Drop Out. Out Run. Pass It On.

Footie-themed spam.

2008-06-24T12:12:00.003-04:00

And I don't mean footsie. I've been spending a lot of the last couple weeks watching Euro Cup 2008, and since I feel awkward calling it soccer, I've been calling it footie half the time. Reminds me of being in England I guess. At least I haven't been referring to it as "the beautiful game."

The spam-a-lots have been sending me hilarious Euro-themed spam this week. Portugal lost to Germany last week and I got an email with the subject line "Germany shows Portugal the strength in an extra inch."

Today I got one with subject line "Euro 2008 predictions & analysis". The email read, "Mine is long enough that 2 girls can suck on my hotdog at any time."

From the archives (paper).

2008-06-19T00:05:00.002-04:00

9/18/17/06.

In a greenhouse. Cafe Gigi. I can regrettably smell my feet. Best to put them back in their shoes for my companion's sake. A BMW just pulled out and now a Mercedes is pulling in. The BMW operator was a better driver. He is reading Descartes across from me while I've stopped sucking in my stomach. I thought I was going to be sick earlier but a torrent of food and carbonated water seems to have settled the uprising. The driver of the Mercedes is on crutches. This strikes me as a strange sight. But I suppose you only need one good foot to drive.

Just read excerpts of Susan Sontag's journals and want to be more like her. Read three heartbreaking short stories this weekend and don't think I'll read any more. I'd finish a story, meditate on its details and strengths, then fall into uneasy dreams. I need something upbeat. Or characters in less pain. Maybe some humor.

Sontag was a "NY intellectual." I wonder how she became that way, how she gained entry into the circles she circumferenced, when her journals reveal the sort of stifling self-doubt and insecurity of someone I wouldn't expect to easily hold her own against the likes of Jasper Johns, Sartre, and Lillian Hellman. She is human. She is vulnerable. She has something worth saying. I feel I could be like her. But I think that's a bit generous.

The tiramisu between us is mostly gone. A couple are perched on the stoop across the street. It's a quiet block, and the whirr of the air conditioner is a surprisingly comforting drone. It trumps the couples, the cars, and the intermittent chaos. I hope it's helping him study. I hope I have one good story in me, or if I'm lucky, one good novel.

I am very very sleepy. These streets are too narrow and stacked with garbage bags for tomorrow's pickup. I've been thinking about slotted spoons. I saw an adorable baby today. And some precious dogs in Madison Square Park. I really wanted to hold something.

The NYT was silly today.

2008-05-07T18:12:00.005-04:00

First there was this:

Then there was this:

The mind of the wine consumer is a woolly place, packed with odd and arcane information fascinating to few. Like the pants pocket of a 7-year-old boy, it’s full of bits of string, bottle caps and shiny rocks collected while making the daily rounds of wine shops, restaurants, periodicals and the wine-soaked back alleys of the Internet. It’s harmless stuff, really, except to those within earshot when a wine lover finds it necessary to elaborate on the nose, legs and body of a new infatuation.

I don't think a sentence should ever start, "Like the pants pocket of a 7-year-old boy..." And then the end of the paragraph called to mind more perversion: "...elaborate on the nose, legs and body of a new infatuation."

Woolly place! My mind is a woolly place!

Recent reads.

2008-04-29T01:38:00.006-04:00

I dropped the ball on this blog again. But I think I'll continue to use it as a place to record the books I've read, considering that recording my thoughts and musings on a regular basis is apparently too difficult for me.

So, the books I have consumed in the past 6.9 months:
"A Madman Dreams of Turing Machines," Janna Levin
"The Namesake," Jhumpa Lahiri
"A Farewell to Arms," Ernest Hemingway
"Cloud Atlas," David Mitchell
"No Country for Old Men," Cormac McCarthy
"Shortcomings," Adrian Tomine
"Wuthering Heights," Emily Brontë
"Look Back in Anger," John Osbourne
"Paris France," Gertrude Stein (abandoned halfway through in favor of starting "The Savage Detectives")

My primal response to each, in chronological order:
Ugh.
Luff!
Waaa.
Meh.
Hmmm.
Wow.
Bahaha.
Waaa.
Meh.

"The Savage Detectives" is great so far. Looking at past entries, I realize I also read "Go Tell It On the Mountain" by James Baldwin somewhere in the past year and a half, though I can't recall when. It was just OK.

I love my crunchy hometown.

2007-11-21T21:36:00.001-05:00

Back in San Francisco for Thanksgiving again, and wondering how many more of these there will be. My grandma's turning 93 this year, and I have no clue whether our yearly family reunions will continue when she's gone. I know I've always been curious to celebrate Thanksgiving with friends, or go to someone's house that is closer to NY than California is. It's something I've never known.

Coming home for Thanksgiving was the bane of my existence for a long time—I hated talking to people about my life in New York because I always seemed to be having a depressed autumn. I found the Saturday night Chinese banquet exhausting and superficial. I dreaded going home so much that I'd get completely plastered the night before and miss my flight (this has happened twice). But perhaps sooner than I'd like I'll have a choice when it comes to this bizarre holiday.

Our house is too big. We lose each other easily. We yell unnecessarily.

Our dog is short of memory and endlessly amusing. I talk to him and he seems to remember who I am. I like driving with him in the passenger seat.

The city has completely gotten rid of plastic bags in supermarkets, and every place sells eco-totes or the like. The powers that be are also looking into turning restaurants' used vegetable oil into biodiesel. All the beans at the coffee shop are fair trade. We have a philandering mayor.

Our family are foregoing our usual brined turkey and making a 10-lb standing rib roast instead. The oil spill has made Bay Area seafood unsafe to eat, but 100,000 pounds of crabs just arrived from Oregon, so maybe tomorrow we will have our usual first course of cracked Dungeness crabs.

Fung Tai made a fresh batch of tea eggs at my sister's and my request. I must get a recipe from her, but it will be a test of my Cantonese to do so.

My small independent high school just started teaching Mandarin. I'm seeing a friend from high school tonight who I haven't seen in about 5 years. I've reconnected with a few people from high school within the past two weeks, and it's been surprisingly refreshing. Maybe I'm ready to face all the things that made me want to leave San Francisco. I keep saying I want to move back to the Bay Area next year, but I don't know how much I believe it. Every time I come back to visit it feels like a trial run, though it really isn't because I'm in my parents' house on my parents' schedule.

I do love this city though. It makes me proud to be from here.

Back with a vengeance.

2007-10-03T16:15:00.003-04:00

I used to love blogging. But I ran out of time. I took that job. I quit that job. I moved to Brooklyn. I ate my words.

And I read more books (and started and stopped a few):
"My Life and Hard Times," James Thurber
"Austerlitz," W.G. Sebald
"Stiff," Mary Roach
"On Beauty," Zadie Smith
"Chicken with Plums," Marjane Satrapi
"A Confederacy of Dunces," John Kennedy Toole
"Slouching Towards Bethlehem," Joan Didion
"The Great Gatsby," F. Scott Fitzgerald (again)
"A Pale View of Hills," Kazuo Ishiguro
"Dipa Ma," Amy Schmidt
"The Devil in the White City," Erik Larson
"Little Children," Tom Perrotta
A few selections from "The Thing on the Doorstep" by H.P. Lovecraft, before I got too spooked.
A few stories from "You Are Not A Stranger Here" by Adam Haslett, which gave me very bad dreams.

I want to start writing again. I missed this.

Upgrading from grizzly to polar.

2006-09-28T10:22:00.000-04:00

Fall is here, and so of course winter is inevitable. Which means that I will start posting gratuitous pictures of polar bears and penguins. Here's a cutie preview:

Tidbits.

2006-09-28T10:05:00.000-04:00

* I really think I should pursue a career as an obituary writer for The New York Times. Here's why.
* Weather.com desperately needs a new slogan. "Bringing weather to life" doesn't make any sense. As far I know, weather is already very much... alive.
* The other day I compared my friend's semi-unemployed live-in boyfriend to a Roomba.

“Do you like scary movies?”

2006-09-21T07:35:00.000-04:00

Pandas and beer don't mix.

2006-09-20T10:54:00.000-04:00

From Yahoo! News comes this lovely story about a drunk Chinese migrant worker and a panda named Gu Gu.

Panda Bites Man, Man Bites Him Back

BEIJING - A drunken Chinese migrant worker jumped into a panda enclosure at the Beijing Zoo, was bitten by the bear and retaliated by chomping down on the animal's back, state media said Wednesday.

Zhang Xinyan, from the central province of Henan, drank four jugs of beer at a restaurant near the zoo before visiting Gu Gu the panda on Tuesday, the Beijing Morning Post said.

"He felt a sudden urge to touch the panda with his hand," and jumped into the enclosure, the newspaper said.

The panda, who was asleep, was startled and bit Zhang, 35, on the right leg, it said. Zhang got angry and kicked the panda, who then bit his other leg. A tussle ensued, the paper said.

"I bit the fellow in the back," Zhang was quoted as saying in the newspaper. "Its skin was quite thick."

Other tourists yelled for a zookeeper, who got the panda under control by spraying it with water, reports said. Zhang was hospitalized.

Newspaper photographs showed Zhang lying on a hospital bed with blood-soaked bandages and a seam of stitches running down his leg.

The Beijing Youth Daily quoted Zhang as saying that he had seen pandas on television and "they seemed to get along well with people."

"No one ever said they would bite people," Zhang said. "I just wanted to touch it. I was so dizzy from the beer. I don't remember much."

Ye Mingxia, a spokeswoman for the Beijing Zoo, confirmed the incident happened but would not give any details. She said Gu Gu was "healthy."

"We're not considering punishing him now," Ye said in a telephone interview. "He's suffered quite a bit of shock."

Web wonders.

