Friday, June 30, 2006
If one more person tries to brownbag my coffee...
Total nonsense. Not only is it impractical (paper's porous), it looks plain dumb. If you ask me, there's only one beverage suitable for brownbag consumption, and it'll give you a whole different buzz. I believe it's called Mad Dog. Hehe. Eww.
View from my office. (Someday that'll work.)
AOL's marketing. I got one, and I LOVE IT. Holy cow. That's a Clark bar, two wands of Kryptonite (rock candy!), and my very own pair of C.K. specs. Whoosh!
Way better than a t-shirt.
What I saw while walking last night from Chambers to Spring en route to a friend of a friend's show. (What's the right grammar there?) Humid as all get-out (that's for you, Pea), but pretty as a picture. As this picture.
Thursday, June 29, 2006
Where's Madonna? Bjork? The Gyllenhaals?
Kind of a nutty week. Monday night was my company's screening of Superman Returns--I both worked at and attended it. True to expectation, it was really good. Brandon Routh is Superman, you know, w/ his steely eyes and cut jaw, the signature curl, the strapping build. Kate Bosworth was kind of a wimpy Lois Lane, which I think was due to weak scripting more than it was her acting. Kevin Spacey was fantastic as Lex Luthor--"I just want to bring fire to the people; and I want my cut" (great!)--and Parker Posey, although she played her usual, was hilarious as Luthor's ditzy gf. If you plan to see it, see it on the superhuge screen, as 20 minutes of this puppy are in 3D. When I first found out this was the plan (first time the company's made the conversion w/ a commercial film), I was like, "Twenty minutes? Why bother?" Uh, good thing they didn't get carried away, as I don't know that I could've taken much more. While I didn't experience the rush of motion sickness that some others complained about, it couldn't have been far off. But the flying scenes--and the part when S is dukin' it out w/ Lex underwater--are pretty amazing when they're taking place right up in your face. In fact, I fought w/ my own right arm, which kept trying to splash the water. This was extra embarrassing, as I couldn't locate a single kid in my vicinity who was struggling w/ the same reflex. Kids are smart.
Oh, know how I'm so sure that I walk past celebrities every day w/o realizing their identity? Well, it (almost) happened yesterday during a press screening of the movie. This time I even had a name, not to mention plenty of processing time. I was at my post in the lobby, taking names and dealing tickets, when a cute young couple walked up to the table. The screening had already begun and the theatre was jam-packed w/ national news writers and Seventeen editors (I swear their entire staff showed up), and I'd been told to try and steer latecomers away. I asked the name of the woman. "Hasselbeck." Hasselbeck, Hasselbeck... Hmm, don't see you on the list. Are you sure you RSVP'd? In a perfectly sweet voice: "Um, yeah." Who are you with? "The View." Now at this point I got a flicker, but still nothing solid. I mean, I was pretty sure, but not absolutely. I sort of faltered, unsure what to do... Then from out of nowhere a Warner Bros. guy appeared (WB also had people working) and started getting all mushy. "Oh my god, it's so good to see you! I didn't recognize you in your gym clothes..." Blah blah blah, dumb. Anyway, the two--the dude was no football player, so not sure there--were escorted up to the theatre, and that was that. Gosh, what w/ all the hoopla, you'd think I'd have been savvier.
Sorry that was such a boring one. Turns out, that wack Regis was also in attendence, but such a sighting wouldn't have made for a better story, huh? Still, in the wake of last week's Jeremy Sisto, I'm not complaining. Well, maybe a little.
Tuesday, June 27, 2006
Symmetry
Had to snap its picture.
Sunday, June 25, 2006
Jumpy
I can't seem to get comfortable enough to blog/write much on weekends. Too many distractions at home and too few wireless-equipped coffee shops in the area... The ones I have tracked down are missing something, the something that made writing at Victrola/Ladro/Uptown such a natural pasttime. Right now I'm at Cakeshop, a LES cafe w/ a decent roast and a shoddy connection. I've just eaten a string of Zotz and a 25-year-old stick of gum, the latter pulled from a $1 wax pack of Topps that I bought, along w/ the Zotz, from Economy Candy. (I got two 'manager' cards. Managers? Was that the norm? Just a Topps thing? I don't remember flipping past Nolan Ryan and Mark McGuire to reveal... Joe McNamara. What disappointment. I swear this didn't happen in basketball card land.)
