that he was slowing to my pace (by 13 it was gaining on 8:30, by 15 I'd heard *8:39* and these numbers hit me hard, as it hadn't felt like a 8:39 mile, but more like a sub-8:30), so off he went, leaving me to calculate where I was at. (He's got the fancy watch. Mine's less than.) Speaking of calculating, something interesting happens during distance running: The left brain loses out. Especially where numbers are involved, I've found--and this is supported by research I did for the RW story (it's submitted! the rough has been submitted! now my breath holds)--that it's terribly difficult to perform simple arithmetic. Diving total time by miles run, for instance, proves near impossible. Incidentally, I've found the difficulty to be a welcome distraction from the physical pain of the sport. So um, I believe "She's Got the Look" was the song of this stretch. Also some little diddy I made up as I went, "on the wire" being a few of the words, whatever that means. Total nonsense. Weird sport, this one.
Miles 16-20: Things started feeling break-y. This was the stretch during which I began envisioning myself as a marionette, my legs attached to strings lifted and lowered effortlessly from above. It was the first time I'd applied this technique, and it may have helped some. This was a segment (latter part) during which I started trading leads w/ the same few runners--although I think my pace was more or less consistent. One of them would speed up and pass me, only to fall back a few minutes later. Repeat. Repeat. It can be mentally comforting, seeing the same people mile after mile, especially toward the end of a long race, and I feel like I get to know these runners on an almost intimate level. Anyhow, although I'd started hurting a great deal--breathing was fine, legs/ankles were not--I had this recurring thought, acknowledging that regardless of my significantly slowed pace, regardless of the fact that Boston was probably out of reach, the miles were still passing at a decent rate, and I knew, knew I would cross that line w/o too much problem. Even during some of my best marathons, that kind of resolution is uncommon. As for the song of the moment, somewhere in here Stacy Q reared up, which was annoying, although less so than the boombox blaring "Barbie Girl" at one of the aid stations along the way. Ill-timed and unfortunate.
Miles 21-26: Ah, the race inside the race. Some runners speak of marathons as two separate races: the first 20 and the last 6(.2). I tend to agree, although in the past the break has occurred at closer to 22. This time, though, I'd say the worst of it started at around 19, continuing through to the finish, save maybe a small lift around 21. My pace had slowed ridiculously, to the point where I likely could have walked faster than I was running. But I refuse to walk during races, Boston 2004 being another one of those exceptions to beat all exceptions. Anyway, it was here that time started stopping, miles really dragging by. I believe I confronted the usual "why is it again that I run these again?" during this stretch, although it may have been back in the 16-20 range. I didn't dwell, as frankly there's no way a lady can come up w/ a sensible answer to such a question in the final quarter of a marathon. I recall mourning my lack of adequate training, the previous two months filled w/ excuses for shortening long runs and skipping days altogether, laughing at myself for the earlier thought that maybe, just maybe, I'm one of those people who can skate by w/ minimal training, and come race day, simply pull out all the stops and succeed. (I ran w/ a woman at SPU who fits this description, and I'm now further convinced of the rarity of her breed.) At any rate, at around 23.5 I was fixating, anticipating the final two miles, allegedly all downhill. Well, the 24 marker came and went, no hill in sight. I forged ahead, questioning two different people as to when the hell it was due. Just up ahead, almost there, I heard, but I had my doubts. Thing is, at this late point in the race, a downgrade was unlikely to help all that much. Still, I'd been expecting it.
Once my ankles had started acting up (new to me), I did my best to roll them around, to stretch them while running, and while it may have helped a little, they were still pretty shot those last kilometers. I neared the finish line, eyes scanning the crowd for Pea, and did my best to kick a bit, but I gotta tell ya, I didn't have much. Spotting Pea, I grimaced for the camera, then slowing to a walk as I finally cleared the banner overhead. My time was disappointing, but as I'd already come to terms w/ it, I felt ok. Mentally ok. Physically, no. I felt two giant growing pains throb through my legs (just like those pains, just like 'em) and I couldn't help but cry a little. This was absolutely an effect of incomplete training, as I've never before felt anything like it. A hot shower, an overdose of Ibuprofin, and a large meal later, what I can only call a runner's high took over. There came the reminder.
