Tuesday, October 31, 2006
Lost & found
Imagine the excitement of this person upon realizing...
Awesome.
An unpublished sonnet that Sylvia Plath wrote in college while pondering themes in F. Scott Fitzgerald's novel "The Great Gatsby" will appear Wednesday in a Virginia online literary journal.
Plath, who committed suicide in 1963 at age 30, wrote "Ennui" in 1955 in her senior year at Smith College, said Anna Journey, a graduate student in creative writing at Virginia Commonwealth University. While researching Plath archives at Indiana University, Journey discovered the sonnet had not been published.
Further in (omg!):
When Plath's husband, the late British poet Ted Hughes, put together a collection of Plath's poetry in 1981, "he didn't pay much attention to her earlier poems," said Wagner-Martin, professor of English and comparative literature at the University of North Carolina. "He had the audacity to say, 'Plath's career started when she met me.'"
Friday, October 27, 2006
Here, there
Who's dressing up this year? And how? My dust bunny costume is almost complete, and I'm hoping to sweep the competition [ouch, don't hit!] at tonight's festivity--should we end up going. (I don't know, staying home and watching nonstop fright sounds pretty good, especially since it's raining w/ 40 MPH winds at the moment.) I think Pea has his sights set on a Swiffer costume.
This is fun. And how nice would it be if this were completed before we bail...
Say, does anyone own a GPS/running watch? M? If so, which one? A Garmin, by chance? I'm starting to shop around, and need advice...
Alright, I'm out. Happy Almost-Halloween, my little goblins...
Thursday, October 26, 2006
Word
Oh bother: Exterminator-man just called.
So true to my research, there's not a whole lot they can do in these cases. (Yet how I'd hoped we were somehow exceptional!) From my reading, I've found that some services, definitely not a majority, will actually remove chunks of wall in order to get at the offending carcass, then patch up as best they can (wall repair not being their specialty). BUT, it's hardly a sure thing that they'll end up removing the right chunk, so they may have to keep chipping, and chipping, and chipping... and then... No more wall! Because while it may seem obvious where behind the wall The Unfortunate lies (we have our keen noses to thank for a pretty strong suggestion), who knows what things look like on the other side. Odors can get re-routed.
Which is why our (very nice) exterminator doesn't deal in wall-axing. Instead, he deals in advice: You sorta just have to wait it out. The odor's probably at its height right now; in a week, should be better. I understand, I do. And as uncomfortable as the next week may be (rigged plastic tarp and all), I don't like thinking about the fact that, as I recline on the couch w/ my latest Netflick, or maybe a book, right at my back lies The Deceased--in due time, a sad and forgotten little ribcage.
(Only I won't have forgotten, clearly.)
These issues involving 'walls' and 'impossible odors' (recall the mothball sitch) are actually fascinating when I think about other current events in my life. As it occurred to me late last night while waiting for sleep, there are clear tie-ins (walls as walls, odors as others' demons).
Of course, it's too late to cancel tonight's hotel rez, so "vacation" it is. I'm undecided about that compensation appeal (what a rant that was!), but will probably give it a go, even though management is obviously not obligated to work w/ me here--at all. Still, that they never once bothered to call me back in a two-day period, well, it didn't have to go down that way.
Peee-you
[Verbatim email just sent to JW.]
Heyhey,
Semi-bad news: I can't leave here till 6:30. Life is crazy at the moment--not so much work-wise, but personally. I mentioned 'family stuff,' but another pressing concern has been the fact that we have a carcass (rat?) festering somewhere behind our wall. It started smelling up a (violent) storm two days ago, and it's only getting worse. I've put in repeated calls (7!) to management, and all talk on their end appears to be empty. They keep saying an exterminator will be in touch w/ us, but we have yet to hear a word. I told them it absolutely NEEDS to be taken care of TODAY, as we're experiencing some serious nausea. Their response: You'll have to wait your turn in the (exterminator's) queue.
So the last time I called them, I got their answering service--turns out they'd left for the day! I was stuttering and hiccuping into the phone, physically shaking, and said that if we didn't hear anything from either the exterminator or from management by 3:00, I would be booking a hotel rez and taking it out of our upcoming rent check. Well, sure enough, no call, so in a mad frenzy, I tracked down, amazingly, a $120/night condo rental near Lincoln Center (15-minute walk to work) and went for it. In the meantime, I've drawn up a detailed spreadsheet accounting for each and every pleading call I've put in, including how they responded, and this I will mail, along w/ hotel receipt, a formal memo, and our (adjusted) rent check, come November 1.