Anyway, I've been meaning to post a sort of catch-all entry for weeks now. While the last month or so has been pretty mellow, cool experiences have been had. Racking the brain...
I few weeks ago I conducted my most enjoyable interview yet. C and N are the talented ladies behind that Chicks & Giggles show I'm always raving about. As I mentioned, I've been several times, and given consistently strong performances, I just assumed the operation had been covered by the obvious publications (local papers, Bust, Venus, etc). Not so. At a HE reading weeks back, I ran into N, who told me that while they had received a couple of NYT mentions, there hadn't been a single write-up devoted exclusively to C&G. Surprised--yet excited by the prospect forming in my brain--I asked if she and C wouldn't mind sitting down w/ me for a chat. Lucky me, a month out found us parked in a booth at Mo's, accompanied by my tape recorder and a brick of the best mac 'n' cheese I've ever tasted. They gave me a good 45 minutes of conversation: inspiration/identity/evolution of the series, society's reluctance to embrace female comics, lots more. Until last Friday I was busy w/ other writing projects, but I hope to transcribe the material this week and get a pitch together for the aforementioned publications. This'll be a real fun one to write.
Also in early June, Pea & I hit up a nearby theater for a great piece of off-Broadway. Trout Stanley was directed by Jen Wineman, a coworker of Pea's, and w/ one ridiculous exception, earned glowing reviews. W/o going into too much detail (NYT does fine), I'll just say that the costuming and set--80s all the way--were second-to-none. Grace, the robust blonde sister who earns a living working at the local garbage dump, takes pride in her All-American good looks, and punctuates her dialogue w/ vain and bizarre gesticulations that resemble 80s dance moves. She wears the same thing every day: a sort of girly, cargo-style union suit (her "zip-up") that she invents a little rhyme about. She's her sister's caretaker, as over the years Sugar's developed a fear so intense she can't even step foot outside. Instead she stays in and cooks roasts and stocks the fridge w/ Shasta for Grace and looks at weird medical text. Oh, and dances to Grace's prized Heart record. To describe the set design I need only say, "Toys 'R' Us, c. 1985." Rainbow Brite, a scrunchie caddy, Easy Bake... Also, the writing is fantastic, especially the lyrical monologues that each character delivers w/o missing a beat. I can only imagine how exhausting. So yeah, it was a hit, and according to Pea, Jen's gotten a good bit of recognition from agents and talent scouts. Much deserved.
Let's see... I mentioned Happy Ending, home to last week's reading--a lineup that included none other than Lydia Davis, writer easily in my top 10, if not 5. I first heard her read a few years ago at Hugo House, after which I devoured Samuel Johnson Is Indignant. She doesn't have a lot of material out there, so I'm anxiously awaiting her next collection, due out toward the end of this year if memory serves. Pea and I both loved her story--she deals primarily in sweet vignette-y stories and essays--about an objectively judged contest between husband and wife over who has better taste in any number of areas. So like, the panel of judges determine that the husband's taste in footwear, Italian restaurants, and garden art trumps his wife's, while the wife's taste in vacation spots, sporting events, and French wines wins out over her husband's. This goes on for pages, w/ the judges calling out various strengths and weaknesses of husband and wife. Funny! Another of my favorites was a piece in which Davis reflects on the state of her five senses. Thinking about all the stress she puts them through daily--loud noises, offensive foods and smells, dirty dishwater--she decides they deserve regular rewards. So she treats them to such niceties as classical music, expensive wines, the finest of silks... But then, she wonders how they feel when she chooses to stay in for the night. Are they bored? Neglected? Should she relent and provide them more stimulation? I probably didn't do the best job describing that one, but trust me, it was beautiful. I can't wait to see it in print.
Yet another dumpbound steal. Matches our new striped 'wall' and everything! Score.
And another.
