Friday, March 31, 2006
Let me count the ways
New York,
At times you drive me to tear hairs from my scalp, but at the end of the day, you & I are pretty dang compatible. Take this morning: I was due for a speed session, so to your East River-side track I ran. Four 800 intervals later (today, no fun), I hit the fitness station just south of said track. I'd never made use of it till this morning, but w/ the sun shining so bright and warm, the gym was not calling my name (or if it was, I wasn't listening). I took a few turns on the monkey bars (monkey bars!), mourning longlost days of endless, effortless swinging as I struggled to heave my adult body from one grip to the next. But I managed well enough, and afterward, lunging in place, I stared out across the river, its waters strangely blue, and I took in the weathered beauty of your Brooklyn.
It's like I mouthed--nay, said out loud--to your sky last night while standing rooftop: "New York, I love what you're doing for me."
Thursday, March 30, 2006
Tra-la-la
I have a condition that prevents me from remembering that Central Park is three blocks from my office. Sad but true. I've decided to try a new remedy: taking pictures, which once I post to my blog, I will return to day in and day out. See? It's true! Now go play. Seriously, I plan to go at least a twice a week over lunch this spring/summer. I can't not.
Why:
Seen today
-sun, sun, sun
-67 degrees (okay, felt)
-craggy branches w/ perfect pink buds
-little boys dancing on grassy hills
-kiddies going boom on the ice rink, them simultaneously bursting into tears & laughter
-the carousel
-bench after bench after bench lined w/ people
-sea lions!
-vendors peddling their wares, be them self-portraits, celebrity portraits, portraits of cartoon characters, or roasted nuts (the smell doesn't grow old, not ever)
-an adorable outside cafe that specializes in organic everything
-runners
-my bare arm (sleeveless sweater day, baby!)
Look, another no-bid contract!
[But the federal grants are fueling a growing industry of abstinence nonprofits, which approach schools and offer to teach sex ed -- in some cases for no charge. HHS estimates that 155 grantees -- including many nonprofits -- will receive funding this year through its Community-Based Abstinence Education Program, compared with 49 in 2001. At the same time, cash-strapped schools are finding it harder to allocate resources for topics like health.]
This whole debate is so unbelievably unbelievable. A complete waste of headspace. (Yet here I am.) Regarding the above excerpt, way to prey on the poor and underfunded (again), W. Yet considering such schools tend to reflect some of the highest teen pregnancy rates, these are exactly the students who stand to benefit most from honest, straightforward sex education. (Too easy, though.) And say, along those lines, I wonder how Bush's War on Porn--or future battles, anyway--would be impacted if kids were raised to view safe, consensual sex as normal? Remove the stigma, save a buck?
If this administration would cease to contradict itself for 30 seconds, well, I wouldn't believe that either.
Wednesday, March 29, 2006
Things I do not need
Plexiglass and wine--together? Boy do I like that concept. Cool site, btw.
A retrospective
Oh no! I celebrated my one-year on the wrong day! All this time I thought it was the 24th...
Anyway, so it went. And even though Pea set his bags down a week after I, we commemorated the move jointly. We treated ourselves to that fantastic pub crawl, and although we'd hoped to (finally) do the ESB the night before, how idiotic (me) to try for a Friday! Needless to say, when we arrived at eight and glimpsed the minimum-two-hour wait, all hope was lost. One of these Tuesdays, we vowed.
Now for some thoughts on the one-year. I was walking to the train this morning, following my usual path down St. Marks, when I came upon a familiar sight: a 75-year-old woman, roughly 4'10" w/ a large, perfect dome of blue-gray curls and a billowing muumuu in a vibrant floral print. She stood on a step in front of her apartment building, quietly looking on, a mild smile--slightly cautious--playing about her lips, as her sweet little poodle (clothed in a similar motif) did his/her business, or as often appears to be the case, contemplated doing his/her business. I've seen this scene play out on several occasions in the last few months, and it's identical every time. Always the hair, the muumuu, the gentle smile, the poodle, the patient waiting... It's clear that the pair have an understanding, the way they lock eyes, the woman wordlessly speaking her encouragement, her companion anxiously seeking it. I love being an observer here, and it always feels good to return the smile.
The above scene represents what I love about this city, and on this momentous occasion, it feels appropriate to explain.