Gah! So that's the long version of why I can't leave here till 6:30. Got to get some "work" work done now. :)
But I'll see you & yours there at 7?
xo,
k
Nice, huh? Ah, well at least our timely guest had a robust cold when he showed up on our doorstep two days ago. Smell? What smell? But unfortunately, all signs point to imminent recovery, which is why tonight's "vacation" bodes well for him, too.
Here's another thing: I never did blog about it, because, well, you'll understand why when I tell--er, insinuate. In August 2005, as we were moving out of the South Williamsburg sublet en route to Bed-Stuy, a certain smell was wafting about the building. It was not a welcome smell, like freshly baked sugar cookies, but a smell that made leaving for a two-week, slapdash sublet a tad more bearable. Anything to get away from it, basically. Well, a few days later Pea got an email from our talented subletter, an email letting him know that one of the tenants who'd shared a floor w/ her/us--incidentally, someone she'd befriended over the course of her time there, and whom we were familiar w/ as the kind & eccentric resident "IT guy" who'd happily shared his wifi connection w/ us--was no longer in the land of the living.
I mentioned this little tale to our current management, for reasons clear (smell not so different), and while it seemed to light a fire under their sorely unprofessional ass--we'll find the contact info for your downstairs neighbor and try and get a hold of them, just to make sure everything's okay--the fact remains that we still haven't heard a damn thing. Oh, Pea went down and knocked on their door the other day, but no response. Of course, it was the middle of the (week)day, and there's that thing called "work"... Anyway, I know I'm paranoid.
And tired of smelling dead rat!
Wednesday, October 25, 2006
More PS pics
-
Oh, that's right
More commentary on the MJF ad. Good point(s).
If Mr. Fox did forgo medication for the advertisement as Mr. Limbaugh suggested, it could hardly be considered fraudulent: if anything, masking the extent of the disease’s ravages is the deception, not revealing them. (A spokesman for Mr. Fox said his tremors were caused by his medication.) It was certainly the most dramatic way Mr. Fox has to personalize the issue; he used his infirmity much the way the late Christopher Reeve did when he lobbied for stem cell research to seek a cure for spinal injuries.
Tuesday, October 24, 2006
Nerve
So what if he's since offered an apology, this is the most reprehensible story I've read in a good while. If RL had read up even briefly, he'd have realized that the timing of Parkinson's symptoms is erratic. Following a dose of meds, it can be difficult to predict when exactly they (symptoms) will resurface, which explains the visibility of Fox's condition while on camera. He can only plan to a certain extent.
I swear, how some folks must sleep at night.
Overstep
Okay, I'm irritated. My coworkers--the deeply spiritual ones--are taking it a bit too far. At the moment they're very openly praising their god, cheering and rejoicing, and it's just too much. Thanking their god for discovering they have $5 more on their MetroCard than they'd thought, for a $50 check handed them by an unlikely source, more. I have my beliefs, but unless pressed, I keep them to myself in the workplace. I don't know--maybe it's because I'm unusually stressed these days, but it's just getting to me. And it's feeling really inappropriate.
Eccentricity
Who-hoa. A PS front yard full of stuffed creatures. We debated taking PeteyPopp by before determining they'd freak at the sight of so many fenced-in animals. PP might even try and set the herd loose, which could spell trouble. As in, they might fall in w/ the wrong crowd.
Monday, October 23, 2006
Ne'ermind
I won't be seeing JCO after all, as I have no desire to travel to the UWS Barnes. (I could've sworn I'd read Soho.) Maybe if I hadn't been there just last Friday for an advance screening of Running w/ Scissors... which, by the way, was a letdown. Overdone, including this odd climactic scene where everything crescendos in a way that's way too clean. Had I not been familiar w/ the story (loving the book as I do), I would've left that theatre muttering "huh?" and "I spent $11 for that?" But I did know the story, which I guess allowed me to 'make it right in my head.' I don't know.
At any rate, the acting was good. As you've heard, Annette Bening nails it, and for that matter so does the Augusten-actor. Same w/ Evan Rachel Wood, although she's not as homely as I'd imagined Natalie to be. Eh, the doctor also did a fine job, looking and acting remarkably the part of the nutso patriarch (as embodied in the book). Gwyneth was annoying, and I didn't much care for Joseph Fiennes as Bookman, either.
I was so excited for its release, too. All that time spent on it, such buildup... Phooey.
Timing
In light of virtually everything that's going on in my life at the moment, I find the below quotes helpful on some level. And yeah, not only for their application to running.
"If the hill has its own name, then it's probably a pretty tough hill."