Last weekend, Long Beach. Neatest picture ever. Totally didn't notice the guy raising his arms when I took it... 
More beach. We took Long Island Rail to get out there--about an hour-long trip. Pea left from Penn Station, while I ran to the Flatbush stop (in Park Slope, Brooklyn) and hopped the train from there. That was an especially meaningful run, as it was Father's Day and I had dear old Pops right there w/ me. Did I mention our little setup? This is what my Health magazine essay's about: Every so often we rig ourselves w/ a hands-free headset/cellphone and 'run together,' chattering all the while. Surprisingly effective, and ma-aan can it make a hard run easier. Plus it was h-o-t and I needed all the distraction I could get.
While on the train I befriended two supercool ladies: Laura and Joelle. I don't remember how we started talking, I think I asked when the beach stop was up or something. Anyway, turns out the two of them had met just two weeks earlier en route to the same beach. Laura's originally from Vancouver, B.C., so we rattled on together about the glorious NW. She moved to NYC eight months ago, and shares some of our same loves/frustrations w/ the city. Then there's Joelle. Joelle, easily the most extroverted person I will ever in my lifetime meet. First of all, her voice is truly distinctive. And loud. She grew up in France and now lives in Queens. The resulting accent--there aren't words to describe--is unparalleled. Also, she has absolutely no reservations when it comes to chatting up strangers. Case in point: On the way home (Pea and I on same train now), she noticed a passenger who was cracking up over something he was reading. He wasn't sitting next to her, but several rows over. Joelle: "What's so funny?" Guy: [silent, confused]. Joelle: "I see you over there laughing; what's so funny about that book?" Guy: "Oh, it's, uh..." [shows J the cover]. Joelle: "Oh, okay. So are you..." [proceeds to engage Guy in some totally random topic]. I was at once shocked and amused, and only a pinch embarrassed. More than anything, amused. But yeah, the three of us, and Pea when he showed up later, lazed along the shore, comparing personal histories, eating lemon bars and $10 grapes, and expressing surprise at the alarming popularity of thong bikinis. I was the only one of us to spend any considerable time in the water, something I did w/ great relish. I swear, all inhibitions drop when I'm presented w/ big white water under a noonday sun. A kid I become.
Sandy's graduation party. Youch.
No introduction necessary. Well, maybe two. That's Tim on the left and Tim's friend Rachel--the one who hooked us up w/ tickets to an early screening of Strangers With Candy The Movie--between Amy and I. If you loved the series, you'll love the movie. Amy and Paul Dinello stuck around after the screening for a 30-minute Q&A, which, big surprise, made for a scream of a time. Amy (see her on Letterman the other night?) is positively disarming in person: gracious, sharp, saucy. She spills confidence and verve, and you just know she's doing exactly what she wants to do at this point in her life. Look for her next in print. (Erin: I'm adding cupcakes and cheeseballs to the itinerary. You know I wanted to do that last time...)
Vi sees!
Friday, June 23, 2006
Me
Prompted by A, who was prompted by J. I so rarely do these things...
Q: WHO'S THE 4TH PERSON ON YOUR RECEIVED CALL LIST?
A: My papa.
Q: WHAT'S YOUR MAIN RINGTONE ON YOUR PHONE?
A: It's usually on vibrate, hence all the missed calls. When it's not, I hear chimes.
Q: WHAT WERE YOU DOING AT MIDNIGHT LAST NIGHT?
A: Listening to honky tonk at an East Village bar. Oh, and contemplating taking Billy Chenowith's--er, Jeremy Sisto's--empty Tecate home w/ me. (I am so not kidding. Day I post about him in my blog is the day I run into him at a total hole-in-the-wall bar. Creepy!)
Q: WHAT DID THE LAST TEXT MESSAGE ON YOUR CELL PHONE SAY?
A: "wats up girl, was great hanging out with you sunday, wanna do movie at the park on monday, i think it starts next week? joelle" (I met J on a train to Long Beach last w/e. She's a riot. More to come.)
Q: WHOSE BED DID YOU SLEEP IN LAST NIGHT?
A: Mine.
Q: WHAT COLOR SHIRT ARE YOU WEARING?