*RLE ran an excellent race, a result well-deserved, and indication that proper training begets success, even if you're old.
Little of this, little of that
Fancy squash.
Perusing Union Square Green Market.
Still at Union Square Green Market.
Clearly my boyfriend has eating issues. (This is as far as he got.)
Great new (& cheap) brunch locale. We deserved this laidback morning (vanilla milkshake & extra cheese included) more than I can possibly express. I don't much feel like writing about the new job, but as I mentioned, it's been rather hellish. I don't care how much $$ I'm making; it's not worth 10-hour days/shot evenings. If I don't have the post-work energy to make a little fun... Also, there's the fact that we're staring a pretty dire sublet situation in the face. Without going into grave detail (we'll save that for the memoirs, S!), in the last couple of weeks, we've learned that a) we walked into a sublet once removed (dude who's subletting to us is subletting from another); b) not a cent of our prepaid rent has yet to make it into landlord-hands; c) our neighbor, guy who's handling the sublet logistics for his friend (leaseholder who's really not) is, along w/ said leaseholder, is making a good deal of $$ off us (the apt, clearly in a rent-stabilized complex, is valued at a mere $850/month); d) by default, we *owe* over $900 in back bills to ConEd, and if the bill isn't taken care of yesterday, off goes the power (it's almost November, blankets shmankets); and e) if we don't get out soon, we may find ourselves enmeshed in some pretty icky legal proceedings (no, we didn't open his mail, we simply held it up to the window). There's more, but that's the gist of it.
So as I said, a drawn-out brunch was justified. Not that we talked about much outside of the above... Anyhow, a dear and resourceful friend will be consulted in depth later tonight. By tomorrow our game plan should be clear. Go team! Wish us luck, folks.
Jennifer Garner, the latest addition to the family and a recent Chinatown purchase. Thanks, N, for your means.
The Visitors
Rewind eight days. Friends N-bug and Kari were in town, and by twisting fate, I was able to spend all of Friday in their fine company. The adventure started at the none-too-early hour of noon o'clock, but hey, we'd been up late nursing an eye infection (Kari's). That's right. Three in the a.m. found N and I camped out in the lobby, waiting while a distraught K got her pretty blue peeper poked and prodded by some newbie doc who had to keep consulting w/ his vetted overseer *just to be sure.* Presumably the overnight shift sees a lot of this.
So Kari, trooper that she is, toughed it out the next day, aided by a low-brimmed hat, a hot pair of shades, and hourly rounds of drops. We went for dim sum in Chinatown, where I relied wholly on N to distinguish one fried ball-o-meat from the next. (The ignorance!) I learned the name of my favorite d/s dish, which of course evades me now, but I know it involves shrimp and a rice-y wrapper. Shrimps in a pouch, basically. Anyway, we hit the streets w/ full, grease-slicked tummies, and short of a cup of coffee, we were rarin' to go. Up and down the streets of CT and Soho we wandered, dropping in at the occasional *Lucky Shops Here* boutique, admiring the wares of friendly vendors lining Spring and Prince, chatting all the while. We eventually made our way to the West Village, where we ate Greek for dinner and grabbed beers at an adorable little Jane Street pub. We wedged a good deal of conversation into the day, which w/ these ladies, is a must. The headier topics typically arise sooner or later, dialogue fueled by our disparate viewpoints socially and politically, something that's hardly been an obstacle to good, solid friendship. I love you both.
I gave my hugs early the next morning, as it was off to LGA...