Marty Stern
Hal Higdon, "On the Run from Dogs and People"
Hal Higdon, "On the Run from Dogs and People"
Lewis Carroll, from
Unknown
Jack Daniels, Exercise Physiologist and Coach
Tom Petty
Tom Sobal, World Snowshoe Racing Champion
Aaron Cox, Winner of US Mountain Biking Championship
Juha "the Cruel" Väätäinen
Some honest feedback from a runner reacting to some attempted encouragement by one of their van mates who made the mistake of running along side and offering too much positive support during the Jasper to Banff Relay. (Runner's Tip: While perhaps not as polite, a simple hand gesture is not only more direct in terms of honest feedback, it is also more aerobically efficient.)
Mark Will-Weber, The Quotable Runner
Sue Luke
James Joyce
Don Kardong
Bruce Barton
The Rage, Training Tips "Comeback"
Stuff
View from our window one morning last week.
The last week has been a real ride, lemme tell ya. Between struggling to meet writing deadlines, working (still) to get the apartment in order, training, and learning that my little brother is going through an especially rough patch, 'hectic' doesn't quite suffice. I hope that doesn't sound whiny.
About the writing: I managed to submit the Seal Press essay on time (very last day, 10:00 PM no less), and had absolutely no problem meeting the minimum word count of 2,600 (and I was so concerned!). I'm pretty pleased w/ how it came out, and feel like regardless of whether I make the cut, I gained just from the process of writing it. Also due last week (Friday) was a mundane little story I was assigned to write for a Northwest-based magazine. I may have learned something--we'll see--about the value in being selective. Because, oh dear, getting the thing completed was like pulling teeth--impacted wisdom teeth. That I had such a difficult time cranking out something that I had little passion for makes good sense, but I of course got to thinking the other way: What an easy piece to write. Why ya having such a hard time? Guess you're not a very good writer, after all. Whatever. I managed to quell the demons in due time. Now it's on to the next project: Getting an essay that was accepted for publication in Shape submitted by the 31st. But hey, that's still a ways off, and I'm not too concerned.
Training... I've been pretty enthused these days, thinking about the upcoming marathon and all. Damn if I don't wish it was NYC I was excited for, but not much I can do there. (What is exciting is seeing the race banners flying high--already--along Fourth Avenue in Park Slope/Sunset Park/Bay Ridge. Also exciting is the fact that we essentially live on the route, meaning we get to avoid the race-day transportation insanity.) A good part of my enthusiasm has to do w/ the fact that, outside a pesky knee thing and a developing hip deal (how old of me!), I'm feeling really strong and confident in my running as of late. Eight milers are a breeze, and today's sixteen (followed Fourth to 96th Street and my beloved Verrazano, the bridge wowing me w/ its pretty light display and hulking columns, then turned on to that delectable promenade I discovered last week; ran from darkness to sun-up, which is guaranteed magical) certainly tried my strength toward the end (jelly legs, ahh!), but I chalked it up to a success nonetheless. Plus, psychologically it stood for a lot, as I've always considered that first 15-miler to be a sort of 'point of no return.' Like, under 15 is so close to half-marathon distance, but distances just above it start encroaching on full-marathon territory. It's like, once I've got a 15 under my belt, I know the whole thing's for real.
Another plus in my training is that I've been able to pay more attention than in the past to form--posture, arm swing, gait. Even toward the end of a long run, to be able to focus intently on and consciously make any necessary corrections to form feels like progress. Yay for that. A last running thought: I've spent a good deal of time researching (again) the cognitive aspect of running, in particular, the different modes of thinking that one takes up w/ while running. A relatively new breakdown is 1) internal association (thinking about things like hydration, labored breathing, muscle soreness, side stitches), 2) internal dissociation (daydreaming, working out math problems in one's head, making up song lyrics--I probably do too much of this during races), 3) external association (observing other runners, watching for aid stations, checking splits), and 4) external dissociation (admiring scenery, other non-running related distractions). Lately I've found myself observing exactly where I'm at in my thinking during runs. Ah! Caught you in a round of internal dissociation. There you go, k, externally dissociating again... Anyway, surely boring to many, but fascinating to moi.
What else... I continue to drool over our new neighborhood, and frankly, I can't believe we waited so long. East Village, East Schmillage. I love my new coffee houses (one--Mule--even doles out the Vita!), my antique shops, my used bookstores, the teensy organic food store on Eighth that offers the finest beefsteak tomatoes and Honey Crisp apples known to woman. Eating out doesn't appear to be especially affordable, but we're working on that one. Really I adore just walking around, primarily up and down our own Sixth Avenue, where these days many a brownstone can be seen decked out in Halloween zaniness. And the quiet--well, that's real nice, too.