2006-09-19T18:01:00.000-04:00

A tidbit I spotted in an article in New York Times's Business section:

Comcast was burned by the Web in June when one of its repairmen fell asleep on the couch in the home of a customer, who then videotaped the napping repairman and posted the video online. Within two weeks, 200,000 people had viewed the video.

On another note, brief brushes with Susan Sontag and Henry Miller's writings have convinced me that I need to go to Paris.

Speaking of art...

2006-09-14T05:43:00.000-04:00

I won Napkin Idol again, though I faced some pretty stiff competition (see runner-up). Also, I can’t draw people to save my life. And yes, the second place winner’s napkin reads “Sombrero wearing dude peeing on wall (bird’s eye view)”. Genius.

As much as I love my neighborhood bar, I am quickly learning that participating in the bar’s weekly contest comes with the annoyance of listening to the bartender talk at me while I'm trying to concentrate on my napkin doodle. And these bartenders aren’t particularly funny or interesting. Plus, they’re somewhat aggressive. All in all it’s like painfully bad stand-up, with the perpetrator staring directly at me, expecting me to laugh. Not to mention the fact that I barely get to talk to the person I’m there with, who I’m dying to catch up with.

So next time I have a game plan. I’m grabbing a stack of napkins and my companion and hightailing it to the couches by the pool table. I like free drinks and all, but I don’t like being preached to about William Shatner, Monday Night Football, your Austrian girlfriend, and President Bush. And don’t get me started on “So a guy walks into a bar” jokes. Good lord.

Art opening tonight.

2006-09-14T05:13:00.000-04:00

Maia is friends with an amazing Toronto-based artist named Nick di Genova who I have had the pleasure of drinking with a couple times. His laidback, humble and softspoken demeanor only make his painstakingly detailed work more incredible. His personality betrays no hint that he dreams of exquisitely terrifying apocalyptic animals.

He's having a solo show in New York and I'll be at the opening with my proverbial bells on. I can't wait to see his colorful, large-scale pieces close up, and hopefully I can even afford to buy a small piece. I truly believe he deserves accolades, and I'm pleased with how far his art has taken him, considering he's the anti-self-promoter.

Here's a sample of his work, and there's much more here. If you're looking for me tonight between the hours of 6 and 8, I'll be the one at the gallery double fisting wine and smiling like an idiot.

Talk nerdy to me.

2006-09-11T00:54:00.000-04:00

Last week I went to a gallery opening here and struck up a conversation with a scruffy biker kid while waiting in line for wine. He had noticed my Amoeba tote bag and told me he was from Berkeley. I told him I was from San Francisco and that the bag was a good conversation starter.

I realized later, because I am a nerdy linguist, that I meant it in two ways – with “good” modifying “conversation starter” as well as “good” modifying “conversation”. Meeting people from the Bay Area is always rewarding. Comforting, even. The conversations that develop thanks to my good conversation starter invariably turn out to be good.

I miss home, as usual.

I am Blongholio, need TP for my bloghole.

2006-09-10T20:27:00.000-04:00

Thursday at work, I realized my boss had left the office early, before I got to run something by him. I was chatting with another co-worker, who reassured me that he wasn’t going to be tied up, that I could easily just call his cell phone if I had any issues.

“He’s just picking up his son,” she said. “He’s totally reachable.”
“Right,” I replied. “It’s not like he’s getting a prostate exam or something.”

She laughed, and I realized I had just unleashed another one of my characteristic conversation-enders. Why do I say these things? Why do they pop into my head? The sad part is that I can clearly remember the way my brain came to the conclusion that this should come out of my mouth. It went something like this:

Try to say something witty --> think of some procedure where you’re basically incapacitated and would not be able to pick up your phone --> oh, a colonoscopy! --> but colonoscopies require 24 hours of prep time so this would create logical barriers to a successful funny, as my boss has clearly been in the office all day --> think of something else that an older man would be subjected to that would make him unreachable --> how about a prostate exam?

So in conclusion, my brain is definitely functioning in top form, and my thoughts are logical to a point. I'm just a little stuck in the toilet is all.

L'art du Federer.

2006-09-10T19:47:00.001-04:00

I've learned a few things this weekend, including the fact that watching an entire men's tennis match makes me very sleepy. No matter how hard I try, it seems the pok-pok sounds of the ball going back and forth easily become a makeshift lullaby. So as I watched the men's final alone in my living room just now, the room growing progressively darker as the sun set, and Roddick trying to feed off the crowd's energy, I promptly shut my eyes towards the end of the third set and through the first four games of the fourth.

The same lethargy befell me yesterday, when I was actually sitting in the stands at Arthur Ashe Stadium for the Roddick-Youzhny semifinal. I was exhausted as it was, from not enough sleep, then running errands in the city and Brooklyn, and then rushing to Queens, totally unsure what matches I would catch and whether I'd even get in. I fell asleep on the G train on the way to the 7 train, then managed to stay awake on the 7 thanks to a greasy slice of pizza and a car full of choral camp girls sharing their renditions of Disney classics.

I snuck into the US Open yesterday, thanks to my best friend's procurement of a co-worker's badge. I strolled in to the "Credentials Only" area armed with my tote bag and an ID around my neck bearing a photo of a grinning wide-eyed white girl, whose hair somewhat resembled mine. Once inside, my friend told me there was little chance I'd actually make it into the stadium with that badge, because the badge's denomination limited me to certain areas, and did not at all constitute as a ticket for a seat.

Nonetheless, I walked right in, casually flashed my badge and did my best to look benign. I managed to sit in the field seats for about ten minutes, and had an amazing view. Then a guard approached and asked if I had a ticket, because I guess I looked suspicious taking tons of photos and sending text messages to everyone I knew. Weakly flashing my credentials again, she told me to go upstairs. I did, and easily found myself a spot in the bleachers. It was by no means a full house. So I sat there, baking in the sun, sandwiched between two cold blondes, but all in all extremely pleased with myself.

Then came the wave of sleepy, and I struggled to shade my eyes from the brutal sun. The flirtation with naptime didn't last too long, as the fear that my neighbors would notice set in, as well as the realizaton that I was feebly using an envelope holding the lease I'd just signed to cover my eyes, and god forbid I drop it in the stands if I really nodded off. It was exhilarating, really, to know that I'd pulled off a rather difficult feat, and that I had not been so deterred by the possibility of failure to not even try in the first place. Once I saw that I was way past the point of being caught without a ticket, I started to rest on my laurels, enjoy the match, and let my heartrate stabilize. The people to my left carried on inane conversation about celebrities, and at one point the woman on my right who resembled Camilla Parker-Bowles took out a Wetnap and rubbed it all over her face.

Roddick won, but Youzhny's game was extremely exciting. I did wish a little that I had a companion, but I think part of the reason I was able to succeed at sneaking in was that I was a single, unobtrusive woman. It was a once in a lifetime opportunity to know someone who was working at the Open, and to celebrate the $80 I saved by having the balls to jump security, I bought myself a very large $9 beer in a commemorative cup.

Too bad the Open's over now, but I'm glad I made this one somewhat special for me. I hope one day I'll get to watch Federer play live, and I'm glad he won today, because he absolutely deserved it.

Lulu will be airborne in 30 hours.

2006-08-31T22:59:00.000-04:00

I'm flying to LA Saturday morning and I'm quite excited. There will be sunshine, good food, and hugs. Last night I had a nightmare about being stuck in the airport -- I couldn't find my gate, I misplaced my check-in luggage somewhere on the way to checking it in, and all sorts of other very frustrating setbacks befell me. I also remember being unable to buy things in the duty-free shop because I was only traveling domestically. It was just not a good dream at all.

I've been visiting the Transit Security page obsessively so that I'll know what I can actually bring onboard. It looks like I'll definitely be packing my sword and billy club in my check-in luggage, but luckily I will be able to bring my gel-filled bra onto the plane, as well as up to 4 oz. of KY Jelly. I'm glad the TSA hasn't gone so far as to ban the real essentials.

Squee!

2006-08-29T17:52:00.000-04:00

I just had an interview at a big international ad agency, and I think it went really well! I also realized through the interview that I really want the job. It seems like a perfect fit for me! This all came up because my old boss gave my name to a recruiter who got in touch with me and has been scouting out jobs for me, shopping me around, and such. This agency expressed interest in meeting me. I am a wanted woman.

I'm so delighted by how I handled it that I'm going to treat myself to a glass of wine and some chickpeas.

It's the one-year anniversary (seriously, to the day) of when I began working at my current job, and I love how I've commemorated it by taking the day off to interview at another agency. Too awesome.

Good casting.

2006-08-27T22:34:00.000-04:00

I just saw Little Miss Sunshine and loved it. The acting was great all the way through, and the quirkiness never felt forced. I went with Brian, who of course stopped enjoying the movie the moment it got at all sentimental – that boy is so emotionally unreachable, it’s a wonder we’re still friends.

So after IMDb’ing the movie, which I now do every time I see a film, I found out that Steve Carell will be playing Maxwell Smart in a movie adaptation of Get Smart! This makes me so freakishly happy, having spent hours and hours as a kid watching reruns on Nick at Nite. Maxwell Smart is so endearingly stupid, and I completely trust Steve Carell to portray him appropriately.

I was sad to hear that Don Adams, who originated the role, died last year. I think you could safely say I was obsessed with that show. I was probably around 10 when I started watching it religiously.

And I was also somewhat infatuated by Barbara Feldon as 99, because she was so glamorous and graceful and forgiving. I saw her on a daytime talk show a couple years ago, touting her new book about singledom. She looked amazing, and was talking about how monogamy and lifelong companionship are somewhat against human nature, that the life of an older single woman can be as fulfilling if not more so than the life of a happily married woman. It's an interesting angle, and her book describes how much she loves living on her own, and gives suggestions for how to make the most of it. After watching her tolerate Maxwell Smart as a husband (“Oh, Max” and all that), it was exciting to see her dispelling the myth that an older unmarried woman has somehow failed to experience one of life’s great joys.