Friday, October 28, 2005
At least there's sleep
In short, my initiation into Corp Amer is proving more tedious than I'd imagined. Nooooo time. None. But I'll make some this w/e, dangit.
M suggested I post the following rejection. (I'm still hunting.)
Dear Closed Restaurant,
My beau and I (no, we’re not French) recently moved to New York City from Seattle. Wretched humidity and smelly F train notwithstanding, we really like it here. The history, the culture, the arts scene, the nightlife... The hare to Seattle's tortoise, you might say.
But notice how I left "food" off the list? Your fault. With the barring of your doors and the slapping up of that "closed for renvations (sic), reopen in three weeks" sign, you ruined food for me, or in the very least, dinner. You also lied, but we'll get to that later.
I discovered you about a month after moving into my Gramercy Park sublet. What a find you were! Granted--and don't take this personally--your interior decorator should have been relegated to coat closets, or maybe grade school cafeterias considering his/her fondness for bench seating and laminated particle board, but it's not like you were jonesing for a shout-out in Dwell, so who cared about that god-awful fluorescent lighting. Not me, not really. No, what really mattered was the food, and by food I mean wings. Buffalo wings, chickens' lives spared. Before you, I'd only sampled the selection at my local supermarket: Morningstar Farms, Gardenburger, you know. The texture of these varieties, though, doesn't feel very good in my mouth. Texture's important, and you had it down. Not only was your "meat" succulent and credible, it had "bones"! What a surprise, the first time I tore into that soy-based conglomerate, the surrounding skin tangy, substantial. Then, what the--? as my vegetarian teeth met a substance hard and--plastic. A fake bone! With that, you had me forever. Fake wings for dinner every night forever. Too bad forever extended all of two weeks. Damn you. Don't get me wrong, it was a fine two weeks. But had I known about your pending departure (temporary my ass), I’d have stuffed myself full of so many "wings"as to induce a permanent wing-aversion. Over you forever. Damn hindsight.
Three weeks came and went. Soon we'd reached the six-week mark, eight weeks, ten, and still no reopen. There was definitely some renovating going on, I give you that, but had I known... oh, damn you! A full three months later, you reopened all right. Only, it wasn't you, but another "charming" Italian restaurant--just what this city needs. Slap on your hand for misleading your devotees with vague, tricky language! "Closed for good, mediocre Italian restaurant-takeover pending" is what that sign should have read.
Since then I've all but given up. A handful of ill-fated attempts have come in the form of glorified fish sticks and stringy, blandly dressed seitan. No tang, no bones, no cred. Dinner, thanks, won't ever live up to the lofty precedent you set. I'm researching. I'll find the people who ran you and I'll have that recipe. Until then, cluck cluck.
Hostility equals love,
Kristen
Wednesday, October 19, 2005
Struck
Tuesday night was Alan Lightman. The reading, which took place at the UWS Barnes, was actually more of an introduction/discussion. It was a moving experience for me, to say the least.
Lightman teamed up w/ two other writers, both whom appear in this, a new anthology edited by AL. Admittedly, my hung-around-the-UWS-maybe-thrice-so-didn't-really-know-where-I-was-going self was a wee bit late, but that's pretty much par for the course, no? Anyway, when I arrived the intros were just concluding, the discussion segment next up. Topics revolved around the value of science writing--what science can bring to writing (and the visual arts), what writing can bring to science, how today's journalists are making science more accessible to a general readership... While all three speakers spoke passionately and optimistically, a couple of audience members tossed out some pretty disparaging remarks, mostly directed toward journalists. Most of these science-writing journalists don't know a damn thing about science was roughly one such remark, which compelled a response from Lightman along the lines of with the right research techniques, general intelligence/writing aptitude, and appropriate enthusiasm, journalists make fine science writers. Damn thing guy also expressed disdain for a perceived shortage of contemporary Americans studying science as a hobby. Which incidentally reminds me of this book. Read it? It's in a league of its own. It's wistful and strange and I recommend it.