New York City has layers, and it's this layered effect--product of a long, meandering history--that draws me to it. It keeps me guessing, it keeps my imagination active, it keeps me interested and inspired. And it makes me want to stick around awhile.
My St. Marks lady is joined by countless others in her demographic, those older residents who live on her street, who immigrated or whose parents immigrated to the state during the big wave of the late 19th and early 20th centuries. Many have never relocated; they've kept the same address and will remain at the same address for as long as life permits. Their tenure lets them retain their place in a neighborhood that they'd otherwise be priced out of, a neighborhood that demands newer residents fork over more than mere pennies for rent.
Accordingly, thankfully, the area exhibits a diversity not seen in other more homogenized zones. Take Seattle, for instance--toddler to New York's elder. For the most part, residents are pretty compartmentalized. The stereotyped neighborhoods are often justly tagged. You have your U-District kids/academics; your Belltown yuppies and the younger yuppy-ish set of Fremont; the hip yet family-friendly Ballard; Capitol Hill and its young-but-aging
But not here. Here--and I'll stick w/ a single street, St. Marks, as my example--you find elderly folks who, by sheer practice, are able to make it up and down five flights of stairs daily; 30-something businessmen who hop the nearby 6 train to their Financial District offices; NYU students w/ deep-pocketed parents; and various & sundry folks dedicated to preserving--okay, infusing some semblance of life into--the drag's old punk tradition. I see it w/ my own two eyes. Daily.
The phenomenon is also alive & well in the physical impressions of neighborhoods here, perhaps most visibly in the Lower East Side/parts of Chinatown & Little Italy. One evening last week, while walking from our EV place to a Chinatown bar, I was again struck by the layering. Strolling along, admiring some bit of crumbling architecture yet to be replaced by high-rise condos (one layer I just can't get excited about, however practical at times), or the mystique of some long-defunct fish market, I'd stumble upon a teensy vintage boutique or a hole-in-the-wall wine bar. Of course, this is a much more common stumble if it's Orchard or Elizabeth rather than Hester or Grand that one finds oneself strolling along, but the region as a whole is falling prey to consecutive $$$-backed ventures. But you know, that's not such a bad thing. While I initially and instinctively protested this particular brand of layering--does the city really need another gourmet cheese shop, another designer pet apparel vendor?--neighborhoods are vital. They're living, breathing organisms that require fuel, attention. If a Brazilian shoe store brings it, so be it.
The hope, then, is that one single layer doesn't completely wipe out those laid down before it. Because that, in a sense, would mean bye-bye history, and considering history is ultimately what this proud city has to offer, that would be a very sad day.
I ♥ NY.
Robot
Yikes.
[AJ does have "some sort of compulsive tendencies. She wants order in her life," McGaugh says. "As a child, she would get upset if her mother changed anything in her room because she had a place for everything and wanted everything in its place."]
Now why didn't the same tendencies produce similar results in my case? Harumph.
Tuesday, March 28, 2006
No!
Hell yeah I submitted my specs. What a sham! Still, surprises me that Beagle's in such need financially. Less than 5 mil went into the project, and it made many times that. Then again, I don't suppose it's altogether tough to lose your footing in that industry...
Blink & you'll
I guess I don't really get it. The guy's implausibly talented, sure, but from where comes such an aspiration? Family business? A dare?
Odd!
Context
Before it became popular w/ the, might I say, fraternity set, Greenwich Village accommodated drunks that harbored a more creative agenda. (Ouch.) Bakerloo Theatre Project conducts weekly tours of Village pubs famed for historic literary ties, applying $15 fees (six on this particular Saturday) toward their own creative endeavors. A tour makes for a three-hour excursion, which includes foot-travel time, beer-drinking time, and time for some commentary along the way. The group congregated at The White Horse Tavern on Hudson; I was rarin' to go.
Okay, so these pictures are in reverse order. (I'm too lazy to mess w/ the html.) This one--um, not actually my own, as I forgot to go click much toward the end--depicts the Kettle of Fish Bar in its original location, off McDougal. It opened in 1950, and in the years to come it was commonplace to find Kerouac, Ginsberg, Corso, Dylan and a glut of other 60's artists and musicians throwing back bourbons. The Kettle eventually relocated to W. 3rd, where it remained for about 10 years before landing a new (and current) address on Christopher Street.