As a kid I entertained the notion that Barbara Feldon and Pat Benatar were the same person. Spy by day, rock star by night? (I was a Jem fan, after all.) It didn’t cross my mind that the Barbara Feldon I admired existed in the ‘60s, the Pat Benatar I saw photos of had her heyday in the ‘80s, and I was a confused pre-teen taking it all in in the ‘90s.

Picasso loved his doggie.

2006-08-27T18:26:00.000-04:00

I woke up this morning and read a Times piece about Picasso's other muse, a little dachshund named Lump.

Here he is at the bottom of one of Picasso's reinterpretations of "Las Melinas":

There's a new book out about the man and his dog. In a series of intimate portraits by the photographer David Douglas Duncan, the former owner of the dog, he frames the oft-misunderstood artist as an

affectionate family man with a sentimental attachment to a funny little dog...In Mr. Duncan’s photographs, the dachshund is seen around the dining table at mealtimes, and in one shot he even stands on Picasso’s lap to eat off the artist’s plate. In another, Picasso cradles Lump in his arms as he might a baby.

My favorite line from this little tale is near the end, before we find out that Lump and Picasso died within a week of each other. Duncan remarks, "Picasso had many dogs, but Lump was the only one he took in his arms."

In honor of Lump I am going to have a hot dog for dinner.

I like tennis.

2006-08-24T15:51:00.000-04:00

And apparently so does David Foster Wallace. But he’s a real expert about it, and certainly more articulate than me. I loved his article in The New York Times about Roger Federer. I especially like how he subverted the traditional Times format by adding extensive footnotes and footnotes’ footnotes (not sure what those are called). I’m sure on paper it wasn’t so distracting, but having to open a full window of footnotes on my browser and switch back and forth while reading was a refreshingly annoying challenge.

If I tried to write about tennis it would probably go something like this:

Dude, Roger Federer is awesome! And since his mother and I have the same name, I think by some Oedipal logic that means we’re meant for each other. I’d like to have lunch with him. Oh, Lleyton Hewitt just hit the ball really hard! Man, that was a zinger! He looks more and more like an asshole every day. I hope James Blake kicks his ass. What’re the ladies doing? I love watching Maria Sharapova. But I think the reason she’s so captivating is because she doesn't seem like a terribly pleasant person. She just has the coldest, sexiest stare. And really makes me want to buy a Canon PowerShot.

Aside from a plethora of juicy adjectives and what seems like a decades long interest in the game, DFW is also very clever. My favorite bit in his article is this footnoted bit about Ivan Lendl:

Formwise, with his whippy forehand, lethal one-hander, and merciless treatment of short balls, Lendl somewhat anticipated Federer. But the Czech was also stiff, cold, and brutal; his game was awesome but not beautiful. (My college doubles partner used to describe watching Lendl as like getting to see “Triumph of the Will” in 3-D.)

I imagine that watching me eat the morning after heavy drinking is like watching a live-action version of Hungry Hungry Hippos.

I’m totally teenybopperishly excited about the U.S. Open. And I think I'm ready to read my first Foster Wallace book.

For just $24, you can own this.

2006-08-23T17:26:00.000-04:00

Just go to dELiA*s.com:

Another Monday night.

2006-08-21T22:32:00.000-04:00

I spend a good deal of time compiling observations and factoids I’d like to tell a person who does not exist. I wish this person did, and I make a note of these things in the hopes that he will one day pop up. He’s a fantasy. He’s the person I can talk about anything with. He is intellectually my equal. He knows about a lot of things, but I can still teach him something. And he challenges me. He’s a good listener and he loves the way I think, finds it charming even. And as a team we help restore each other’s hope for humanity on a daily basis.

Here are some of the things I mentally order and hope to verbalize one day to this mysterious, nonexistent person:

“I went to this café down the block for lunch today. The cashier was a rather butch woman who yelled at the chef to see if they had any red peppers. They didn’t. I took my food upstairs to this empty dining area that had big trays set up as if for a buffet. I wrote a letter to my mom on panda stationary. I told her I wanted to be just like her. Then I started to tear up because I missed her. I missed everyone.”

“I stopped reading Brick Lane on page 93. I couldn’t relate to the characters. I was reading for reading’s sake, but not enjoying it. I like immigrant stories very much, but ones tinged with humor. And if not humor, then beautiful prose. This book had neither, in my opinion. Now I am reading Empire Falls and enjoying it slightly more, though I feel detached from it as well. Have you read any Richard Russo? Do you think I am unable to quite imagine these people and their mentality because I am not from a small town? Also, there’s no element of race so far and that always interests me. I have a feeling I am not the book’s intended audience.”

“Do you think therapists talk to their spouses about their patients? Does my therapist go home and say, ‘Lulu was really off today, I think she has a serious mood disorder,’ and then roll over and fall asleep?”

“I think the deli guy at Fairway got fired. He was always hitting on all the ladies, and one day I came in and saw he had a black eye. It freaked me out. And if I was his manager and was trying to keep the customers from feeling scared of the man handling their cold cuts, I might’ve let him go. He didn’t always have the best attitude and he seemed like a bit of a slacker. I dunno, I haven’t seen him since, so I assume he’s gone.”

“Have you ever thought that you might want to be a dog, or a baby? Sometimes when I’m on the street and feel like my life is too much to handle, I get jealous of babies and dogs, that they have people tending to them all the time, and have no worries in the world. It sounds ridiculous, but these thoughts cross my mind.”

And so on.

I don’t get to share these daily observances with anybody. And I get the feeling that being able to share these things is a necessary ingredient to a fulfilling life. I guess I want someone to report to every day, to empty out all the things stewing in my mind and get a second opinion. And I want to know what he’s been thinking about all day too, and what sorts of things he saw on the street and at work that were just confounding. I want to share my life with someone, feel part of something that grows together.

I want someone who knows me so well that he can sense how I’m feeling without my having to say it. And who asks all the right questions. And who knows the difference between being comforting and coddling. Someone who, if we went on $100,000 Pyramid together, would know what I was trying to convey instantly, and vice versa. We'd be unstoppable.

I’ve come to two conclusions.

1) I suffer from crippling loneliness.
2) I have been watching too much Game Show Network.

Solace?

2006-08-21T15:30:00.000-04:00

I may be an emotional wreck, but at least I'm aware of it. That has to count for something, right?

This is too funny.

2006-08-17T17:06:00.000-04:00

From MSNBC:

Man Survives Run-in With Falling Dog

WARSAW - A man was bruised but alive on Wednesday after a Saint Bernard dog thrown out a two-story window landed on him as he was walking down the street in the southern-Polish city of Sosnowiec.

The 110-pound dog was pushed out of the window by its drunken owner on Monday, police said.

"The dog had a soft landing because it fell on a man," said police spokesman Grzegorz Wierzbicki. "The dog escaped with just a few scratches."

"The man was also more in a psychological state of shock than physically hurt," Wierzbicki added.

If bad things happen in threes...

2006-08-15T18:23:00.000-04:00

I'm scared to find out what's coming next.

My friend told me he's getting a divorce. He and his wife have been together for ten years. He's in his early 30's. She's been out of the country doing a Fulbright for almost a year, but dropped in on him last week to speed up the proceedings. It seems the distance didn't work in their favor. I keep thinking that he must be very lonely. He seemed to have resigned himself to a pretty solitary life when she first left, but now it must be completely different, not waiting for her to come home anymore.

My co-worker's father passed away. I think he had Lou Gehrig's disease. My co-worker moved here from San Francisco to be closer to him. He hasn't been here long -- only a few months. I half wonder if he's going to turn around and go back to SF. I don't think he knows too many people here yet. He's someone who I've decided I would like to be a friend to, see outside of work. But I don't know how he'll be when he comes back from bereavement leave. Since I constantly think about my own dad's inevitable demise, the fact that it's befallen him now makes me very sad.

It was raining earlier today. Now it's warm and I'm off to a pizza party at Maia's. I'm listening to "Get Me Away From Here, I'm Dying" by Belle and Sebastian and remembering how comforting it is.

We're winners.

2006-08-09T13:38:00.000-04:00

Che and I got first and second place in our local bar's weekly Napkin Idol contest. The competition for the 9 pm judging was fierce, so we submitted our nappies for the 11:30 edition.

My drawing is a rendering of a story the bartender told us about fishing a Blackberry out of the bar's plumbing system last weekend.

In other news, I have Elvis Costello's "Everyday I Write The Book" stuck in my head real bad.

Recent reads.

2006-08-01T22:49:00.000-04:00

Dwayne Hoover had oodles of charm.

I can have oodles of charm if I want to.

A lot of people have oodles of charm.

Talking about music is like dancing about architecture.

2006-08-01T22:16:00.000-04:00

When I got home from work today I headed for my bed, as is too often my way. I listened to some Hot Water Music, a reminder of my brief interest in hardcore. I still enjoy their songs. The only times I’ve ever thought I might die while watching a band play were the two occasions I saw Hot Water Music play the Knitting Factory. I was with Kate both times. We don’t talk anymore.

The second time I saw them there, when I was more familiar with their music, the dirty blond guitarist (bassist?) who I’d never seen say a word before broke my heart with a short speech about 9/11. He spoke eloquently about how moving it was for him that people came out to their shows right after all that had happened and told them their stories. That it changed his life. That he was doing the only thing he knew how to do and hoped it would ease somebody else’s pain. That connecting with those lost, conflicted kids in uncertain times was what kept him from feeling numb, and reminded him that he was alive.