Lightman. In short, he's a physicist by trade. He's done plenty of technical science writing, but he's managed to squeeze in a fair amount of fiction, albeit generally w/ a science-y component to it. One of his best known works is Einstein's Dreams, which dukes it out w/ this book for the title of *all-time-absolute-favorite-ever book in the universe.* ED is written so beautifully, w/ such care, that I stumble over words just trying to explain its basic premise. It's too, too good.
Fast forward to the conclusion of the evening: book signing time. I rarely stick around for this, as I figure I can't possibly come up w/ anything unique to say, anything the author hasn't heard a thousand times over. (I know, I know.) But, last night was the exception to end all exceptions. Alan Lightman! Man turned on to me by *Good 'Ol Stoopes,* WWU lib studies prof to whom I'm forever indebted. So I stood in line, a line thankfully short (less freak-out time). As it neared my turn, I felt a knot growing in my stomach, a knot followed by a lump. In my throat. Oh geez, I was totally going to lose it, and I hadn't even spoken to the guy yet. I managed to swallow said lump--just before delivering the most awkward little monologue. I started by interrupting A. He was trying to get my name right at the same time I was trying to express the indelible impact of ED* on my life. Whatever, I suppose it came out alright in the end, jumbled as it was.
And I didn't even cry. Until my back was turned, that is, at which point I lost all self-control. It felt great.
What a perfectly sweet evening.
*I read somewhere that Invisible Dreams by Calvino is similar in format to ED. Or maybe it was some other Calvino book. I love when this happens. (I love both A & C so much.)
I didn't need that last coffee...
We share the floor w/ another company. Their offices are right down the hall from my desk. There's a lady w/ a voice coming from that direction. She's screaming. No, she's SCREAMING. I can't be the only one hearing this, yet no one but me appears fazed. Hmm.
Bestest (and so many I haven't read)
http://www.time.com/time/2005/100books/the_complete_list.html
Tuesday, October 18, 2005
Otherwise, I like it fine
My brain is mush. Or, to lift a phrase of M's, *a gelatinous mass* resembling her adorable little toddler mid-tantrum (induced exclusively by being told that, no, Mommy won't be buying him that cool new set of Matchbox cars from Bartell's).
I blame almost all of it on damn Lotus, too. I hate you, Lo, always & forever.
Monday, October 17, 2005
First day / adapting
Is Lotus Notes good for anything? At all? Me thinks not.
All those floaty little squares... IwanmyOutlookback.
Sunday, October 16, 2005
Color
Pa's coming to visit. (Marathon weekend looms.) He'd planned on staying here, but alas, all full. To any others near & dear to my/our heart who may be considering a trip east but recoil at the prospect of sharing our teensy abode, check it out.
Pretty neat. And really cheap.
Times my ass
Story on how research impacts--and doesn't impact--news coverage.
Friday, October 14, 2005
More gallery
R.I.P, Drink Me Cafe. I was HUGELY excited to be settling in so close to you, but alas, you've gone--from my life and from the lives of your hundreds (dozens?) of once-devoted patrons. Now you're just another stupid, overpriced wine bar. Just what the 'hood needs. How I'll miss your reliable wi-fi, your lukewarm staff, your lively art exhibits, your turkey-brie sammich, your $2 drink special. W/o you, there's nothing. ACE Bar's ok, but it's so dark in there, Drink Me. You were always so well-lit. And since this city frowns on Victrolas and Ladros and Vitas and Ugly Mugs and Bauhauses and Joe Bars and... I'm pretty much screwed. What's that? There's always Starbucks? Ah, you're right!
New stomping ground
More ground
Apt, halfway to perfect. Give us through the weekend...
Wednesday, October 12, 2005
Laundry
Um, parents: They totally dug the little Lou towel-folding anecdote--convincing example of blossoming organizational tendencies.