Thankfully by this point in the tour, the purple-faced wino/husband/dad had all but passed out (or was he pouting? could've been either), ensuring a pleasant enough conclusion. Pea and I stuck around the bar for awhile, hanging w/ our two guides as they gestured a lot and told crazy theatre stories. Having recently performed Shakespeare for a thoroughly engaged West Point student body, they were asked to return--where they are now. They were both real nice, if a bit, well, crazy. The Kettle scene: ordinary pub-look. Dark chairs, tables, dartboard, jukebox, regulars fused to the bar. You know. 
Second to last was Minetta Tavern, formerly known as the Black Cat and a favorite bar of Ezra Pound, E.E. Cummings--okay, I've lost recent sleep over the name thing--and Ernest Hemingway. Neat sign, but it looked inside like any ordinary, overpriced Italian restaurant inside. I wish I could report more, but a pesky low-blood sugar episode got in the way. (Dunkin' Donuts to the rescue! No worries.)
You're looking at the skinniest building in NYC. It may have been right around this time that old loose-lipped drunkypants began sneering at my click-click-clicking. The gall. 
Building w/ three sides and a kooky address. (Waverly splits here, thus takes up two sides, then Christopher and Grove do weird things to the third.) It's the old *Northern Dispensary* and following a refusal to treat an AIDS patient in 1986, its owners lost a lawsuit and went bankrupt. The concept of a vacant space in the Village bewilders, but there's really nobody here--except for maybe a ghost or two, as our guides alerted us, waving their fingers and trembling their voices to demonstrate. 
The boy-guide. His teeth, according to Pea, "perfect."
"... home of Washington Irving, Jr." But wait! Jr.? No such thing!? A controversy, this is. 
The image is too small for me to read as I type, but it says something close to "nothing important happened here." (How could I not?)
Chumley's, an allegedly haunted Prohibition speakeasy patronized by Orson Welles, Fitzgerald, Steinbeck and Upton Sinclair. The entrance is unmarked, and not in that 'ooh, how *now* to have no sign' way either. Inside, the utmost coziness--thick oak tables, low ceilings, a roarin' fireplace--and a residual sense of unlawfulness. A few trapdoors remain, and at one point there may have been a dumbwaiter in one of the bathrooms that led up to the roof which allowed access to secret gin distilleries in neighboring buildings. This was my favorite, thanks to some fantastic literary kitsch, including an unbroken banner of dustjackets that line the walls. *They* say an author or someone deemed an acquaintance of an author must have at some point stepped foot in the establishment to own wallspace at Chumley's. The beer's their own and the apricot ale--yum. I hear the burgers are kickin', too. We'll be back soon. 
Still Chumley's.
Dustjackets.
Charming housing community tucked off some Greenwich street (Cherry Lane maybe). In the nineteenth century it was considered poor & unfortunate to be forced to live so far from the road. Now? Well. 
Strange little Tudor scene popping up out of nowhere. 
I liked the decorative green detail, that's all. 
There's significance here, but can't recall... 
The Village is the only Manhattan neighborhood disloyal to The Grid. This 'flawed' setup used to tear at the hearts of builders, who (before paved roads) would try and counteract the trend by forcing right angles. This made things wonky. (I wish for a better word, but none.)
It hadn't before occurred to me, but there's a reason why top-floor windows are sometimes smaller than the floor's below, which are smaller than the floor's below, & so on. Architects used to employ the technique to create the illusion of height. (This used to be novel? Here? Whoa.)
A boot scrape! This pre-pavedroads accommodation was pointed out to the guides by a past tourgoer. Neat! And so easy to miss. 
Starting point: The White Horse Tavern. It was built in 1880, but the scribes didn't take notice until the 1950s when Dylan Thomas first stumbled into the old shipworkers' haunt. The details are sketchy, but it's believed that the White Horse saw Thomas down his last-ever whisky. Then he died. He supposedly beat his own record that night, tallying, oh, 18 shots. After staggering out to the curb and collapsing in a heap on the sidewalk, the gent was hauled off to the Chelsea Hotel, where he bit it shortly thereafter. Thing is, it probably wasn't alcohol poisoning, but pnemonia. Then again, had his immune system been a bit stronger... Anyway.
Monday, March 27, 2006
One more thing real quick (thanks Pea)
http://thesaurus.reference.com/search?q=mostest
??!! No way. I refuse to accept it. Mostest? I know about the annoying expression and all, but come on. Enough's enough.