I knew what he was talking about, that thirst for connection, the wave of fear and paralysis that 9/11 wrought. When he was done, we shouted in solidarity. I wanted to hug him. But more moshing ensued, and I once again feared that the last image I’d see on this earth was a steel-toed boot headed straight for my face.

Write, and you’ll feel better.

2006-08-01T21:46:00.000-04:00

I am a pendulum. This is how I’ve felt in the past 8 days.

Monday July 24: Angry, irritable.
Monday evening post 9 pm: Positively energized. Optimistic.
Tuesday: Great.
Wednesday: Driven. Independent. Goofy.
Thursday: Hopeful. Successful.
Thursday evening post 9 pm: Angry, alone, fat, desperately imperfect.
Friday: More of the same. Profoundly upset. Luckily it was a half day.
Friday post-Caitlin: Tons better.
Saturday: Wonderful. Euphoric. Invigorated. Determined.
Sunday: More of the same. Likeable, connected, charming.
Monday: Good.
Tuesday: Useless, lost, lonely, weak.
Tuesday evening: Nostalgic. Pain neutralized, but not eradicated.

Who knows what tomorrow will bring. Boredom? Bliss?

I sometimes feel like the strangest person in the world.

On a lighter note...

2006-06-15T21:22:00.000-04:00

I found this on a stranger's Flickr:

This makes me sick.

2006-06-15T20:27:00.000-04:00

Excerpts from June 11's New York Times article "3 Prisoners Commit Suicide at Guantánamo":

Military officials on Saturday suggested that the three suicides were a form of a coordinated protest.

"They are smart, they are creative, they are committed," Admiral Harris said. "They have no regard for life, neither ours nor their own. I believe this was not an act of desperation, but an act of asymmetrical warfare waged against us."

He said the acts were tied to a "mystical" belief at Guantánamo that three detainees must die at the camp for all the detainees to be released. There have been 41 suicide attempts by 25 detainees since the facility opened, officials said.

In public statements, Defense Department officials have often dismissed the detainees' suicide attempts as less than serious and as the actions of trained Qaeda terrorists to manipulate public opinion. The first hunger strikes by detainees at Guantánamo began soon after the camp opened in January 2002, and two of those prisoners were forcibly fed through tubes that year. Dozens of other suicide attempts followed.

Over one eight-day period in August 2003, 23 detainees tried to hang or strangle themselves, including 10 on a single day. But the Pentagon did not disclose the episode until January 2005, and lawyers for the detainees have complained about what they say has been a pattern in which the government has withheld information about suicide attempts or minimized their importance.

In late 2003, military officials at Guantánamo began to re-classify many of the suicide attempts as "manipulative, self-injurious behavior" that was intended to bring pressure for better conditions or for release. Officials at Guantánamo acknowledged that those designations were not necessarily made after any formal psychological evaluation.

Military officials began trying to discourage the detainees from killing themselves in part by having military and medical personnel cite passages in the Koran that condemn suicide.

The rest of the article is just as sickening. It's truly horrific what's happening there. I'm so ashamed of my government.

Breaking news: Hellmouth dormant.

2006-06-09T08:28:00.000-04:00

I didn't expect anything to happen on 6/6/06, and nothing did. I walked around Morningside Heights that night, and wanted to move back there. I miss it so much, though I think it's more that I miss the relative simplicity of college life. Tanya said that I'm so nostalgic because I grew up there, and it's true. I had many rites of passage in those four years, along with many less memorable moments.

Walking around there is like exploring a time capsule. Of course half of my favorite spots are gone, taken over by franchises or university housing, or gussied up to keep up with gentrification. I love it up there so much though. I miss walking on Broadway alone, and crossing those 6 lanes on 116th, wondering who I'll run into between classes -- even chatting with Alex, the guy at the deli where everyone used to buy coke. It just seems that around every corner a new memory comes back, and I'm surprised at how I've managed to retain so many positive ones, to fuzzy hug-from-the-inside effect.

College was the first time I lived away from home and purposefully set out to establish a sense of self and independence. I'm still struggling with accepting who I am, complete with the various depressive moods I cycle through, but I feel such an affinity to the neighborhood I first tried to call mine in New York.

And things were simpler there. Less places to go and things to see. Less options and more room for creativity, for making your own fun. More panhandlers and fanatics encroaching on your comfort zone, teaching valuable lessons about how to be polite but firm. And two huge parks flanking the northern tip of the island, for getting a quick fix peace of mind.

As for 6/6/06, this is what Discovery Channel News had to say:

Hexakosioihexekontahexaphobics, as those who fear the triple six are called, should relax. The sixth of June is technically not in 06-06-06 anyway.

Jesuit priest Richard Leonard, director of the Australian Catholic Film Office, told the Australian press that when Christianity took over the Roman calendar in the fourth century, the monk who compiled the dates got them wrong by four years.

The Church became aware of the mistake in 1582 but did not correct it to prevent the world from losing four years.

"We assume Satan knows that the sixth day of the sixth month in 2006 was in fact June 6, 2002," Father Leonard said.

That silly monk.

So hexakosioihexekontahexaphobics may well be my new favorite word, if only I can figure out how to pronounce it. And 666 always makes me think of the randomly assigned email address I received when I began college, that gave me a subtle indication that I was headed into what would be a charmed and cursed time in my life.

And on 6/6/02 I was spending my first sweltering summer in New York, trying to manuever a doomed relationship with Sam, while in the midst of falling inconveniently in love with Chris. It turned out to be the best summer I'd had in what seemed like an impenetrable fog of angsty years.

Hopefully I will take every opportunity I have to walk those familiar blocks this summer, under the guise of visiting friends who still live up there, or who are subjecting themselves to more schooling. All in all, I really miss being lc666@college.edu.

Books I've read recently.

2006-05-31T19:02:00.000-04:00

Anyone want to discuss?

I do not like you, man in car.

2006-05-31T10:24:00.000-04:00

After a wonderful weekend full of fresh air and old friends, devoid of city smells and unwelcome confrontations with strangers, I was wrenched back into my New York reality Tuesday morning.

My block is busy most weekdays with trucks unloading goods and fancy rides negotiating space in the parking garage I’ll never set foot in. Most spaces on the block are occupied, and for some reason in this city people enjoy hanging out in the driver’s seat of their parked cars, to often unsettling effect.

There’s one guy who’s there most days. I think he’s waiting to pick someone up, because I saw him drive off once and he wasn’t alone. I hate him because he interrupts my short walk to work with his constant leering. I manage to forget about him each day, but when I walk by his car, he always catches my eye and I feel immediately unnerved. There’s something about his car too, and the way he sits, so that I cannot see him until I am literally two or three feet from him, making the eye contact all the more piercing and awful. Even the day I saw him drive off as I emerged from my building, he was looking straight at me.

He probably doesn’t mean any harm, but from his vantage point he has the upper hand. I feel vulnerable, like meat. And he knows where I live. So today I crossed the street immediately when I left the house. I don’t know how many times I will deliberately avoid him, but since his cold stare yesterday was enough to shatter the fragile composure I'd gained from a weekend away, I may continue to take detours indefinitely.

8 grasses of water.

2006-05-23T21:50:00.000-04:00

The trouble with Brooklyn.

2006-05-22T23:52:00.000-04:00

Maia showed me an article from the New York Observer that got me thinking. Click here for the full story. The article addresses the subtle feud between denizens of north and south Brooklyn, and the identities that have come to be associated with each neighborhood. Though it could be seen as a fluffy piece, and was probably written off by all Brooklyn residents who came across it, it did articulate feelings I could relate to. And it certainly reminded me why I do not live in Brooklyn.

Suzy Hansen declares that the “Slope Opera” consists of the vacuous hipper than thou crowd of Williamsburg and the haughty intellectual yuppies of Park Slope. The unemployed vs. the career-savvy. The skinny and smelly vs. the reformed punks still working off the baby weight. Scooters vs. strollers, and so on.

Both criticize each other and adamantly defend their neighborhoods. But like any good fight, both sides have plenty in common. As Hansen says, “All of gentrified Brooklyn is somewhat similar. It’s mostly white. It’s mostly partial to some form of indie rock.” And so she sets up the conflict as a flippant circus of insult-swapping between privileged white kids who are trying too hard to make their neighborhood define who they are.

The article rages on with funny anecdotes about the guy who moved from Park Slope to the Burg and was horrified to meet a girl who didn’t ‘get’ D.H. Lawrence, and details the antics of the endearingly DIY-attired drunks at Pete’s Candy Store.

But I think what I took away most from the article was a mixture of jealousy that I didn’t feel such an affinity to my own neighborhood, and a sense of relief at not being directly embroiled in any of the Brooklyn bullshit.

I know people who would defend Williamsburg’s coolness till the end of time, and people who find Williamsburg completely unbearable and the scene suffocating. But most people I know just live there and don’t infect every conversation with their neighborhood pride. In my six years in New York I’ve never lived in Brooklyn. And I think my fear about moving there is that I’ll feel too far from what’s happening and who I know – I suppose I’m not comfortable enough with my social life and ability to fend for myself to bear a daily commute across the East River.

And it seems everyone has to have an opinion about Brooklyn. I like Brooklyn a lot. Most of the parts I’ve been. I love how there’s more sky and fresher air, and less people. I often tell strangers that I love waking up in Brooklyn on weekends. It doesn’t happen often, but Brooklyn by day is so uncluttered and peaceful. I don’t know any part of Brooklyn well enough to defend it, however, and I know I do not like to be judged by where I live.

I think my mom once said that I was never comfortable with our relative affluence. I’d never tell anyone in San Francisco what neighborhood I lived in, just the intersection and nearby landmarks. I wanted them to think of me as on the fringe of an upscale neighborhood, when our block is not short on millionaires.