Ooh, guess who's reading tonight in Soho? Joyce Carol! And this time I'm truly committed. I will be there, and I will introduce myself and have her sign a copy of the article to which she contributed. (Hopefully she'll remember it.) Speaking of reading, I just finished a book by Kazuo Ishiguro called Never Let Me Go. Read it? It's a winner. Reeeal good. Ishiguro was recommended to me by several friends, but I'd just never gotten around to reading him. Until last w/e. And while I do recognize the points of the many less-than-great reviews of the book, it's ultimately a stunning commentary on the human condition (and while given the premise it's necessarily labeled as such, it's a far cry from sci-fi), asking, as it does, the fundamental question of 'what's the point, anyway?' Plus, it's written in that filmy, nostalgic style that I so love. I must-must-must read his others, maybe Remains of the Day first.
Lastly, and most importantly, many of you are aware that I have a younger brother. Well, like I said, he's having a tough time of things at the moment, so if you would, send some uplifting thoughts his way (or if you don't know him, send to me and I'll relay).
xoxo.
Thursday, October 19, 2006
Dear readers,
I know you're out there. Please help.
1) Anyone have an inkling as to whether $250 is a good/decent deal for a r/t flight to Phoenix in mid-January?
2) What's the best (read: cheapest) way to travel between Dublin and London? We may have a car, but in case not, I need backup. (Oh, forgot to mention: Tiff & I are going! Really truly! We fly into DUB on the 4th and depart the 12th, and are planning three days in LON.)
3) We scored a great old trunk (I'd guess it's at least 70 years old) via our buddy craig for a ridiculous 30 buckaroos. Of course there'd be a catch: The interior reeks of mothballs. The (considerable) reseach I've conducted points to fresh air as the best treatment--not vinegar, not charcoal, not Febreeze or Lysol, but a good old fashioned airing out. Should we decide to go this route, and it's looking like we will, some careful rigging will be necessary. See, there's no way we're hoisting the beast out on to the fire escape, and well, this ain't Seattle so we've no backyard. Therefore, we're thinking we'll wall of the kitchen w/ a plastic tarp, trunk set w/in, and leave the window wide open/the fan going strong for a week or so while we're at work. Thoughts? Anyone got any surefire tricks for us?
4) How can I get by on 5.5 hours of sleep a night? I swear I used to be able to do this, but ever since the move, I can't seem to function on anything less than 7. I blame the PS babies. And maybe my training.
Wednesday, October 18, 2006
Are you crying? Yeah, huh? Don't be embarrassed. After all, these prompted me to investigate cake decorating classes in Brooklyn. Just watch me.
Oh, and uh, go Huskies?
Tuesday, October 17, 2006
To run is to know
Halfway into one of last week's 7-milers, I stumbled upon the above. Ever since it started popping up on Curbed (and everywhere else), I've wanted to pay a visit to this newcomer to South Brooklyn's Red Hook neighborhood. As you can see (although not my pic), the produce displays are wonderous, and I've reason to believe the interior stacks up as well. Think we'll go back this w/e. On the same run, I found the only regulation-sized track w/in three miles of our new address (as a helpful Slope Sports employee tells it), which may or may not come in handy during my current training. Really enjoyed the scenery (Coffey Park, quite pretty) that Red Hook offers. Charming in a semi-dilapidated kind of way, and peaceable (not in the creepy sense--plenty of workers out in the a.m.), it's a neighborhood I would've considered moving to were it not for such poor subway accessibility. Makes for a good trek. Oh, at one point I rounded a corner to find a HUGE loft complex--all brick and age. Wanting to get a closer look, I ran through an attached parking lot, and although it appeared to be gated, it actually wasn't and I was able to skirt the perimeter of a small part of the building. I found a glass blowing studio and a handful of idyllic little galleries. The setting was so serene, and I felt, I don't know, privileged to spend a brief minute there. 
A short run took me past the Greenwood Cemetery, as well as through it. The 'through' part ended up getting me in a wee bit of trouble--"no jogging through the cemetery, miss, ya here?"--something I still fail to understand. Because I'll have you (him) know that I was feeling nothing but reverence, and a sense of privilege at being there in the company of so many--i.e., Henry Bergh, Leonard Bernstein, Samuel Blatchford, DeWitt Clinton, Nathaniel Currier, Charles Feltman, Horace Greeley, Thomas Hastings, Elias Howe, Walter Hunt, James M. Ives, Laura Keene, Brockholst Livingston, William Livingston, Pierre Lorillard, Frank Morgan Wuppermann, Samuel F.B. Morse, James Kirke Paulding, Samuel Reid, Alice Roosevelt, Martha Bulloch Roosevelt, Robert Roosevelt, Theodore Roosevelt, Ira Sankey, F.A.O. Schwarz, Henry Steinway, William Steinway, and Louis Comfort Tiffany--who graced the earth before my time. Harumph. So much for that.