Weird thing is, it's not in the dictionary, but thesaurus only. Does this happen often, I wonder?
Beer & books
Woohoo! I'm back. I was a little worried there, afraid ol' Writer Sprout was due an untimely death. But no.
Anyway.
The weekend was the best I've had in awhile. Saturday we played tourist, having signed ourselves up for the Greenwich Literary Pub Crawl the night before. The festivities started at half past two and raged for a good three hours. Well, not 'raged' exactly, but it's what you might imagine, no? I'll post pictures/commentary soon here.
Ciao for now.
Friday, March 24, 2006
Don't know if anyone checks the other blog, but I posted this there today.
Heavy
That an individual, this one for instance, would make the conscious decision to frame his life around hate, to set out on a lifelong mission to hate other people, is inscrutable and it's insane. No, not insane--although I wish. I wish that every single person on the face of the planet who embarks on a similar journey would, upon psychiatric evaluation, receive an unshakable diagnosis of crazy. Because then, things might begin to fit together. This wish surfaced prominently a few weeks back, when I visited the Holocaust Museum in D.C. For me, the most striking, most devastating image to take in was one of Hitler standing at a podium, surrounded by a sea of 10-year-old boys, thousands of prepubescent arms raised in salute. Alas, too young for the diagnosis. Not too young for training, though.
Recent research suggests that we all basically dream the same. I don't think so.
Stuck
The web is huge, of course, but that's not a real problem. The problem is that time and space have a different meaning on the web. Add to this the truth that everything that 'happens' is carved forever: try to pull something 'off the web' and you will soon realize that you won't be able to do it. Everything you write and publish will defy eternity, carved in electrons: the very moment you put something on the web, someone, somewhere, will make a copy out of it. It is bound to reappear, somewhere sometime: indestructible and redoutable powers of the void.
And further in...
You take advantage of the fact that EVERYTHING THAT HAS BEEN PUT ON THE WEB ONCE WILL LIVE ON COPYCATTED ELECTRONS FOR ETERNITY, either through the usual & well-known public '[time machines]' (basically huge caches or 'photosnaps' of the web at a given time), or through more 'gray' (and difficult) channels and alleys that you'll discover and take advantage of in due time.
Wowie. What a story. Parts are pretty technical, but the take-away is straightforward: It never really goes away. This is something I've thought about often--the absolute permanence of Web-based material--although I usually don't last that long. (How does one not go a little nuts dreaming up all the potential repercussions?) And where writers are concerned--in particular, e-published writers who embraced the craft after the dawn of the http://--it's strange to consider how public is one's progression (regression? hopefully not regression) in the field. How acutely visible, or at least accessible, are one's trials and errors, scrapes and trip-ups. I know I wishwishwish some of my earlier Web-published writings would just go the eff away forever, but no such luck.
Creepy.
Oh
This hits waaay too close to home. Way too.
Thursday, March 23, 2006
To-read
A couple of recent Times stor ies--nice & book-y, babe-y.
So I love the concept of a writing desk--picking it out, making it mine, scarring it (lovingly) w/ coffee stains and pen marks. But--dangit--I do my best work out-of-home, propped in cafes and all-night diners, squandering money on soy lattes and (on a good day) vegan muffins. Drats, I want it otherwise. And the paper/hardcover story: I don't know. As much as I covet the silky smoothness of a quality dustjacket, the pleasing sound (how to describe?) heard the first few times a new hardcover's cracked open--the experience, in other words--paperbacks are just cheap. Cheap, accessible, egalitarian. No?
A p.s., and totally off-topic,* huge hug to B & J & S! They just made out rather handsomely at the mall the other day. What'd they walk home w/? A new house! On Phinney Ridge! Whoop!
*Par for the course. I can't remember a period when my brain was more allovertheplace than it has been lately. Bear w/ me.
They come to me? And they pay? If only every publishing success were this passive.
The other day I received an email from a woman who works on those melt-your-heart Chicken Soup books. In researching material for a future collection of essays on, what else, diabetes, she happened upon my 2004 "The 'betes," originally published in Diabetes Forecast magazine. Would I care to see it reprinted? Well sure! And just like that--my check's in the mail. (Doubly cool, considering I was paid nada for the first print. Funny how these things work themselves out in the long run.) Anyway, I am happy and all, but something kind of strange: The book in which my writing will appear is titled Chicken Soup for the Type II Diabetic Soul (or close). For some reason just saying that makes me giggle, but more importantly, I don't have type II diabetes. In fact, my essay, w/ its mention of a fit runner's body that shows no indication of *disease,* doesn't exactly address type II, a form of the 'betes often characterized by less-than-fitness. And were it tweakable, that would be one thing, but no degree of editing can spin it off its initial course. It is what it is, and I guess the CS editors liked it for that. Baffling.