And if I moved to Williamsburg, I would mutter that I lived there when people asked, not wanting them to compare me to their perception of a Williamsburger. I think I’d feel unequivocally uncool. As it is I won’t set foot in that neighborhood looking less than my best, because Bedford is like a fucking catwalk. Going to the laundromat in a frumpy outfit with no makeup on seems unheard of.

But as much as I feel put off by Williamsburg and its discontents, I can understand the idea of rallying around your neighborhood. South Brooklyn seems so vast and disparate – from Hansen’s assessment, the residents are too busy changing diapers, reading Nietzsche, and trying to buy houses to give two shits about the punks up north. They have a stabilized sense of self. They’re passionate but pick their battles. In some ways they sound like future versions of the Billyburg upstarts.

I remember being on Bedford once and seeing a local petition posted everywhere alerting Subway the sandwich franchise that they were not welcome in Williamsburg. Subway moved in anyway. And I found the local efforts to stop it laughable. The people who gentrified Brooklyn were now trying to stop the gentrification. Their anger showed no sign of self-awareness, and I knew that they were the type whose myopia wouldn’t allow them to consider a dissenting opinion. It’s definitely uncomfortable when an unwelcome neighbor moves in, but the unapologetic first wave of hipsters barged in on the Polish immigrants nonetheless.

I live in Chelsea. I don’t think much about it – it’s extremely close to my work, I’ve got several subway lines at my disposal, and I feel safe there. I don’t hang out in my neighborhood at all, or feel like I am its typical resident. I have enough space and the rent is a great deal. I don’t defend living in Manhattan to anybody, but at the same time I feel that it’s the place for me, because I’m a transplant. If I lived in Brooklyn, I might get wrapped up in the need to assume a Brooklynese identity, and be ready to defend my choice to live there at a moment’s notice.

Maybe it’s my unease at embracing the fact that I am starting to be just as much a product of New York as I am of San Francisco. This place has shaped who I am, like it or not. And though moving to Brooklyn might make me feel like I'm stepping on the toes of born-and-raised Brooklynites, and alienating them from all they’ve known, I might find that elusive sense of neighborhood pride that is so foreign to me. Perhaps the reason I’ve always felt so unanchored in New York is because I haven’t ever had a neighborhood I could really feel was my own, and was inhabited by kindred spirits. Who knows – maybe rallying against corporate franchises with fellow outraged neighbors would awaken the passion buried beneath the passivity and give me that satisfying sense of belonging.

New York was OK today.

2006-05-18T03:40:00.000-04:00

After all my bitching all week about how this isn't the place for me, how I'm slowly losing my grasp of reality and sanity and have drastically lowered my expectations of what basic human courtesy should entail, I found some momentary peace of mind. In the form of a burger and fries in Madison Square Park.

Work wasn't stressful in the least. Not many people were around and I didn't feel resentful every time someone came by my desk to give me something. Mondays and Tuesdays are always hard, but by Wednesday I know the end is near, and I'll soon have two days to do my best to forget all the frustrations and injustices of the days past.

I met up with Chessa around 6:30 and proceeded to buy two pairs of shoes, though we probably tried on about 10 pairs between us. The weather was beautiful and we didn't have any time constraints, unless you count the shoe salesman's growing exasperation as we trotted around the store trying on everything on display.

Then it was off to get a cocktail at a kitschy Southern restaurant, which ended up being an Elvis-themed Long Island Iced Mess called Bubba Slush. I thought it would be a blend of bananas, peanut butter and some crushed up painkillers, but it turned out to be a pint glass-sized blended drink with every kind of alcohol, some grenadine, and some beer to top it off. The most disgusting Icee or most bearable cough medicine I've ever had, depending on how you look at it. Luckily, we shared it.

But it was only after we stood in line at Danny Meyer's Shake Shack and got our box of burgers and fries and a beer (Chessa's) that I realized I was quite happy. She asked what could be better right now -- perfect weather, great food, drinking a beer in the park, and eclectic fellow patrons with their cute and crazy dogs. I said, "I don't hate New York today," and wondered how I could ever hate it at all.

I know the cycle of loneliness and confusion will return, but today I'm OK, and I think I'll be OK in the end.

Late night lightbulb.

2006-05-17T02:30:00.000-04:00

I just listened to "Holiday in Cambodia" after waking up from a nighttime nap. This is starting to be a fairly common routine (well, not the Dead Kennedys part), especially on the earlier weeknights. I fall asleep around 10 or 11 with the lights on, then wake up around 1 or 2 am to brush my teeth, take out my contacts, and do other such essential housekeeping stuff. I think I'm too stressed/depressed to accept that one day is ending and I have to face the next.

I've probably listened to this song dozens of time, starting from when I was 13 or so. I had no knowledge of the Cambodian genocide then. But tonight I was actually listening, and the synapses were firing, and now I'm totally tickled by the song and its lyrics. A holiday in Cambodia! And for the first time I heard Jello Biafra saying "Pol...Pot! Pol...Pot! Pol Pot! Pol Pot! Pol Pot! Pol Pot!" God, I pride myself on my listening skills and now I just feel like I've been living under a rock with mufflers on. I love you Jello, tongue-in-cheek mayoral campaign and all.

But I still think my favorite lyrical reference to the Cambodian catastrophe is in the Lemonheads' "If I Could Talk I'd Tell You," where Evan Dando sings in an extremely chipper voice: Khmer Rouge / Genocide qua.

Now I feel like I should rent "The Killing Fields" to repent. After all, genocide is no laughing matter.

Wish list (irrational skew).

2006-05-16T18:55:00.000-04:00

The Elements of Style by Strunk and White. I llustrated by Maira Kalman. Beautiful red hardcover edition.

Tropic of Cancer by Henry Miller.

Higher metabolism.

Double bed.

Discipline.

Pulitzer for Fiction.

New needle for record player.

More pillows.

Digital camera.

Weekend house.

Slingshot.

Mentor.

UPDATE 6/10/06:
- I now own Tropic of Cancer. I hope I enjoy it.
- I made the futon into my bed. So now people should stop making fun of my twin.
- I don't like the way this bulleted list looks. I really need to get better at HTML.
- My back hurts.

A gastronomic appeal.

2006-05-02T13:19:00.000-04:00

Op-ed contributors are my fave!

2006-04-18T14:30:00.000-04:00

I really enjoyed and was swayed by this article in The New York Times by Nina Teicholz. I am thoroughly convinced that Oreos, McDonald's, and trans fats must be eliminated! Her proposal makes a lot of sense, though I'm not sure how I feel about her 'going to the supermarket is like taking the SAT' analogy. But she gets extra points for titling her article "Nuggets of Death."

Note to self: Cut back on chicken nugget intake.

It's never pleasant to learn that an artificial substance in your food might be ruining your health. This is what happened with trans fats when they were "discovered" in the food supply a few years ago, after a high-profile lawsuit against the makers of the Oreo cookie (laden with trans fats, who knew?) captured headlines nationwide.

The publicity pushed the Food and Drug Administration to require that trans fats be listed on package labels starting this year. Producers of cookies, cakes, crackers, frozen foods and margarines, all high in trans fats, thus had an incentive to eliminate them from their products. But Americans would be better protected if the F.D.A. would limit trans fats in all foods.

The problem with the labeling regulation is that it does not cover restaurant fare and other unpackaged food. This giant loophole was exposed by Danish researchers who collected and analyzed food from 20 countries, and whose results were published last week in The New England Journal of Medicine. The researchers found that there are far more trans fats in McDonald's meals in the United States than in the same McDonald's fare in most other parts of the world.

Trans fats, which are basically a form of hardened vegetable oil, are a staple ingredient in our foods because they're cheaper than butter and they guarantee a long shelf life. Trans fats are also easily manipulated, able to give a Goldfish cracker its crunch, for instance, or make frosting creamy.

Trans fats are worrisome, however, because more than any other macronutrient in the diet they not only raise L.D.L., the so-called bad cholesterol, but also lower H.D.L., the good. (Saturated fat, in contrast, raises both kinds.) A daily intake of five grams of trans fats increases the risk of contracting heart disease 4 percent to 28 percent, various studies have shown.

Consuming that much trans fat is far too easy. The Danish study found that a large order of McDonald's French fries in the United States contains almost six grams of trans fats, while a large portion (10 pieces) of Chicken McNuggets serves up almost four grams. Eaten together, they deliver nearly 10 grams of a substance considered so unhealthy that the National Academy of Sciences concluded, in 2002, that the only safe amount of trans fats in the diet is zero.

In Denmark, that same combination of McDonald's fries and chicken contains less than one gram of trans fats. That is because, since 2004, the Danes have limited trans fats to no more than 2 percent of a food's fat content, by weight. Now, even the famous Danish pastry is virtually free of trans fats.

The virtue of Denmark's approach is that all food is covered, whether it is served in restaurants, cafeterias, airlines, hospitals or stadiums or picked up at a local coffee shop or deli counter.

The F.D.A. should set a limit of 5 percent here. Opponents of such a cap have argued that it is not worth the trouble, because the average American consumes so little trans fat. But the Danish study clearly shows that some — especially the sizable population eating fast foods — consume trans fats in dangerous doses.

Others have argued that the government should let consumers choose for themselves. But consumers can't make informed choices when so much of their food isn't labeled. And given that we are expected to monitor salt, high-fructose corn syrup, peanut traces and other potential dangers, a trip through the supermarket is already beginning to resemble taking the SAT.

A trans-fat limit of 5 percent is ideal, because it allows dairy and meat products that have some naturally occurring trans fats to slide in under the limit. We don't yet know if humans react differently to natural trans fats than to industrial ones, but it is reasonable to assume that our bodies could more easily digest butter and beef, which people have been eating for many thousands of years, than they could a synthetic product that has been used in food only since the 1920's.