It's full of beauty. To quote Curbed-reader/comment-er 'babs' on September 12, 2006, 3:13 PM: The Green-Wood Cemetary is actually quite a lovely destination and more of an advantage in terms of location than the opposite. In addition to the many famous people buried there (going all the way up to J-M Basquiat) and architecturally-significant monuments, it is a beautiful place for a stroll [and/or a run --KE] -- believe it or not (and it has a resident parrot colony). Prior to Prospect Park being designed, people used to regularly go to the Green-Wood to picnic. It has nothing to do with most people's image of a cemetery, as in those acres of horror that you see going through Queens.
Whoa! While on yesterday's 10-miler, having chosen Bay Ridge as my destination, I found this gem of a park en route (actually, in Bay Ridge), which is replete w/ perfect, pastoral little trails. I eventually found myself atop a grassy knoll affording views of BR, my dear Verrazano, Manhattan in the way-off distance, Lady Liberty, and plenty of shimmery blue (well...) water.
Once out of the park, this promenade starts up, and continues all the way to the bridge (faintly visible here) and beyond(?) I can't wait to take it further--maybe that'll be Sunday's 15'er.
Again, that park.
Sweet.
Promenade.
That's Manhattan engulfed in, uh, what do they call that "smoke or other atmospheric pollutants combined with fog in an unhealthy or irritating mixture?" Yeah.
Bay Ridge = totally adorable.
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Monday, October 16, 2006
So dirty it's good
Dirtcake. W/ worms.
Does it get any cuter? No matter the thing quickly disassembled itself in my lap; those worms were worth every stray crumb. I bought it at a sidewalk bake sale run by two adorable kids* ("that'll be 50 cents"; "no, it's 75, Tommy"), both of whom promised me goodness-at-first-bite. Couple o' honest kids there.
*Park Slope, true to reputation, is swarming w/ these. So much so, I'm worried I'll wake up one morning and find that I, too, have one. (Oh come on, not really.) They come in many different ages.
Telephone game
This was one of like three items left in the pastry display case at Tea Lounge the other night. While presumably it had been sitting there since seven in the a.m., I couldn't resist the opportunity to try a new rendition. Anyway, I'm strangely unable to detect staleness in most foods (same w/ rot in most towels), so I figured I was safe.
Tasty--although a clear deviation from today's norm. It wasn't a brick, but it wasn't a cloud, either. Definitely more va-va-voom than some of the recently tested varieties. The frosting was also a different animal; actually, it took me back to Kelly's (or Sarah's, or Tara's, or Jen's, or Leanne's, or...) fourth-grade birthday party, when Mr. Duncan Hines was sure to be in attendance. Full-bodied and wrapped snug in a rainbow sprinkle blanket.
Yes.
Pretty pretty princess
While her choco-choco hardly let me down quality-wise, Amy really came through w/ this yuh-ummy vanilla-vanilla--as you know, always my favorite. Like before, the wrapper irked, but what it was hiding made it worth the minor irritation. Like Yura's, the cake was light as air. Almost too light, come to think of it. Thankfully, that substantive swirl of frosting really came through, lending the little sweetie some heft.
Mmm.
Thursday, October 12, 2006
Unless, like me, you lusted after awful 80s game shows
you probably won't care to read this story. Then again, maybe you will, considering the sheer implausibility of it. Crazy!
... In order for Michael to keep his winnings, he'd have to remain trapped on the stage of Press Your Luck forever. His situation was an infinite loop from which there was no escape: he'd learned how to trigger only plunger-hitting patterns nailing a cash prize and a free spin. According to the game's rules, this "free" spin would eventually have to be spun. In other words, each plunger push would lead to another. Nobody else could play, and Larsen himself could never stop playing.
The only way to break this loop would be for Larsen to abandon any pretext of surefire pattern matching. He would literally have to Press His Luck like a regular contestant, plunging the Big Board onto a non-winning square, a non free-spinning square, and one possibly yielding a Whammy capable of draining him of every penny. When he pushed the plunger the last and final time -- Michael Larsen won a trip to the Bahamas. He stopped playing, to thunderous applause. ...
Kicky site, too.
Tuesday, October 10, 2006
She means well
My friend Linda, whose kitty Raoul* has a friend named Freak, just suggested I open a shop. She says I should call it K10's Krunklyn Kakes. But I'm not so sure.
*I miss hearing about his daily larks, and think Linda should start up a newsletter. The Raoul Record. I dunno, something.
Monday, October 09, 2006
Bonk
Two-thirds of the way into the most epic of essays I've ever written (I'm talking length alone here; ain't nuthin heroic about it), I wrote the word "bonkers." A split second later, my mouth was watering. Nutty, eh? I guess I still strongly associate "bonkers" w/ the candy, and recalling w/ strange immediacy the feel and taste of this particular candy in my mouth (how long have Bonkers been defunct? long time), I experienced the same mouth-tingle as I do when a string of Zotz (Economy Candy has these!) is placed before me.