Campy, campy, campy! (I swear I posted this exact entry a year ago.)
For instance, just today, responding to an inquiry from Accounting, I referred to our accounts payable specialist as a dynamo. (She totally dug it!) Minutes later, emailing someone in Business Affairs, I substituted the eyerollingly dull 'hello, x' greeting w/ something a little spicier: yo. Nice, huh? (Okay, so her and I are on pretty easy terms.) But probably the most effortless way of going about this is by simply tacking an 'o' on to any number of words. My picks: fantastic, fabulous, right, correct, perfect... You get the idea. Oh, first names also lend readily to this technique, although the love's sure to be lost on select recipients.
I was at my absolute best w/ today's haiku, written and sent in response to a coworker who *always has the answer.* I'll spare you.
03/02/06 02:13 PM
To: R
cc:
Subject: Re: Storage
[pushing red button] terminated!
(okay, not quite yet.)
thanks R.
03/02/2006 02:05 PM
To: Kristen
cc:
Subject: Re: Storage
you go girl
send in the "terminator"
03/02/2006 02:00 PM
To: R
cc:
Subject: Storage
Hi there,
Per* our call the other day, I spoke with J about the excess (9,000?!) of financial docs we have in storage up there. He has no need for them and can find no reason to hold on to any. Shall I go ahead and have them destroyed? (Gosh, sounds so violent.)
Just wanted to run this by you one last time...
*You all hate it, I know. (God, I do.) But who doesn't take pleasure in the occasional self-inflicted punishment--however pithy? Like poking endlessly at that smarting cankersore w/ your tongue. Or worse, smothering it w/ catsup.
Sunday, March 19, 2006
Reject
AN OPEN LETTER TO A SPORTS MEDICINE DOCTOR OF QUESTIONABLE MORALS
Dear Dr. Boyd,
The xxl t-shirt emblazoned with your clinic's name, the matching drawstring shorts hovering at my knees: I felt like a weight loss ad. Alone in the exam room, I even stood in front of the mirror, stretching the waistband far to each side, as if to say, "I fought fat and won!" (You took a long time; I got bored.)
You entered with a clipboard under one arm, reaching out with the other and giving my hand a few firm pumps. Your blue eyes, warm, were framed unevenly by a brow that rippled as you asked about the nature of my concern. I gave you the lowdown, explaining that years of distance-running had begun aggravating my arches, that all I really needed was some localized massage once or twice a month. Such was the protocol when I'd lived in Seattle, and it had worked, I told you, just fine.
The exam started simply. You palpated my knees, my Achilles tendons. Satisfied with my degree of response, you set the instrument aside and took a foot in your hand. You rolled it around, cupping the heel, pressing strategically into the arch, occasionally checking in: "Does this hurt?" Mm, sort of. "Any sharp pain when I do this?" No. "And this?" No. As you must have realized: plain old muscle soreness. Typical wear-and-tear. God I'm a bore.
You tried though. You did your best to make me feel anything but boring. You had me stand up, and you asked me to balance. One leg kicked out behind me, I complied. "Now close your eyes," you instructed. I lowered my lids and almost immediately started to teeter. Following an equally shaky performance on leg number two, suddenly my muscle soreness wasn't so plain. Adding depth: "Poor balance."
Tell me, doc, what kind of test is this anyway? Who doesn't struggle under the same circumstances?
Next you ran me through a few pithy strength tests: three squats, two lunges per side, a move that had my back arched in fine bridge form. Then you told me I had a weak ass. "Your glutes aren't strong. We need to build them up, take some of that pressure off your feet." Ahem. I reside in a sixth-floor walkup. I use the Thigh Abductor four times a week at the gym. I run marathons - hilly ones. Butt therapy hardly seems warranted.
You handed me off to a personal trainer, who led me to a small gym replete with patients whose clothing, ahem, actually fit. (Why not me?) Amidst hopeful limbs engaged in various manners of conditioning, I again performed the balance test, this time logically--with eyes open. I excelled, thank you. Same story with the bridges. Twelve reps and my buns weren't anywhere near letting go of the paper currency I'd been told to imagine they were gripping.