The major fat and oil producers — Bunge, Cargill and Archer Daniels Midland — are already in a position to roll out trans-fat substitutes in large quantities and, for the most part, at comparable prices. And restaurant and bakery owners have little to fear from a changeover. When I interviewed Danish chocolate factory owners, pastry makers and margarine manufacturers about removing trans fats from their products, their replies were uniform and blasé: it was really no big deal, they said. Getting rid of trans fats is an easy fix that could save, by conservative estimates, 30,000 lives a year in the United States — not such a fat-headed idea.

bye bye nug nugs.

On NYTimes.com's new look.

2006-04-05T19:40:00.000-04:00

It was a bit of a shock at first, but after two days I'm starting to get used to it, and sort of even like it. My only issue is with the font, and their trying too hard to look ‘hip’. It achieves the look of a magazine’s website, which I feel cheapens the articles somewhat. The New York Times is one of the most highly regarded newspapers in the world, and it should look as polished, buttoned-up, and all-knowing as it purports to be.

The font – I think it’s called Georgia – is the same one that's so common in widely read blogs. It’s the default font on Blogger, which must host over a million blogs. (My guess is probably grossly incorrect though, as I’m awful at estimation – I once guessed that the population of New York City was 12 million.) In any case, it doesn't feel like you're reading The New York Times, but rather any old soapbox diatribe that does not rely on meticulous research.

As a result, I forget midway through reading an article that it is part of a journalistic institution that takes itself very seriously, and I should not expect to scroll down and see the latest installment of Gawker Stalker. I concede that the former Times layout looked its age, and perhaps too uptight and newspaper-like. But I’m hoping that once they work out all the kinks and get feedback from their readers they’ll find a happy medium.

I suppose in some ways I want to think of the Times as being run by very old-fashioned curmudgeonly men. Although they report on the latest, snazziest gizmos, and get the scoop on every enticing conflict, I still want them to use typewriters, wear thick-rimmed glasses, and have an office like in All The President’s Men. Their new layout confirms for me that young people have a voice at the Times, or that the Times wants to grow down in its look, and this totally shatters the romantic notion I had of what it's like to work there, and my loopy nostalgia for an era of a less abrasive media presence.

I don’t know why I feel so strongly about this. I know I’m resistant to change. Perhaps I will spend my idle time at work perusing The Washington Post online instead.

UPDATE 4/11: I'm done complaining. I'm used to it and I like it.

This is kind of amazing.

2006-03-29T11:53:00.000-05:00

I spotted this on the Myspace pages of some people I met briefly at a muumuu-themed party. I don't know if one of them created it, but it's genius.

Click for a better view!

On Kazuo Ishiguro.

2006-03-24T17:08:00.000-05:00

I have yet to read The Unconsoled. I also want to read A Pale View of Hills and Never Let Me Go. I loved When We Were Orphans, and I liked The Remains of the Day. But I just watched The White Countess, and found out at movie’s end that Ishiguro wrote the screenplay. Though I instantly felt that I should try to like the film more because of his contribution, when it comes down to it, Kaz-penned or not, I really did not like the movie. And I was left trying to remind myself why When We Were Orphans had spoken to me so much, while simultaneously realizing I had to reclaim the characters and moments whose memory the film had muddled.

I first encountered the book when I fell in lust with a beautiful boy in Bristol with a glaring inferiority complex. One night I cooked him and his extremely stoned friends some pasta while they rolled more spliffs and watched The Big Lebowski. Then they all retired, except Tom, who read on the couch next to me while I took a little nap. When I awoke, confused and drug-addled, he’d finished the last half of When We Were Orphans and we entered the awkward am-I-going-to-sleep-here-or-not moment.

He offered for me to stay on the couch, and flustered and a little offended, I decided to bear the 10-minute walk to my lonely university-furnished bedroom instead.

I didn’t think about the book when I returned to the States (though I thought about Tom quite often), but my time in England had awakened in me an interest in post-colonial literature and the experience of expatriate authors. I bought the book in a buy-two-get-one-free deal (along with Norwegian Wood and Amsterdam) at the bookstore where I later spent two miserable months as an employee. The back cover promised a detective story spanning continents and epochs, and I wanted to read about the Shanghai my mother knew.

I didn’t end up reading the book until sometime last year. From the first page I was absorbed by the narrator’s observant eye and his characteristically English way of being both modest and boastful at the same time. And for a long time I pictured him as Chinese, even though his last name was Banks. I had this peculiar sense that I was taking a journey with Ishiguro, that this narrator’s story was his. (It isn’t, as Ishiguro is Japanese, but he did move to England as a child and received a wholly English upbringing.) And perhaps I thought of my mom too, separated from her parents, and wanting to reclaim the heritage she was abruptly pulled away from.

And even after I’d fully accepted the white skin of the protagonist, I was still left completely heartbroken and affected at book’s end. People have said that Ishiguro writes in the same voice in all of his books – and this may be so. But I identify strongly with this flawed narrator and his struggle to trust his memories. I eagerly followed Christopher Banks through his myopic, idealistic impulses and desire for closure. He solves the mystery of his parents’ disappearance and shatters the rose-colored glasses of his childhood in one fell swoop, left wondering if in the end he’d rather not have known at all.

The book is masterfully written and vivid in its descriptions. The depictions of Christopher’s prep school experience and attendance at elegant functions collide messily with the scenes in which he’s dodging grenades and plowing senselessly through a war zone in search of ghosts. In Ishiguro I found a writer who perfectly captured the sense of loss, self-doubt, and egotistical fall from grace I’d experienced myself. And he did it all in the capsule of a lost time, a forgotten war, and a place where my mother had a difficult personal history.

The White Countess however, took Ishiguro’s favorite character and made him laughable. Blinded from an accident in which he loses his daughter, Ralph Fiennes plays an American diplomat who decides to open a risqué dancing club and shake off his dignified reputation. Though I adore Ralph Fiennes, the film was akin to watching Lionel Richie’s “Hello” video for two hours. I adore Natasha Richardson too, but she couldn’t save the clunky script. The re-creation of Shanghai was beautiful and the costumes were great, but I felt numb to the emotional arc of the story and frustrated by the characters’ actions. In this setting their clouded judgment did not make sense while previously on paper I had understood completely. And Merchant-Ivory’s experimental bits – an animated scene inside a telescopic lens, a fiery montage that flashed on Fiennes’ character’s past trauma – made me giggle in my seat.

At movie’s end I wasn’t surprised to see that it was written by Ishiguro, but more disappointed. The image of Ralph Fiennes running through a looted, chaotic Shanghai had replaced my own image of Christopher Banks searching for his parents. I was upset. And I wanted Ishiguro to leave that character behind forever, stop recycling his imagery. In the same way that I loved the book The Quiet American but was thoroughly uncharmed by the Michael Caine movie, I felt like the medium of film had robbed me of the scenery I had created in my mind. The "magic" of the moving image had completely backfired on me.

So I’ve decided I ought to read When We Were Orphans again and take it back, if you will. And someday I want to have lunch with Ishiguro and shoot the shit. For now, I’ll leave you with an awesome image that accompanied an LA Weekly interview, in which his ubiquitous author photo is brilliantly Photoshopped. Write on, Kaz, write on.

What a diva.

2006-03-24T14:44:00.000-05:00

Dick Cheney has some insane "Vice Presidential Downtime Requirements." The New York Times quotes an item in The Smoking Gun:

The document listed 13 requirements. Among them were these: All televisions sets in Mr. Cheney's hotel suite should be tuned to Fox News, all lights should be on, and the thermostat set at 68 degrees. Mr. Cheney should have a queen- or king-size bed, a desk with a chair, a private bathroom, a container for ice, a microwave oven and a coffee pot, with decaf brewed before arrival.

The vice president should also have four cans of caffeine-free Diet Sprite and four to six bottles of water. He must have the hotel restaurant menu, with a copy faxed ahead to his advance office. If his wife is with him, she should have two bottles of sparkling water, either Calistoga or Perrier.

For his reading material, Mr. Cheney should have The New York Times, USA Today, The Wall Street Journal and the local newspaper.

I think the most disturbing bit is the part about caffeine-free Diet Sprite, namely because I don't think that product exists. No Sprite products have caffeine in them, as far as I know, so there's no reason to specify the caffeine-free type. But maybe I'm wrong. After all, Tab just came out with an energy drink. And it seems like in Cheney's world anything is possible.

Question of the day.

2006-03-21T23:52:00.000-05:00

Why is Jerry Rice doing reality TV?

I want some.

2006-03-18T10:37:00.000-05:00

Beware the ides of March.

2006-03-15T23:25:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I cut my food like a parent would cut a child's food. It seems cumbersome to cut a piece, eat a bite, cut another piece, and so on. So I cut it all into pieces first, then eat it. I usually only do this when I'm by myself, and almost always when I'm at home.

Today began with a stern note to self and has evolved into what I can safely call a productive, encouraging day. I just gotta work on getting comfortable with my own loveability. Long story.

I laugh at the misfortune of others.

2006-03-08T14:39:00.000-05:00

I found the article in The New York Times today about Ambien side effects quite funny:

A registered nurse who lives outside Denver took Ambien before going to sleep one night in January 2003. Sometime later — she says she remembers none of the episode — she got into her car wearing only a thin nightshirt in 20-degree weather, had a fender bender, urinated in the middle of an intersection, then became violent with police officers, according to her lawyer.

Then later, after the reporter addressed the phenomenon of drinking before taking an Ambien:

Misuse of the drug may not explain all the cases. The nurse near Denver took a single Ambien and went to bed, according to her lawyer, Mr. Boyer of Englewood, Colo. Mr. Boyer said that only when the woman returned home after her arrest did she discover a partly consumed bottle of wine on her counter — unopened when she went to bed, she said — leading her to suspect she had begun drinking after taking Ambien.