A: Brown/white.
Q: MOST RECENT MOVIE THAT YOU WATCHED?
A: Grave of the Fireflies. I recommend you see it.
Q: NAME 3 THINGS THAT YOU HAVE ON YOU AT ALL TIMES?
A: Insulin pump, face moisturizer, phone.
Q: WHAT'S THE COLOR OF YOUR BEDSHEETS?
A: Camo.
Q: HOW MUCH CASH DO YOU HAVE ON YOU RIGHT NOW?
A: Around $10.
Q: What is your favorite part of the chicken?
A: My daughter is a bird, so I don't eat them.
Q: What's your favorite town/city?
A: SF!!!
Q: I can't wait to (til)...?
A: My October UK trip w/ Tiff & Wan.
Q: When was the last time you talked to them?
A: Two days ago.
Q: Who got you to join livejournal?
A: A. I thought it was the only way I could post comments.
Q: What did you have for dinner LAST NIGHT?
A: Veggie dogs w/ cilantro-corn salsa & garlic aoli. Yum.
Q: How long have you been at your current job?
A: About eight months.
Q: Look to your left. What's there?
A: Company press articles.
Q: Who is the last person you spent over $50 on?
A: Pea, I'd guess.
Q: What's the last piece of clothing you borrowed from someone?
A: An ivory shawl from a pitying coworker. (I was sunburnt & chilled.)
Q: What website(s) do you visit the most during the day?
A: I'm w/ ya, A: gmail.com, google.com.
Q: Do you have an air freshener in your car?
A: I don't drive.
Q: Do you have plants in your room?
A: Yep.
Q: Does anything hurt on your body right now?
A: My head. No coffee yet today. Soon...
Q: What city was your last taxi cab ride in?
A: Here. Yesterday.
Q: Do you own a camera phone?
A: No.
Q: What's your favorite Starbucks drink?
A: Mocha-mint Frappuccino.
Q: Recent time you were really upset?
A: Last night. Over a P&W rejection. :(
Q: Who do you think will repost this?
A: No one.
Thursday, June 22, 2006
Ethics
While not part of our company per se, L is involved to some capacity. She's one of those razor sharp, impeccably dressed UES ladies who's got all the requisite social/political connections, takes monthly business trips to Amsterdam, is on the board of the New York Historical Society, equipped w/ only the best... So she's not always nice to her supersweet secretary, but it all evens out in the end, right?
Anyway, I'm making my way toward my desk this morning, stopping off at the fridge for my morning Diet A&W. L's office is just outside the kitchen, her desk straight ahead. Can in hand, I glance in at her, noticing CEO W sitting in the chair across from her, leaning back w/ his chin up and hands folded behind his head. (You know the stance.) Laughing to myself, I exit the kitchen--and stop dead in my tracks. He looks like my one of my wind-up nigiris: hard like plastic, and big. He's positioned himself near the side of L's desk, shuffling around some but for the most part holding steady. Little does he know the fuss he's about to stir up.
All I can do is point. Point and sputter. At first L & W are confused, perhaps even annoyed at the strange behavior of this clearly perplexed admin. Left w/ no other choice, they eventually rise from their chairs and look in the direction of the accused. They freak out! L, usually so cool and composed, flees her office, taking refuge in the kitchen beside me. W, although he stays on-site, is visibly shaken. Because it's huge! A real monster!
The strategy, unspoken and assumed, is a simple one: End it. And end it predictably--at the hand, er, foot, of the man. Sigh. (Not that I was volunteering or anything. No way, not me!) The shoe (Gucci, if you asked me to guess) raises, the shoe comes down. Crunch. It's so audible! So wrong! (Well...) But is it over? Not yet. He's a feisty bugger, unwilling to depart this world w/o a fight. But the odds are stacked against him, because while he may be large next to his brothers and sisters, next to his nieces and nephews, next even to ol' Mom and Pops, he's still a roach.
W drops a file folder (green, legal size) on roachie's broken back, effectively blunting the impact (visibility) of the pending crime and thus sparing roachie total humiliation. He slowly (for effect?) raises that Gucci loafer, dropping/raising it so many times I question my own chances of surviving such a stomp-down.