Really, really dug it. (What haven't I used this before now?)
Nye jobben
They even liked me enough to cut straight to the chase: no temp-to-perm mumbojumbo, but the real thing, baby.
The job: executive assistant to the senior v.p. of investor relations/p.r. Almost entirely administrative in scope, but w/ the potential for writing/editing site content alongside the p.r. dude. Press releases, too. Thing is, none of that matters. I didn't accept the job for its editorial maybes; I accepted it because a) the company values creativity, b) I like the officefolk, and c) it put dollar signs in my eyes. Visible ones. For the first time in my life.
Woe is me, swayed by green. But as I've told a few, it just got to be time. Time to make some means. Time to aptly support the lifestyle I desire, a lifestyle that will enable semi-frequent unagi feasts and museum romps and show-goings and roadtrips to exotic, otherwordly locales (I mean, Pennsylvania) and memberships to here, here, and here. Anyway, I came to realize this: I may not want a 10-7 editorial job after all. I don't now, at least. Because as long as I can summon the energy to write for me, on my own time, that's enough. Plus, it stands to reason that after weeksful of writing godknowswhat for anyoldmagazine, my enthusiasm/vigor for personal writing projects could flag some. Hell, maybe I'd come to detest the writing life. I doubt it, but.
And so begins the next chapter.
I owe you many beers, dear temp agency
I
got
a
job.
Tuesday, October 11, 2005
Why am I just now discovering him?? (Thanks Ma.)
I just finished this, and whoa. Auster's three tales, each equally complex, twist into one another, forming the strangest of mysteries. I finished it this morning, and it's been on my mind since. Something about his writing style makes me question whether I dreamed, not read, his story. A+++.
Mallott: Scratch my comparison to N. Gaiman. Completely different. I spoke too soon...
In color
View from Marcy stop on the JMZ subway line (Brooklyn)
An elderly couple, each devouring their own copy of The Quitter pre-reading. Wife required a little assistance. Cute.
Harvey Pekar and Dean Haspiel. Pekar's voice was predictably raspy, and I have to say, if I'd had to listen for more than an hour... well. He's also predictably awkward, the way he presents. He's fond of "ya know"s and he pauses often. He directed some semi-outrageous jabs at Haspiel, although I didn't get the impression that he thought anything of it/them. Most of the time, Haspiel just smiled. Favorite Pekar line, uttered in response to a woman who asked if he'd ever consider other creative mediums (short stories, novels, et al): "I've got access to the same words Shakespeare did." Ah, the talent in that room.
Nostrand train stop/intersection, Bed-Stuy (home for a week)
B-S has its share of retail.
Sage advice
I would advise every young writer to avoid semicolons.
--Kurt Vonnegut
Monday, October 10, 2005
People
I'm sitting at Yaffa Cafe, a great 24-hour restaurant/bar/coffee shop on St. Marks. (The Baba Ganoush is fantastic. I'm full.) I'm falling asleep in my cappuccino, but it's been awhile, so here's a brief post.
We officially moved to the E.V. today. I love it to no end, hell if our apt is very small w/ bugs. I plan on posting some before and after pics, as in a few days, after will differ vastly from before. Basically, the walls are streaked w/ who knows what, sentences like "revolutionary things aren't realized until after you're dead" are scrawled end to end, some dude's upside-down, dried rose is dangling from a thumbtack... High time for a paint job, yo. I hit up Kmart a bit ago and returned home (home! love how that sounds) w/ a gallon of Dutch Boy *Ethereal* (in other circles, blue) paint and a bunch of cleaning supplies. Being me, I couldn't rest a moment; I had to clean immediately. I would have painted all through the night, too, were it not for a decidedly more sensible beau in close range. So painting will wait until tomorrow.