Two confounding hours later, and with instruction to schedule two to three appointments a week for "as long as they're needed," I split.
I realize that no-frills complaints like my own threaten the three-figure salaries of you and your colleagues. In light of this, I can understand the compulsion to doctor up a lady's diagnosis a little in hopes of seeing her name plastered all over the appointment books. Still, I refuse to finance your embellishments, and it's on these terms that I'm cutting you loose.
Back to the drawing board,
Kristen
Saturday, March 18, 2006
Miaow: spam for writers
In this morning's inbox:
for heaven's sake . . .' Poplavsky stuck his ear out through the broken
pane and caught the sound of a woman's laughter. Quick, bold steps coming
downstairs and a woman flashed past. She was carrying a green oilcloth
bag and hurried out into the courtyard. Then came the little man's
footsteps again. ' That's odd! He's going back into the flat again!
Surely he's not one of the gang? Yes, he's going back. They've opened the
door upstairs again. Well, let's wait a little longer and see . . .' This
time there was not long to wait. The sound of the door. Footsteps. The
footsteps stopped. A despairing cry. A cat miaowing. A patter of quick
footsteps coming down, down, down! Poplavsky waited. Crossing himself and
muttering the sad little man rushed past, hatless, an insane look on his
face, his bald head covered in scratches, his trousers soaking wet. He
began struggling with the door handle, so terrified that he failed to see
whether it opened inwards or outwards, finally mastered it and flew out
into the sunlit courtyard. The experiment over and without a further
thought for his dead nephew gtjhj f jtgql skq f gjmkf jgkqk sk qk gjikm
Gtjhj f jtgql? Ah, I get it. Yes. I have four similar messages, and Googling reveals their origin. Of course, appended to each is a nice little advertisement--the promise of no less than eternal bliss, if I simply click...
Thursday, March 16, 2006
And now, for your reading (I hope) pleasure: My story's up!
Wednesday, March 15, 2006
I hear Seattle's nice
This city hears a lot of yelling. Exclamations range wide, and include everything from "I'm the mother-fukcin' siht!" to this blurb I caught last night while walking home from here (scoped it out w/ a friend):
"THERE IS SO MUCH NOISE IN THIS CITY! SO MUCH HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE NOISE! I HATE IT!"
Um, okay, but...
Tuesday, March 14, 2006
ADD
Found some fun stuff on the Webs today. I love Murakami's site: excellent design, and creepy as it is informative. That music makes me uneasy. So do the kitties. While this blogger writes w/ a little less precision than does Murakami, got to give him credit for being the first of his kind. I wonder what my old buddy Pidge would do w/ a keyboard in front of him. Probably no worse. Speaking of unlikely talent, whoa. I'm still agape. Those tardigrades. Not even Armaggedon, huh? Just as unbelievable is this. Partly because it's not actually real. Another one. Another. Another. I hear Antarctica does these especially well. I'm in love.
I can't get Blogger to upload pictures. Grr.
Monday, March 13, 2006
Nutshell
I got a surprise phone call on Friday from a one Ms. Kassie Asma--I mean Olsen. Turns out she and a friend were in town for the Whitney Biennial and some big art show, and would we care to hang out w/ them? Why of course we would. We ended up lazing about on Saturday (well, excepting a really, really neat bridge run), thereby missing the Armory thing, but we made it out for grilled-cheese dinner, a teeming Soho art show, and to cap the evening, a stop by a CAVERNOUS Tribeca bar/music venue where I watched several fine artists (friends of Kass) collaborate on a stunning tabletop collage.
Sunday was also slowed-down, matching my pace these days. I don't know if it's the strange spring-like temperatures we've been experiencing, but I feel a little messed w/ or something. Anyway, Sunday was *the day* and we had things pretty well mapped out. Wake up--take train to Central Park--run--return home--make breakfast--finish SFU, all eight remaining hours of it--dinner at Caravan of Dreams--Stephin Merrit's DJ show at Beauty Bar. No matter that crucial elements (Central Park & Stephin Merrit, namely) went missing, and other less-than-palatable activities (WholeFoodsonaSundayafternoon) shoved on in. No regrets, although I might be talked into, next time around, considering a more uplifting viewing selection in light of such a celebratory occasion. Mourning Clare Fisher's descent into administrative hell isn't, I suppose, an obvious point on which to dwell.* Besides, I've found that more than a couple episodes at a time is just too much for me. I can't cope w/ the emotional hangover. I struggled today.