And this is so rock:

A federal prosecutor was persuaded that Ambien played a part in a well-publicized case last summer involving not a car but an airliner. A US Airways flight from Charlotte, N.C., to London last July was diverted to Boston, after a passenger who had taken Ambien became "like the Incredible Hulk all of a sudden," according to his lawyer.

The man, Sean Joyce, a British painting contractor, became agitated, tore off his shirt and threatened to kill himself and fellow passengers, according to court documents.

Then there's the poor hospitalized guy recovering from hip surgery:

The man, who had no history of sleepwalking, walked into a hospital corridor one night, where he urinated on the floor. On another night, he got out of bed and told nurses he was going to church. Dr. Yang said the patient was also taking other medications, but the sleepwalking stopped when Ambien was discontinued. The patient, he said, had no recollection of either event.

Then I was tickled by this article about the conductor James Levine's unfortunate fall:

Mr. Levine fell on Wednesday as he was leaving the stage during a rapturous ovation for the performance of Beethoven's Ninth Symphony that he had just conducted. He was in the vicinity of the viola section when he tripped, Mark Volpe, the managing director of the orchestra, said in a telephone interview. The audience gasped, he added: "All the air got sucked out of the hall, and then — dead silence."

The stage was crowded, with orchestra chorus and soloists, and it was apparently not clear even to Mr. Levine how he had stumbled. "There are a million things he could have tripped on," Mr. Volpe said.

Mr. Levine got up and left the stage under his own steam before going to the emergency room of Massachusetts General Hospital, Mr. Volpe added.

"The last thing we want to do with Jim is aggravate an injury," Mr. Volpe said. An X-ray found no sign of broken bones, he added, but "the shoulder guy says there's something with the rotator cuff." It could be anything from a bruise to a slight tear or a serious tear that would require surgery, Mr. Volpe said. "That's a worse-case scenario," he said.

Mr. Volpe of the Met said he had spoken to Mr. Levine last Thursday. "He was upset," Mr. Volpe recounted. "He said, 'Isn't this so ridiculous?' But Jim is solid. Jim is an optimist at all times."

---
I just came back from a walk where I treated myself to a "cheese rock" from The Big Booty Bread Co. that tasted sort of like Brazilian cheese bread. Then I went to Billy's Bakery and sat and ate a cupcake by myself. I'm still not feeling tip-top, but the cupcake helped a little.

The Jesus and Mary Chain saved my life.

2006-03-07T09:10:00.000-05:00

Over the past few weeks, this album has kept me from crossing the threshold into complete lunacy. Oh how I love you, dear Jesus and Mary Chain.

The Velvet Underground has been helpful too.

On the movie Crash.

2006-03-05T19:31:00.000-05:00

The Oscars are tonight and I’ve spent the last two months trying to watch as many of the nominated movies as possible. I’ve gone to the theater more than ever before, and I’ve enjoyed it greatly. I don’t know why I decided to give two shits this year. But I do know that if Crash wins Best Picture I will not be very pleased.

I watched the movie alone in my room a month or so ago. I thought it very well-acted and I appreciated the director’s ambition, but felt manipulated and sickened by the heavy-handedness of the execution. This was all too hammered home when I watched the special features and saw Sandra Bullock verbally diarrhea-ing about what an important movie it is and how she wanted to be a part of it and didn’t matter who she played. I find her very charming usually, but I found myself asking, “What do you know about racism? And what other roles could you have played in the movie?"

And that’s where my beef lies. I have no solution as to how we should all address our innate racism and move forward as an enlightened culture, but I know from experience how harmful it can be to put everyone in boxes. You’re forced to be an ambassador of your race, represent more than your own history, and demonstrate an acceptable level of ‘authenticity.’ In turn, you’re distrustful of others who you don’t believe could ever meaningfully empathize with your own situation.

And in the end, we are more divided than before.

The ensemble nature of the film gave the director Paul Haggis a patchwork of experience to depict and he makes a valiant effort to offer as many different racial conundrums as possible. But having so many characters cheapens the whole experience, as everyone is reduced to minimal screen time and must find momentary redemption in those twenty minutes. Though the end of this movie is by no means “neat,” as all of the characters are still suffering with conflicting emotions and guilt, I still found it to be sickeningly storybook. The snow, the aerial panning out shots, the fading sound of a verbal altercation — this was not subversive filmmaking.

I was immediately reminded of my reaction when I watched Do The Right Thing. I remember feeling just awful. There was so much tension built up in me that never got released. I was angry at how the situation escalated to violence, and was upset that there was no happy ending. But I realized that that was the whole point. And in retrospect, I think Lee’s effort was more effective because it focused on one overarching conflict (between black and white) and one neighborhood.

In A.O. Scott’s review of Crash, he remarks,

It is at once tangled and threadbare; at times you have trouble keeping track of all the characters, but they run into one another with such frequency that, by the end, you start to think that the population of Los Angeles County must number in the mid-two figures - all of it strangers who hate one another on sight.

It was this ridiculous small-worldness that made this movie feel so manipulative, and the screaming matches that took place for most of the movie were so exhausting in number that they lost their realism. Every single conversation quickly boiled down to race. In the scene in which Ryan Phillippe asks to be transferred away from the bigoted Matt Dillon, his commanding officer who happens to be black immediately launches into an abrasive diatribe about how he earned his high position as a man of color and how Phillippe would have to pretend to have a horrible flatulence problem to get his wish. This scene was so scripted and much too ‘telling.’ I felt slapped across the face as the officer explained his position to me. I wish Haggis had let me interpret the black officer’s conflict of interest for myself.

And as the movie progressed, and as I struggled to rid myself of the sappy aftertaste of Don Cheadle’s opening monologue, I realized I was not enjoying the places the movie was taking me. Spoiled politician's wife suddenly falls down the stairs and finds out who her real friends are. Molested bi-racial wife gets into a horrible car crash and is saved by the very officer who felt her up the previous night. Gun shopkeeper’s daughter buys for her father of course ends up being fired.

Any one of these characters could have carried their own movie and made a much richer experience of it. Terrence Howard’s character was particularly intriguing, and his scenes with Thandie Newton hinted at extraordinary potential for great emotional depth.

The movie was intended as a post-9/11 montage. I remembered my own post-9/11 experience while in college, and soon harkened back to my high school racial revelations. On March 5, 1999 (I didn’t even realize it was exactly 7 years ago today), my high school was rocked by our own little 9/11.

I discovered it. In a bathroom stall in our pristine new building, someone had written in blood, “Niggers and spics or chinks don’t belong.” “Or chinks” was written in pencil and inserted with a caret.

We had an immediate all-school assembly. A classmate was upset because it was her birthday. Some freshman rejoiced at classes being cancelled and promptly left campus. And the rest of us sat in the theater, all with something to say. At one point we split into 2 groups — the minority students left the room to sort out their feelings and come up with a statement. I stayed in the ‘white’ room, which I regret now, but because I was afraid of all the anger I’d encounter in the ‘other’ room, and how chaotic and emotional it would be.

A lot of other Asian and bi-racial students stayed with me, and our little community that prided itself on acceptance and diversity quickly fell apart. There were outbursts and a lot of crying. Mostly people stood up and screamed out why they felt persecuted, or why they were not racist. “My father escaped Nazi Germany and had to change his name!” “I’m white and my best friend is black!” “I’m half white and half black, why should I ever have to choose what I am?” “I’m on financial aid!” “This is so fucked up,” etc.

And after this freeform “dialogue,” we all went to our respective, very different, homes. In the coming weeks, there were changes. People tried to organize coalitions. People whispered and scrutinized each other. A creepily ineffective security guard named Aldo wandered around and pestered the kids who went to sneak cigarettes. Our school paper put out its best issue of the year, providing a forum for people to speak their minds, and anonymously, if they chose. My friend wrote about how even in acts of racism Asians got less attention than they deserved, added in pencil to the slurs almost as an afterthought. I wrote a short plea asking for the administration to acknowledge in a statement that its students of color might not feel physically safe on once safe ground, and didn’t sign it.

An investigation took place but never turned up the perpetrator. The message had apparently been written in menstrual blood. They thought that maybe a second person had written "or chinks." There was a small chance that someone who didn’t even go to our school had gained access through the back entrance and had taken the liberty of shaking up our microcosm, the “private school with a public purpose.” One of my best friends was convinced that a freshman girl had done it — she was a pretty girl with something off-putting about her who no one knew well and was snotty enough to perhaps be vehemently racist, at least in his eyes. When she transferred to another school after that year, he remained convinced she was the one.

Our school had always been very politically correct, and we were in the most liberal of liberal enclaves, the San Francisco Bay Area. But as people started to look at each other suspiciously, and correct themselves when they said “black” instead of “African-American,” and question how they “identified,” and peered into the dark chambers of their own racist thoughts, our placid existence lost its genuineness. It became the same environment of fear and censorship it had always denounced. We were all liberal droids, and seeing in color had become part of our collective consciousness.

Each class was required to go through diversity training. Once again we were separated into categories. The bi-racial students sobbed at having to choose sides. Some of them “tried out” sitting in with the minorities but I could tell they felt like outsiders. The quarter-Japanese kid got weird looks for staying in the “white” room, and had unknowingly branded himself white-washed in the eyes of his peers. And in our “other” room, we tried to listen to each other and discuss how we felt about everything. One kid remarked, “Phew, thank god I’m all black so I didn’t have trouble picking a room,” and one said, “There are so many more cultures under the umbrella of ‘Asian’, but black culture has been in America so long and evolved so much that people don’t identify as being from specific parts of Africa — there’s just BLACK.” We were all 17 and 18 years old, trying to unite, but judging each other, pointing fingers, and harboring our secret resentments.