You can guess the rest. Frank didn't make it. I'll be honest: I wasn't as sad I let on, although the experience was a heavy one. (I turned away through some of it.) And while I don't want to say it was worth it to watch L carry on like a small child and W act like it was a shark rather than a cockroach he was up against...
Well, I'm a bad liar anyway. You would've figured it out.
Tuesday, June 20, 2006
Famous
As my friend/boss Sarah was walking up Lexington over lunchbreak the other day, the illustrious Ms. Didion passed by. And while S, being a huge fan, would've recognized her anyway, there was no mistaking her identity, as she was carrying a brown paperbag w/ "Joan Didion" printed on it. Sigh. If only they all made themselves so conspicuous. I'm just sure I've walked straight past many a VIP and, in my zoned-out state, totally missed the gawking opp.
Pea, the lucky fool, saw Jeremy Sisto the other week. They were both in the vicinity of the Music Box Theatre where Sisto, otherwise known as Billy Chenowith of SFU fame, would perform in Festen, and Pea and I would take in our first Broadway show. The show, based on the Danish film The Celebration (see it!), was sort of a flop--not really a surprise considering the plot relies heavily on subtlety in facial expressions, something hard to pull off on the stage. Also, all of the action unfolded a) at a dinner table, and b) in a bedroom. The storyline called for more set diversity, like in the film. Then again, maybe if the acting had been stronger... Anyway, Sisto didn't disappoint, mostly (only?) because he delivered those classic Billy gestures--i.e., stomping around while raking his hands through his wild curls of his--serving to remind me of the best piece of TV ever created.
All things considered, made for a fun evening, even if we did pay $8 for a plate of celery sticks and a side of Wishbone Ranch at the Irish bar beforehand. Crudeites indeed.
I do blame her
Yesterday afternoon, while sitting at the orange place (as my fellow admins and I refer to it) w/ a bowl of cream of carrot soup and a loaner copy of Writer's Digest, my ears perked, my eyes lit, at the intro to a certain 80s song. That song, recorded by another fallen pop star, was "Only In My Dreams." Now don't get me wrong; while I may have questionable taste (I know, enough w/ the hyperlinks already), not since '89 (or so) have I considered it anything better than bad.
But there is emotional significance. See, OIMD had the potential to secure me a spot in the 1987 Jefferson Elementary School Talent Show. But we all know how sure 'potential' is. (I was a laughingstock. I didn't even make the first cut.)
How it went down: Sarah, Tara, and I were a pretty tight little trio throughout most of grade school. We were in jumprope club and Campfire together; we shopped for spandex, tie-dye, & shellacked pretzel earrings together; we rode bikes to Olson's Foods together; we discovered and ate Choco-Bliss together (they're really gone? aww); we went to McCollum Pool together. You know, about what you'd expect from a group of fourth-grade girls. Tight as we were, when one of us got the bright idea to showcase our talent, the other two went along w/ it. Naturally.
Of course, there was the problem of talent. What was ours? What did we possess as a group that would awe 'em, that would make their spiral perms go boing, their side-spikes quiver? We didn't yet play an instrument (the recorder doesn't count), so that was out. We didn't fool ourselves into thinking we had anything other than shower-singing voices--we certainly couldn't hold a candle to Kelly Reese, Jefferson's standout songster whose performance, years later, of "Wind Beneath My Wings" stunned Eisenhower Middle School students and their parents alike. So we couldn't sing, nor could we claim the ability to juggle, unicycle, perform gymnastics, or anything else that might set us apart from the other kiddies. Sarah and I might've brought our trademark jumprope routine to the stage, the one that had us jumping jointly over ropes twirled in eggbeater format (opposite of a doubledutch rotation, and w/ one rope swinging higher than the other--although the Webs try and tell me they're one and the same), and on top of that, twirling our own rope w/in the eggbeater operation. So like, I'd capture both her and myself. That is so not clear, I know. But we must've decided that one was tired. Oh, and it wouldn't have involved Tara.