But I couldn't have asked for a better conclusion. One in the a.m. found us plopped on the couch, comparing fathers' favorite Gordon Lightfoot tunes, smiling at memories of little bodies curled up next to big wooden speakers, sung to sleep by, oh, John Denver or Crystal Gayle or The Carpenters or...
Just prior, some very bad dancing/singing may have occurred, but I refuse to commit.
The good times carried over to this morning, when I awoke to a very pleasing email: Health is going to run an essay of mine! Okay, so the issue's a year out, but you won't catch me whining.
It's also pretend--NOT REAL--yet if I do say, I've never connected more closely w/ a fake person. It's weird/painful watching someone walk into that world--world of black turtlenecks, company-logoed lanyards, sportsbar-y happy hours--for the very first time. It just looks strange, not at all intuitive. (The cubes, the conversation, the gimmicky office supplies. Oooh, don't get me going on office supplies. I attribute today's nervous eye twitch to hanging out in the copy room, digging through boxes of Post-Its for mechanical pencil refills. Suddenly it was more 3M than I could handle.) However, considering an impressive string of admin positions, I suppose I've been lucky. (PO'ers: You're the best!) My only real test has been a few of those temp jobs I was hit over the head w/. Not so bad.
Friday, March 10, 2006
Random
*I went to my first fashion show last weekend, as my friend Chrissy modeled in it. It was held in a stiflingly hot Soho loft, but a good time was had.
*When I go to my health insurance website to locate network providers, I'm greeted w/ a series of dropdowns: physician specialty, gender, languages spoken and hospital affiliations. Many options are provided for each (well, save gender), including 'no preference.' This is nice. Because really, you never know when you might be in the market for a doc of 'any old specialty' who's female, speaks Italian, and is affiliated w/ Albert Einstein Medical Center. It's fun to do things backwards.
*I would really like to get my hands on one of these. As a pet.
*I haven't had a bite of refined sugar all week, and I've reduced my caffeine intake to a half-cup of coffee in the a.m. [raising eyebrow] I've never been more energized.
*It's so easy to make a girl (woman) smile. Just a few simple words'll do it. Thanks, Katie.
*My boss is leaving the company, a company which may be sold w/in a matter of months.
*This Sunday, I will have been in a relationship w/ the same boy (man) for five years. FIVE YEARS. Yet. Yet yet yet: I'm still curious, I'm still guessing, and I'm still the happiest girl (woman) in all the land.
Tuesday, March 07, 2006
The guy has it down
Oh. Wow.
Download clBush.wmv
Giddy
So my RW editor--bless her heart--requested a few additional sidebar sources, said sidebar consisting of blurb-y profiles of artists past & present who've used physical exercise to spur creative output. She had a few thoughts--visual artists, musicians, John Grisham and Malcolm Gladwell, namely--and asked that I take it from there. While she didn't say she needed direct quotes, I figured why the hell not? So I went after the talented gents the best way I know how, and just a half hour ago as I was telling Pea about the day's events, what should pop into my inbox but a response from Mr. Gladwell himself! Whoop! As for Mr. Grisham--and by this I mean Mr. G's agent--well, that effort was more for a laugh than anything else. Hehe.
Monday, March 06, 2006
New Web log
On running. Who knows--not me--how often I'll post there, but I liked the idea of keeping the running separate. Oh, and the title's a working one, as I realize it's terribly cheesy. I do, however, love the stuff more than cake.
Robbed
Crash, best picture? Lame, lame, lame. What a heist. I don't care that Brokeback took home three awards; it deserved more.
And what was up w/ that burning-car deal anyway?
Friday, March 03, 2006
Bitchmoanbitch
Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhh.