I know it's only sweets we're talking, but the episode gave me an odd sense of comfort--like I'm not so far removed from my little kid-self, after all. Confirmation that I'm basically the same person I was 20 years ago.
This just in: Went to The Container Store over lunch. While I was standing in line, this woman says to me, "Now I know what my friend meant when she said this place is like a candy store for women." I laughed courteously, but inside I couldn't have been more disagreeable. The only candy store for me is an actual candy store. Give me a stick of Mambas over an underbed storage bin any day. Lady's comment was also sexist. My boyfriend, for one, loves to organize. Er, in theory anyway.
Saturday, October 07, 2006
Ohhh, get me away I'm dyin'
Nice barista just slipped If You're Feeling Sinister into the player. And I thought it couldn't get better.
Still, progress is spotty.
Must... keep... going.
Appearances
Sometimes I HATE BLOGGER. Why is half of that last entry in huge font? I can't do anything about it. This is just the sort of thing I waste time getting irritated about. Pfft.
Giddy
Right about now, life's pretty durn decent. I'm sunken into the world's cushiest couch in the world's most adorable cafe, a cafe which so happens to be three short blocks from our apartment. The staff couldn't be friendlier, the chocolate chip cookies couldn't be tastier, the coffee couldn't be... well, the coffee could be better, but since the bar's set much lower here than there, no complaints. Oh, another perk: The muse couldn't be more accessible. I'm ready! Er, right after I'm done w/ this blog entry.
I've got a lot lot lot to get done this w/e, writing-wise. I'm halfway into drafting a new pitch for RW--same column (Mind+Body), similar concept. I've already got my sources on board and have even interviewed one, which will definitely lend some credibility to my pitch, a pitch I will have completed and submitted by tomorrow night. Wish me luck.
There's more--and this is the real doozie. (Why say that? I hate that word.) I'm hellbent on sending something for consideration in this anthology (scroll down a ways), as I know I've got a great essay in me. I have a good start, but as the minimum word count is 2,600, I've only just scratched the surface. Deadline: October 15. Ouch. I'm really hopeful about this one, though, and seeing it published would really mean something to me. Wish me even more luck.
On other fronts, there's Operation Fix Shithole, a project that's coming along sweetly, yet w/ a few bullets still to address. Like:
- Buy hanging devices
- Decorative mirror
- Functional mirror
- Art
- Shelf
- Boobs (anyone who's seen our previous living quarters knows what I refer to)
- Trip to Ikea to purchase cushion for found-item #11--a lovely yet unloved-by-another chair frame
- Address ugliest kitchen flooring in all the land
- Bid on (and win!) TV trays (in lieu of a coffee table, which we can ill-afford due to space constraints)
- Acquire huge & amazing print from huge (hearted) & amazing artist-friend
- Visit Cobble Hill to check out probable chandelier purchase
- Duvet cover?
Still, thank god for the hefty security deposit check due us on Monday.
Oh man, I went for my first run through Prospect Park this morning, and in line w/ the rest of my day, it could not have gone better. Leaves crunching beneath my feet; fully canopied trails reminiscient of Discovery Park's; huge expanses of lawn uninterrupted by the destination landmarks of Central Park; three-year-olds "playing soccer," delighted parents cheering from the sidelines; FELLOW RUNNERS (not nearly as common a sight along my old East River trail)... I dunno folks, training-wise, this just may be as good as it gets. I'm going out again tomorrow for the week's long run--a 14-miler--and plan to take my camera along. I'll try and remember to use it. I've also got more pictures of the neighborhood to post, which I'll do on Monday.
Now, about those deadlines...
Thursday, October 05, 2006
I'm not worthy
x
Debasement
As an editor, I shed a few tears upon reading this story:
SCOTTSDALE, Ariz., Oct. 4 -- When the president speaks, every word can be subject to scrutiny. Even the punctuation marks.
Just a comma? Just a comma?? I happen to be of the mind that the comma is an extremely underappreciated punctuation mark. So often, people (and I'm no exception) plug it into sentences w/ reckless abandon, undaunted by so-called 'silly grammar rules' that instruct the utmost discrimination in employing it. And while you could argue that this implies the opposite--namely, an endless celebration of its dividing powers--I couldn't disagree more. It's mistreatment. It's overuse and it's abuse.
Back to that article. We all know Bush's stance on grammar: to hell w/ it. Therefore we can safely assume that when he referred to "this traumatic period in Iraq" as "just a comma," he was not, as aides are saying, reinforcing his "message of resolve in the long struggle for Iraqi democracy." Instead, armed w/ his metaphorical comma, he was devaluing 2,700 troop deaths.