I'm so excited! (Incidentally, three words I've said waaaaay too many times this evening.) Once those puppies are covered in robin's egg blue, I fear I'll never leave. Size shmize, the space is/will be adorable. Plus, we have the perfect amount of stuff to fill it. Of course, added to what we now have will need to be such staples as eating utensils, a bath mat, and a shower caddy (I feel like I'm in college, dorm room-shopping again), but it's not like we're talking couches. Anyhow, come visit. I want to show it off.
Work...
That crazy, two-day hotel job was just that. Crazy and two days. There were eight of us--five actors, two writers, and an aspiring four-star hotel manager--and our supervisors were rude as hell. Oh well, at least we got to shake hands w/ and listen to Mr. Al Gore address a roomful of million/billionaires. He was quite funny. I mean, really. He's also shorter than I'd imagined.
The whole experience took me back to summer camp. Strangers thrown together, randomly paired off by overseers, the outcome questionable. Stories are shared, common interests and points of departure are established. Sometimes a friendship results, other times it's only about the here-and-now. You just never know. Lucky for me everyone was pretty great, especially this creative writer guy--I'll call him Tim--who moved here a month ago from North Carolina w/ his artist boyfriend. He's currently shopping his first novel around, has written for similar-voiced pubs as I, shares w/ me musical and literary interests... Fantastic. We've already got a few double dates planned, and this Tuesday I'm helping him out at some literary function. Neat.
Tuesday, October 04, 2005
Oh life
Oh dear, where to start? Let's try
Last Wednesday, 7ish: Knowing we had exactly two days to secure our next sublet, we set out to meet the illustrious Ricardi/his East Village apt. For no real reason, hopes soared high. Thirty minutes later they'd begun their descent. Sixty minutes later they were barely hanging on. Forget the reality of a dwelling space smaller than this (because let's be honest w/ myself, elbow room doesn't exist in this city), the fact of the matter was, Ricardi has problems. He's a shameless OCD case, to which I can relate and even admire (shutup), but this was ridiculous. An artist, he is--one that paints. And while his work's not exactly bad, suffice it to say that stealing it wouldn't rank high on my list of worthwhile things to accomplish. Still, R appeared otherwise convinced. Why else would the man demand a security deposit worth more than my right hand? Why else would he require cold hard cash? Ok, my argument's missing the mark, but trust me, he in the very least feared we--we!--would streak the floors/walls/art/books/fish w/ hopeless grime. "So you know, you're gonna need to keep the place pretty clean..." Heard a minimum of three times, swear. Oh, and when my foot came w/in two steps of one of his masterpieces, I think he died and came back to life. It was on the floor! Your apt's 300 square feet! What gives?? Anyway, pardon the rant. I'll stop where I could otherwise keep going for paragraphs. Essentially, too many red flags meant we ended up turning down the offer. The offer that R dangled in front of our faces for a good half-day before finally extending. Sorry buddy. Here's to hoping you found an OC on par w/ the likes of yourself. Funny thing is, I'm the most obnoxiously neat person I know. Doesn't matter, wasn't meant to be. Wow, the ease I can now say that w/. Certainly a different response than Thursday evening's Are you daft? It was yours. Yours! You're about to be turned out onto the streets and you refused an offer? Pffffffft. As convinced of this as I believe my dear father was, it wouldn't truly have happened. Too many nice people (C, you!) living amongst us to make that a real concern.
The next night, 8ish: Stood up by guy who was supposed to show us his EV digs. Damn him--we had a day left! From a wireless cafe around the corner, it was straight back to craigslist. Criteria all but flushed, we hooped & hollered over a two week--TWO WEEK--sublet in, um, Bed-Stuy. For those who don't already know, in the past B-S has been considered one of the rougher/tougher Brooklyn neighborhoods. Ok, the roughest/toughest. And while I suppose the reputation still lingers in some minds, these days there's little to worry over. Anyway, we called up the s'letter--a similarly desperate type who would be taking off to Atlanta for business a whole two days later--and all-out pleaded our case. The short of it: By noon the next day it was ours. Again, for two weeks. The apt itself is stunning. It's fairly new, w/ hardwoods (admittedly, these could use a sanding--ouch!), lots of light, a HUGE bathroom, modern appliances, and decor only a theater-guy could pull of. Two weeks though. Two weeks.