In search of some last-minute clarification, I re-phoned a couple of my sources--a doc at U of Georgia, and one in Beirut. Holygeez, I found a phone card that gave me 57 int'l minutes for only 10 bucks! This is seriously a ridiculously swell deal. Although the two are actually friends (one recommended the other to me), their viewpoints on this topic I'll never be through w/ vary significantly. While I don't know how old either guy is, the Lebanon doc strikes me as a youngish, wide-eyed whippersnapper (I know I'm not using the word correctly, but I like how it sounds), the Georgia one a little more careful/cynical, a little less optimistic, maybe older... The latter was definitely more guarded w/ me, happier to fall back on 'well, it's really only speculation at this point,' even questioning some of the finer points of Lebanon's research. The finalfinal draft of the story--really a pretty minor revision of the one I last submitted, a response to a few brief questions my editor had--is due on Wednesday, then it's betterbetruly over.
Basically, this whole ordeal has served to remind me why it is I write essays and not cold journalism. THERE'S TOO MUCH INFORMATION. I get way overwhelmed by all the contradicting sources out there, by tracking down the best and most current research, by condensing thousands upon thousands of transcribed words into a single-page story... I realize I've said it all before. Shutting up.
Still, something tells me that, come June, it will have been worth it. Or close.
Thursday, March 02, 2006
Breather
Argh, no time to post lately. Work's kept me busy, and what little down time I've had I've spent running errands (although I swear I don't know what this means half the time; maybe buying barsoap, as I seem to invest often and against logic), running the streets, dreaming up story ideas/writing pitch letters, and falling--exhausted--into the arms of the equally exhausted Pea at the end of the day. Oh, and I've been eating a lot of whipped cream. Straight out of the can.
But the writing, the writing's going well. I've been querying like mad, and while the editors are hardly knocking down my door, the interest appears to be there. By that I mean they seem to dig my writing style; they just don't see my idea/piece fitting w/in the pages of their publication. But I've had some close calls--I think. Below are two recent responses to an essay pitch of mine.
[K:
I forwarded this to other editors within the magazine. I'm not sure we cover stories of this nature but I loved it and put in a good word so we'll see. Go ahead and pitch to other magazines and let me know what happens!] *Pitch other mags? But you love it! Wha--?
[Hi. Thanks for thinking of Health with this pitch--it's really a fun, touching story. We actually have a feature slated for June on a father-daughter bike ride, though, so I'm afraid there would be too much overlap. Plus, we're already putting together our September lineups--we work 6 months ahead. We might be able to consider doing this as a short essay piece for next June, but I can thoroughly understand if you'd prefer not to wait that long. Please let me know; if you're interested, I can pitch this to the rest of the fitness team and see if we might want to put it on the lineup for next year. Best, Su] *2007?! Um, I can't think two months ahead, let alone a year. Still, beggars can't be...
Another couple of things: I lack the patience to wade through health/fitness pubs month after month, as frankly, they're damn repetitive. But, this is clearly the best way to get to know what the editors look for/what they've already covered. Then again, should I decide to focus on essays and essays alone, that's a different game. I have more freedom w/ this medium, and [toots own horn] given the originality of my ideas, there's not the same risk of overlap. Of course, there's still a general structure w/in which to work, but I'm sticking to my plan of bending only so much, of wooing the editorfolk w/ slightly less-than-conventional topics/style. If it doesn't work 100 percent of the time, or even 30, I think I'm okay w/ that, as it's important to me to write primarily for me, secondarily for others/publishing success.
Here's the thing: I've decided to kick it up a notch for the overriding reason that I WANT NOTHING TO DO W/ THE NINE-TO-FIVE. I want to work for myself, I want to do something I thoroughly enjoy, and I want it sooner than later. The plan has always been to reach this objective w/in ten years' time, but I'm halving that, giving me five years to arrive. (Three would instigate delirium, which could be dangerous.) Of course, it's all about being uncomfortably busy until it becomes feasible to wave byebye to the day job, and I honestly don't know if I have it in me, but only one way to find out, right?
Ohlord, I need to write about last weekend in D.C. (Thanks Margaret, for your input!) Although the city was fun to explore, my Saturday spent w/ Pea & his work crew & dozens of people w/ Parkinson's was in-cre-di-ble. I felt really, really lucky to have experienced what I did. More to come.
When 3:00nocoffee happens
My coworker Karen insists it's possible to take the name of any old flower and turn it into a swear word by using just the right inflection. To illustrate, she used rhododendrons. Hardly convincing. I dared her to demonize 'lilac' then 'tulip'--the latter has got to be the gentlest sounding word ever. (Second after daffodil, anyway.) Still no dice. But wait--she just said 'hibiscus' in a way that made me feel vaguely threatened. Real snake-y. Maybe there's something to this.