Much as he does the entire English language.
Tuesday, October 03, 2006
Last week(s)
Oh no. I can't bring myself to write captions. My blog is terrifying me. This is what happens when I go too long w/o writing in it. Strange, isn't it?
I'm also just busy.
NO TIME!
I've been feeling especially anxious/distraught these last few days, due in good part to the physical exhaustion associated w/ moving. But there's also a mental component--the part of me that questions why it is I'm doing what I'm doing, if it's really worth investing so much time in, if maybe I shouldn't be doing something completely different, if maybe I shouldn't have made different choices in school, why I seem to have such a hard time relaxing sometimes...
I'll stop. And add captions. :)
Water as whiskey (and that SE deceptively ends w/ an I, not an X). Ah, marketing.
Might not strike you as being noteworthy, but when I bought these little travel-sized containers, I had to laugh at the pre-printed labels for 'hair fudge,' 'bronzing powder,' and 'shimmer powder.' Apparently such items are considered staples these days.
Not our street (pic coming), but a nearby one. Tree-lined indeed!
Seventh Avenue, Park Slope. 
The trees don't quit. And check out that luscious architecture.
As I like to say, "A place just isn't yours until the fridge has your stamp on it. For us, this translates to a magnificent magnet collection, A+ grad school papers, race bibs, notable news stories (namely, commentary on the Bush/stem cell debacle and a cartoon about WA state's birth-controlling pharmacists), and BABIES (and their art).
Not all looks well in the new digs. Note the decayed shelf paper lining the under-sink cabinet. Such fixes will take time, as they take a backseat to other more pressing concerns--leaky faucets, for instance, and a shower stall patched together by a three-year-old. 
What a weird image. Hard to get perspective, what w/ the dark paint job at the opening of our apt. That part of the picture almost looks like a painting. Anyway, it's not. This was taken over the w/e, and you'd hardly believe the progress we've made. That's right, in less than a week's time, we've done all the walls (granite color in the first 'room,' a light gray in the second, white everywhere else), laid down some kickass carpet, installed a new sink, scoured the place from top to bottom (actually, cleaning was done the w/e before move-date), and unpacked ALL boxes. Not too shabby. Say, that last sentence reminds me of a recent elevator exchange that took place between one of our co-CEOs & I. Me: Hi R. R: Hello. How are you? Me: Not too shabby--and you? R: [blank look on face] 'Not too shabby'-- is that your way of saying you're doing well? Me: Uh, yeah. Must be a Seattle thing.
I'm so not cut out for corporate.
There are a few choice details--like this perfectly intact, 50s-like shelf paper found lining one of the above-sink cabinets. Too bad no one'll see it.
Whoa--it's a sink w/in a sink! 
That vintage cart you see was found by yours truly on a stretch of EV sidewalk. That's right, I scored a fine piece of garbage yet again! It had four distinct layers of grime on it, but it was nothing my newfound favorite cleaning product couldn't knock out. (I swear, I never thought I'd live to see the day when I raved like a madwoman about a cleaning product, but if you haven't already experienced its incredible grime-fighting powers, go out and buy yourself a bottle of Krud Kutter--even if your place is grime-free, in which case you should pluck a piece of trash off the street and give it a spray. The krud will slide off before your very eyes, minimal wiping required. Like the Diet Coke/Mentos insanity, it's a real must-see. *Word to the wise: Do not use on varnished surfaces, for not only will Krud Kutter kut your krud, it'll kill your shine. Trust me. 
What a foul choice. That offensive linoleum (nothing against linoleum, but what a pattern!) paired w/ that pointless gold-speckled wall siding... Better believe an eventual kitchen remodel is in order. Thing is, I might be in favor of leaving the siding in place, as it goes w/ our color scheme of black/brown/beige/gray/silver/gold/bronze. Might look kind of neat above some classy black & white (squares) linoleum. 
Full steam ahead. (Manhattan Bridge pictured.) Pea's in the driver's seat of the U-Haul that ended up the source of so much grief. Here's how it went down: We parked the beast on Sixth, getting as close as we could to the car on the right side of the street. While this allowed your average sedan--even smallish delivery trucks--to pass through w/o difficulty, the bigger guys stuggled. What did this mean for us? It meant that while one of us made trips up and down the stairs, to and from our blasted sixth-floor walkup, the other kept post next to the truck, for the purpose of watching for would-be thieves, organizing the load, and keeping an eye out for the aforementioned bigger guys. So like, every time one showed up, the person on truck-duty would phone the other person, who would come flying down the stairs in time to (hopefully) avoid the stream of honking that was a constant threat. This scene played out a dozen times, resulting in Pea making a dozen trips around the block so that Mr. Oversized could scoot himself by.