Anyway, hours of brainstorming later, we had our act: We would dance. And not ballet or tap or anything as fancy as that. There was no name for what we were about to attempt, a form of dance we'd pair w/ an inspired lipsync. To Debbie Gibson. Sadly, this put Tar-Tar out of the running for good, intent as she was on going w/ Paula Abdul or Pebbles, or maybe Jody Watley. Sarah and I would have none of that, and although I probably pushed for Tiffany, we reached an eventual compromise w/ the woman responsible for those dumb black hats (which as I like to boast, I never stooped to). I can't remember how our rehearsals went, but I gotta think--hope--that they were a step up from the actual tryout. Because man was that tryout a flop. Come to think of it, that may have been the first time in my life I'd experienced true mortification. Yes, I think so.
It's not difficult to recount, nor is it complicated to explain. We made our way to the front of Ms. French's classroom, both of us red and wilting, and at the opening notes, we froze. I halfway-recovered, falling into our practiced move (yes, we had only one), which consisted of stepping from side to side--right-left, right-left--and pumping our fists in a vaguely circular motion. Sarah faltered a good deal more than I, unable to maintain the move for longer than a few seconds at a time. She also allowed herself to be overtaken by fits of nervous laughter, which I'm afraid didn't dignify us in the eyes of our peers. Oh, but the worst part had to have been the song's interlude, when Ms. Deborah breaks from singing to let the music take over. Sarah completely shut down there. As she shrunk into the background, I took the bullets all on my own, although I imagine most of my classmates had taken up passing notes and sticking braids in inkwells by then. (Didn't that happen to Anne once?)
Later that day, Ms. French's fourth-grade class voted us out of the running (had they not, we would've advanced to the second of three tryout rounds), for which I felt unequivocally indebted to them. Although I wouldn't have used that word.
It's funny, I don't even remember the lipsyncing part. I'm sure we managed for at least a little while, but all that comes to mind is that horrible, horrible dance move. (Man, if only I'd gotten it on tape.) Ultimately, I suppose the whole debacle was worth the grief, as it's events like these that make for some damn fun writing.
Monday, June 19, 2006
This & that
This: A more viable living space than that embedded wall platform available via craig a few months back. Well, maybe.
That: Also, a thought-provoking bit on the sensationalism of 'off-the-hook teens.'
Tuesday, June 13, 2006
(Not) only in my dreams
Last night's:
My friend Chrissy was working w/ an acting troupe that was doing a production of Peter Pan. For some reason, they'd neglected to nail down an actor for the role of Peter, and w/ opening night a day away, they were desperate. Chrissy thought, why not call Kristen? She'd be perfect! Apparently they wanted to go w/ a lightly-punky chick--a Petra--w/ a pieced-out pixie cut, and I apparently fit the bill. (??) So anyway, I went along w/ it, and early the next morning found me scouting the shelves of Fred Meyer for a tub of pomade. I looked for two hours, yet nothing. I was frantic, and when Chrissy called to find out where the hell I was at (I'd been expected to show up at the studio 1 1/2 hours prior to the performance, as I guess this was the time they figured it'd take for me to get my lines down), I sputtered something incoherent. She was surprisingly calm, even cheery--much as she is in real life--which evened me out a bit. Minutes later I found that damn pomade--probably Murray's, which is basically stiff Vaseline--and hightailed it to the studio. I was in the changing room doing myself up when I realized (was told? saw for myself? who knows) that the role had been re-cast, that some other chick was shuttled in, someone who, in the end, totally wowed the crowd, was perfect, etc.
A few obvious conclusions:
I'm a kid at heart; I refuse to grow up
I'm detail-oriented to a fault, which can lead to me missing out on things exciting
I'm not always superreliable
I'm subconsciously trying to fight the above points
My favorite color really is green after all (as a kid, I never strayed, green plastic cup & all)
Tehe. Less 'internal' post to follow.