Night after that: Packpackpackpack.
Morning after that: Packpackpackcleancleanpackclean.
Later that day: Caryn To The Rescue! (W/o whom we would have handed our lives in bills to Northside Car Service.)
Two days that followed: Quiet and clean, insanekitty-free living. Coupled w/ nagging fears of the period a week and a half down the road, that is.
Yesterday: Pea & I and a half dozen other wide-eyed hopefuls standing outside an EV apt complex waiting for *Richard* to return home. (Incidentally, the dude who'd ditched out on us the week before.) Damn if some strange feral urge didn't set in. Come hell or high water, I would have this apt! Indeed, I was surprised at my brazenness. Admittedly, our competition dimmed as woman after woman after man dropped out of the race. I can see how its unsavory odor + proximity to the street + twin bed (dogg: return of the infamous doll bed!) + streaky walls = unsatisfactory to some. Not us, though! Not us. Yeah, so we got it. It's ours. In a week. Of course this means we lose a bit of $ along the way, us having to leave Mr. Two Week a tad early, but it's negligable really. We paid very little for our current digs. Little little little.
Dear Erin + Noe + Kari: Be not scared. (We'll take before and after pictures.)
Things are just fine.
And on the job front: I'm back at that major record label today. One-day gig. Went much smoother the second time around, probably because the Big Guy was only in for a few. Plus, I got to take a field trip--to deliver his forgotten cellphone. Sites glimpsed en route: Columbus Circle/Columbus statue, Julliard, a few large buildings :) ... And it's a beautiful day here, to boot. Sunny and 75, baby.
Got a two-day deal lined up for Thurs and Fri, which will entail greeting the billionaires of this city as they enter St. Regis Hotel, then ushering them to seminars on being rich. I spent a good five minutes on the phone w/ the overseer-lady, who said: So describe to me the suit you'll be wearing. It needs to be a matching suit. And what will you be wearing underneath? Oh no, not a camisole. How about something high-necked--a blouse, perhaps. And shoes--what kind of shoes will you be wearing? Um. The stints are long, like 6:30 to 5:00, but I get fed throughout the day on their dime, and that's one hell of a dime, translating to one hell of a meal(s). Should be something else.
Lastly, on the front-that-really-matters: She came through! I can now officially and w/ certainty say that my RW story will feature unique quotes from Joyce Carol Oates herself! I've been back-and-forth'ing w/ her kind agent for weeks now, and golly gee, he made it happen. The nice lady responded in writing to all five of my painstakingly thought-out/labored-over questions, and golldarn is she quotable. I positively cannot wipe the smile off my face. I think I'm drooling.
Tomorrow Harvey Pekar and Dean Haspiel read at Barnes. I'm beside myself.
Must-do
god this sounds great. Stands to deliver the same satisfaction that picking lint from the holes of those old-school hair dryers did.
Monday, October 03, 2005
Unintentional irony, anyone?
"I thought one of the worst uses of a song ever was 'There She Goes' as covered by Sixpence None the Richer. It was used for an ad for the birth control patch (Ortho-Evra, I believe). It appears the original theme of the song was lost on the advertising firm and Sixpence None the Richer; the song (originally performed by the La's) is about the exploits of a heroin addict. Why couldn't they have just used a song by Soft Cell or Suede, about sadomasochism or something? It would have made as much sense to me... "
—Emily
Read here for funny.
Sunday, October 02, 2005
Nightmares
Stumbling upon this, I checked out the artist's site.
Can't say I'd furnish my home w/ them...
Saturday, October 01, 2005
Who needs a critique group
when they're around?
One cool story.