Sometimes the bigger guys got ballsy--uninterested in waiting, intent on squeezing through. Although I almost lost teeth in the process of clenching my jaw as I looked on, they generally had no problem. Practice makes perfect, I suppose. One guy, however, missed the mark. His was an especially wide load, and honestly, I could've seen it coming. He was about halfway into the maneuver when CRAAACK--there went the side mirror on the Civic just left. Oh, man! The driver paused, then started moving, making me think he was planning to ditch out. I mean, really, I figure this happens all the time here (the hitting and the ditching). But no, he was simply pulling his rig up ahead of the mess. He, a Chinese man who didn't appear to speak English, inspected his mess-up, and after standing around awhile, scrawled his number on a paper scrap that he then slid under a wiper. In the midst of all this, a trail of cars/trucks had piled up behind his ride, and had I been in a finer mood, I might have appreciated the chorus of multi-tonal horns piercing the cool afternoon air. But I wasn't, so I didn't.
Pea's surprise 30th bday party, organized by moi and held at the best Indian restaurant on Sixth. 
The cake: 50s design, strawberry ice cream inside. When the staff brought it out, they turned on these crazy disco lights, thereby initiating a restaurant-wide singing of Happy Birfday. We were so full at this point, the hoopla was more fun than the cake.
See that one w/ the chick on the cover? Bitchfest? My friend Sarah's writing's inside. (From SFGate.com: In "Hoovers and Shakers," a neighbor's comment that vacuuming is a good calorie burner leads writer Sarah McCormic to research and ridicule the recent trend in magazine articles urging women to "be less efficient when doing chores," to carry their babies upstairs and sweep rather than vacuuming. She points out the unlikelihood of finding an article in Men's Health headlined "Wash windows for killer biceps!" or "Lose that gut with a little mopping!"
The cart gets its closeup, w/ one small addition.
Post scrub-down. 
Pre-carpet, post-stripping of two layers of flooring: pink & white linoleum (pattern wasn't so bad; the fact that it existed outside the kitchen/bathroom was) and the nastiest lay of carpet I've seen in awhile.
A hearty thanks to the previous tenant for this nice bottle of Denorex!
Process.
Ugly kitchen again.
Yanked carpet padding.
Another of two or so upsides: pretty bathroom flooring.
I believe this is a before-shot, but it sure doesn't do the pre-cleaned toilet justice.
Ours!
While my ma & Peter were in town the other week, we went on the Circle Line cruise I've been interested in since moving here. In three hours' time, you go around the entire island (hence the name), w/ a jovial old guide pointing out notable spots. One thing that really got me was how green Manhatttan is. I'd heard that the top o' the island affords much different views than further south; I'd just never seen it w/ my own two eyes.
At the point when we were rounding the very top, I looked out over the Hudson and swore I was in Puget Sound. Amazing.
Queensboro Bridge--just four blocks from my work.
Oh, her. :)
Spectacular up close. 
GW Bridge! Man, I've been yearning to step foot on this one for months now, and I'm determined to incorporate it into my current marathon training. (January'll be here before I know it. Thank god for Prospect Park--two blocks from new home, and if you ask me, just as great as Central.) 
W/ min mor. 
Still Mannahatta. You'd never guess, eh? 
Courtesy of the kind folks at Union Square Cafe, where birthday dinner was enjoyed by all present. Especially dazzling (next to dessert, ahem) were the Heirloom tomatoes and buffalo mozzarella straight from Greenmarket. Oh, and after din-din, we hit Broadway for a showing of Avenue Q, which--while I had a few puppet-apprehensions going into the deal--was so good. If you're local, you should go.-715510.jpg)
Happy Birthday to me. Respect for the pigtail--my coworkers are the best.
Ma & I spent all of Saturday trolling the EV/LES. Upon stopping for a donut break (can't remember name of the place--it's on Grand), I fell in love w/ this fantastic bench inside the shop. Play!
Ma & Peter stayed at the Chelsea Hotel, the interior of which is pretty rambunctious. Paintings, prints, photographs--many contributed by past guests--line the walls, and while a lot of it's great, a lot of it's not. The place is dilapidated in general, but you know, charm. History. After all, Mark Twain, William Burroughs, Thomas Wolfe, Dylan Thomas, Arthur Miller, Bob Dylan, Janis Joplin, Jimi Hendrix & Sid Vicious all did time here. These days, like 75 percent of occupants are live-ins, the others actual hotel guests.
Pea & I paid a visit one evening. There were definitely ghosts.
Dogs for Darfur! This little squirrel was more animated than any of the humans I saw at last month's Save Darfur rally in Central Park. (Did Seattle have one?)
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