Would-be multitasker
Upon opening one of the day's Daily Candy emails, "Cool Running" in the subject line, I read w/ growing interest about a service called NYC Run. Designed as an alternative for hotel treadmill-weary travelers, the deal is this: A person chooses between a half dozen different routes covering all sections of Manhattan as well as parts of Brooklyn and The Bronx, even Roosevelt Island. Distance is variable, w/ runs ranging from 3 to 13 miles and the potential to shorten certain ones, and over the course of the trek, the runner is debriefed on history/culture by an assigned running companion/tour guide. In pairing customer w/ guide, factors such as skill level and intended pace are taken into consideration.
What a great idea--for permanent residents like myself, even. My usual pattern has been to map out a route, ideally including some new territory, and then if/when my curiosity is piqued, hit up the ol' Net for answers once the run's behind me.
I love the concept of combining the two. Therefore, I chose my favorites--a 13.3-mile run following Broadway from one end to the other; and the "Uptown Run" covering sections of northern Manhattan and the Bronx, including Harlem, Washington Heights, and a run around Yankee Stadium--and went to sign myself up.
But wait, what's this? Fifty bucks for the first six miles and four bucks for each subsequent mile?? No thanks, man. Think I'll stay my course, keeping separate my own gratis trots + shoestring budget tours. I mean, I would've forked over like $10 or so, but a runner's gotta draw the line. Were I to cave, after all, I'd be spitting in the face of the egalitarianism--free for all, well, once one clears the initial shoe purchase--I find so appealing about the sport.
Still, drats. Would've been fun.
My life if income were irrelevant
Egads. 100,000 beads, my friends. A closer look.
Monday, June 12, 2006
Kneejerk
Hehe. I'm sitting at Mud Coffee--patio weather, yeah!--watching this guy who's reading A Confederacy of Dunces TOTALLY BUSTING UP. Oh my god, he's shameless! I love this, because back when I was reading, I sadly was not. Well, a little, but mostly I tried to stifle my nonstop amusement, hiding my twisted mouth, my tearing eyes behind my hands, menus, the book itself... Man, do I need to revisit that one. You know, I tried Walker Percy awhile back, but I gotta say, I don't know that there's anyone funnier than John Kennedy Toole. Is there?
RIP, dear comic. The world lost many laughs the day you decided to leave it.
[time lapse]
Okay, so I had to comment. The laughing guy & I just shared a few fond words about the book. Really paid off, too, as I just received an author recommendation. P.G. Wodehouse is the name. Anyone read him? He's already on my hold list. Weeeeeee.
Also funny is this, printed on the beverage page of Mud's menu: "If all blue states were to secede from the rest of the United States, one thing's for sure--no shortage of great beers!" I'll drink to that, yo.
Wednesday, June 07, 2006
Perhaps if I were to take up belief in god?
dd.pdf
How nice.
Tuesday, June 06, 2006
Redec
We got chives & we got thyme. What we don't got is basil. I don't know what happened.
We're now the proud rentors of a junior one-bedroom(!), thanks to Ms. "Sweet Mama" Seamstress. Just need to hem the thing... Also visible is our prized (foreverthanks, B&J) vintage bust. Noting the art to the left, you'll see it's clear: We have a thing for breasts.
Parted to reveal said bedroom + newly acquired (free, a given) art.
The artist is actually the previous tenant. She had scads (so not my favorite word) of these covering the walls. Talent! We were hoping she'd offer us one, but alas, she did not. This one was recovered by Pea, propped as it was next to the Dumpster. We figure our artist must've gifted another tenant, who moved out & left it for trash. Clearly, their loss, our gain.
Newly installed shelves. These puppies--now home to our eatingware--frees up valuable cabinet space. My dynamic selection of snackfoods [rubs tummy] has already moved in. (I promise those aren't mine.)
Abnorm
Upon walking from train to work, I saw a group of five 60something-year-old women planted on the sidewalk. They were wearing matching magenta t-shirts, "Sex & The City" splashed across the front. Kind of like this. Whatever does it for ya, I guess.
Monday, June 05, 2006
Rec
I get so sick of reading the same old websites day after day. Yet I rarely look beyond what I know. Once in awhile, I'll happen upon something new, almost always because one of those 'same old' sites has linked to it. Case in point: this blog, which made me smile when I really sort of needed to. Read through a few entries; you'll see what I'm talkin' 'bout.
Friday, June 02, 2006
Berserk
Roughly six hours ago, I was sure the world was coming to an end. Or, in the very least, New York City. I wasn't the only one in the office to entertain the thought; even the Gotham vets were whimpering. "Oh my god, what the hell is that?" "Look at the sky! How creepy!"
And it was. It started w/ plain darkness--5:00 looked more like 9:00. Then came the murk. My usually clear view of the Bloomberg Tower was clouded by thick, soupy greyness, and--I kid you not--the ol' heart kicked it up a few. I've never been one to scare easily, even when 'to scare' would probably be in my best interest, but since living here, the fear response has become more of a reflex, whatever the trigger. For instance, not infrequently the train will stall between stops just a wee bit longer than usual. Perfectly innocuous, but to me, slightly worrisome. "Hijack! Hijack!" This has absolutely everything to do w/ the knowledge of mass tragedy the city has witnessed. Had I moved here in '96, mid-stop pauses would've been welcome--"more reading time!" (Okay, so maybe I wouldn't have been looking at a net loss of fear, considering the likelihood of encountering it on my walk home from Astor to Alphabet*, but it would've been a different sort of fear--fear based on, like, getting mugged/stripped of the $5 to my name.)
But I digress. The sky, the sky. As I sat there in my ergonomic chair, work all but forgotten (haha, pretty hard when there's not, well, you know), I waited, watched, waited. When would it hit? When would all that moisture reach its breaking point? When would I hear that satisfying crack followed by the steady pounding of rain on metal/glass/pavement? Would I even be so lucky? Because it's the crack I always hope for; steady pounding sans crack isn't nearly as awesome. It's like when a baby's just about to lose it. Not quite there, but almost. The face grows red, the eyes squeeze shut, the mouth opens, widens, braces... then, WAHHHHHHHHH. Right on! Without proper punctuation--say our baby is distracted by, I don't know, a ball of Play-Doh or a jar of pureed apricots, which stops him/her just short of wailing--we're looking at some serious pent-up emotion. No good. (Do I need to remind I'm not a parent?)
in Seattle, the sky doesn't split like it does here. More often than not, it just spits/showers/drizzles--forever. Nice and easy, not unlike Seattle livin'. Sure, every so often a good mean one'll blow through, maybe knock down a few old pines, but even then, the stakes aren't the same. Explosive, snap-your-fingers-and-they're-over storms are more gratifying to experience here than there. They reflect the hectic New York lifestyle, and the behavioral pattern of many an agitated New Yorker, whether a person chooses to act or to internalize: get mad, get over it. Fits & starts. No grudges (no time). Where I'm concerned, flash storms act out these mini-tantrums I would love to let loose, but in a pretense of maturity, suppress. Inclement weather, conduit for my stress.
In Seattle, birthplace of ambling, I found little need for tantruming. I simply never got all that worked up to begin w/. I mean, really, what's gonna piss me off? Silkscreened tees? The woman who just placed her order for a double tall, triple this, light that, no something-or-other latte? No. Exasperated, maybe, but fuming-mad, uh-uh. You show me a Seattle block where takeout menus are shoved in my face, cyclists vie for supremacy over cars and pedestrians alike, Billy & his dog sing Cyndi Lauper at the top of their lungs, and every sixth dude treats the street corner like it's his own pet john--all at one time--and I will show to you the makings of a tantrum. (With any luck, it'll be around the Fourth of July, or some other date when Seattle w/o fail seems to storm.)
I never got my crack, and, unlike's the previous night's storm-as-it-should-be--split, whoosh, stillness--the dowpour lasted well into the night. Not ideal. My choice: protracted drizzle (melancholy) over protracted pouring (anger). Point for Seattle. Btw, I need a name for this. What's the word for when an external act portrays an internal feeling, even if only conceptually? Like, I love how perfectly the mood-storm relation plays out in my head, how precisely it all lines up. Really mentally satisfying. Word?
*Alright, so this is Alphabet city c. 1970. You get what I'm saying.
Thursday, June 01, 2006
Here we go 'gain
It's back. How gross.
Then there's that whole attention span thing
Good article on why short need not come second.