Later that day we did another activity. You’d move to one side of the room if you fit the moderator’s criteria. Distinctions included “You come from a working class family,” “You’ve been called too fat or too skinny,” “You’re the first of your family to be born in the United States,” and so on. We learned more about each other, and formed new biases that we in turn repressed.

Instead of facing the innate racial preconceptions we all had, we hid them away, not wanting to garner suspicion, and wanting to fit in with everyone else, as everyone in high school does. And so our senior year passed, and the administration struck down anything it determined was sexist, racist, or otherwise insensitive, constantly contradicting themselves and crushing the spirit of our class who had idolized the audacity and rebellious cool of the classes above us.

When I watched Crash I returned to that mindset I’d hoped I’d shaken after leaving the Bay Area bubble. I was once again forced to see each person by the color of his/her skin. I was hit over the head with it, really — told what to like and dislike about each character, then left emotionally destitute at movie’s end.

People loved this movie because it made them face the discrimination within that they were afraid to acknowledge. For me, I already knew it was there, and had been forced to grapple with it at the age of 16. The film not only took me back to an uncomfortable time of conflict and confusion, but left its audience in the lurch and susceptible to the dangerous mindset of separating the world into colors.

Perhaps Paul Haggis has set off a conversation, and that's all well and good, but what happens next is all too uncertain. So I agree wholeheartedly with A.O. Scott's assessment; he calls Crash

a frustrating movie: full of heart and devoid of life; crudely manipulative when it tries hardest to be subtle; and profoundly complacent in spite of its intention to unsettle and disturb.

He and I seem to be the only ones who see eye-to-eye on the matter. But he's a stuffy white guy who writes film reviews for a living. What could he possibly know about racism and authenticity? And it begins again.

Solace.

2006-03-05T16:33:00.000-05:00

I'm miserable.

2006-03-05T15:37:00.000-05:00

Sometimes I wish a big snake would swallow me up and no one would know because we'd just look like a big brown hat.

A couple years ago someone discovered the remains of an aircraft believed to have been carrying Antoine de Saint-Exupéry. For some reason I found The New York Times article about it particularly heartbreaking.

Sometimes I feel trapped at work.

2006-03-04T04:47:00.000-05:00

At which point I do freaky shit like torpedo into the air while looking possessed — and hope to break the glass.

I put my name placard in my drawer because my title's a bit irrelevant at this point. I'm not anyone's associate anymore. I was thinking of doctoring the sign to read 'Ass ate Copywriter', but thought better of it.

I heart the Buzzcocks.

2006-03-04T01:28:00.000-05:00

A review I wrote of a Buzzcocks show I saw in England in 2003. I didn't write it till about six months later when I was back in New York and decided I wanted to assemble a portfolio. I could never be a rock journalist, but sometimes I like to pretend.

The Buzzcocks at The Academy, Bristol, UK. April 25, 2003

A couple days before I went to see the Buzzcocks play Bristol’s Academy, I listened as my soon-to-be ex-boyfriend’s father reminisced about seeing them play Manchester in the old days. His son, a very cheeky hip-hop and ragga deejay, responded to my excitement at seeing the legendary punk band with, “Aren’t they a little…old?” This comment truly sealed his fate.

I’d been spending a semester abroad in quaint Bristol, England, an unpretentious hilly city with an active triphop and drum ‘n’ bass scene. I’d been exploring the origins of punk since getting there; having been spoonfed the pop-punk of Berkeley’s Lookout! Records in high school, I spent my time in England listening to the Buzzcocks, the Clash, the Sex Pistols, and Generation X. The recent death of Joe Strummer had made it seem all the more paramount to understand the genesis of the punk movement.

When I heard that the Buzzcocks were touring, I bought myself a ticket and pranced around my room to “Ever Fallen in Love?”, “What Do I Get?”, and “Orgasm Addict” for several weeks prior to the show. The songs had a cleanness to them that contrasted with the dirtier garage rock that was popular at the time, and the lyrics were punchy and timeless.

The Academy, a multi-floored, multi-purpose venue in which I’d already attended a Beth Gibbons concert and an epileptic Adam F performance, was home to the UK’s 7th best club night, Come Play, a blur of debauchery and top 40 hip-hop. However, when I arrived alone that April evening, I found a crowd I’d never encountered there before. There were men in ripped Clash t-shirts with world-weary faces who had bleached the last of their hair for the occasion. The bartenders reacted with the same jaded indifference I'd come to expect. I felt about the same way I had when I attended an ‘80s nostalgia festival in 2000 at the ripe age of 17, bewildered as late 20-somethings in shortalls talked about the wild times they'd had at “that Wang Chung concert.”

I ordered a drink from the barman and idly played games on my cell phone, wary of speaking to this older generation of punks. I was an outsider, both as an American and as someone who hadn’t been alive to experience the ‘70s. For the first time since arriving in England, I wanted desperately to blend in.

The opening band, Miss Machine, churned out the generic guitar-heavy rock I expected them to, and the decked-out lead singer had stolen noticeable inspiration from Debbie Harry. I worried that my adrenaline was waning. What if the Buzzcocks failed to please?

My worries were put to rest almost immediately. When the time came, original band members Pete Shelley and Steve Diggle spilled onstage along with Tony Barber and Phil Barker. They were promoting their new self-titled album, but they ripped through three-quarters of the indispensable Singles Going Steady while the attendees who would’ve been over-the-hill at any Good Charlotte concert moshed up a storm. As I avoided the occasional shove and tried not to make myself noticeable as that youngster who had never seen this seminal group live before, I derived as much pleasure from the band’s performance as I did from the glee of my fellow concert-goers.

The Buzzcocks are punk heroes, and I only wish I could’ve appreciated their return to the stage as much as their veteran fans. As the rabid frontmen tore their way through “Autonomy,” and “Why She’s the Girl From the Chainstore,” I caught a glimpse of the urgency of the original punk movement. The songs were still as hard-hitting as ever, and the tenacity of the band kept the crowd a-roar. When we didn’t think they had any more crowd pleasers to play, they ripped into another one, turning my purest level of enjoyment into something like euphoria.

Stem cell soap.

2006-03-02T15:58:00.000-05:00

Thank you Maia, for suggesting that I rub myself clean with a fetus encased in glycerin.

I can't wait to collect the whole gang! Check out the twins!

[John Lye-don!]

I'm not too keen on this item though, found in the "Manly Body Products" section and featured in FHM Magazine. Definitely manly...but quite possibly the most ill-conceived hygiene product ever.

More freaktastic products here. Perversely funny, like getting an "I'm sad and lonely" email from a friend accompanied by Google-generated ads for suicide prevention.

I really did not need to know this.

2006-03-01T10:43:00.000-05:00

From The New York Times:

Dr. Marc Bessler, another member of the Columbia team, said Mr. Pataki "has had slow return of his digestive function." He described the governor's condition as "ileus-slash-obstruction" of the bowel, suggesting he was still not discharging waste properly.

To my dear cousins in Hong Kong.

2006-02-28T22:37:00.000-05:00

My mom told me something she shouldn’t have when I was young. I was probably somewhere between 8 and 10, still loved all of my relatives, and hadn’t yet been diagnosed with epilepsy. She was sitting in the dining room at night, surrounded by paperwork, and I asked what she was doing. She looked distressed. She replied that she was deciding the order of relatives who would gain custody of my siblings and I if she and my dad were to die before I was an adult.

It had never crossed my mind that this scenario could arise. And I was suddenly scared of being alone, and of having no one to help me grow up properly. Since I still had a tendency to say things without forethought, I asked her who she had picked as our next of kin. I wanted to know who I might have to answer to. And for some reason she made me guess.

I got the first two right, which made me extremely happy. Her sister in LA was a no-brainer. She was the warmest, geographically closest person on my mom’s side. Second were my dad’s childless relatives in Atlanta. They came to visit often and were mellow, grounded folks. I congratulated myself for having the same favorite relatives as my mom.

But with my third guess I was way off the mark. The next obvious choice for me was my bachelor uncle who lived in our city, who I had yet to find out suffered from mild schizophrenia. My mom reacted incredulously. I felt stupid and ashamed. I was also out of guesses.

The third couple turned out to be my dad's cousin and his wife in Hong Kong. I didn’t understand this at all. I hardly knew them and wondered how they would ever agree to take on three more kids who were attached to, and complete products of, America.

I secretly hoped that if my parents died tragically in the near future, I wouldn’t end up with those relatives in Hong Kong. I didn’t feel comfortable with them. Surely the two couples before them would still be alive and agree to take on three cute, well-behaved kids. Right?

15 years later, my mother’s list is obsolete, and I wish I’d never known it existed. My relatives in LA are swamped with two extremely challenging children. My relatives in Atlanta are approaching their 70’s and live extremely disciplined, mundane daily lives. And a year ago today, Uncle Sing died in Hong Kong.

Over the years I got to know Sing and Patricia, and was intrigued by what it was that helped them make “the list.” It soon became obvious. We didn’t see each other often but when we did, I was in the most loving, comforting company. And though I was already old enough to render the list null and void, I thought to myself I'd surely go live with them if I found myself parentless. Their kids treated me like a sister though I’d done nothing to deserve it, and Uncle Sing had the same endless energy, goofy sense of humor, and insistence on pampering his kids that my dad has.

A year ago I was on a bus in Jackson Heights, about to try negotiating some pre-college knowledge with seven ulcer-inducing high school students. I had a message from my mom telling me that after months of being in a coma brought on by a massive stroke, Uncle Sing had succumbed.

I wish I could see you more often. I want to be physically near you. And though I can never fully understand all that he meant to you, his loss makes me feel that a period of my own life is over.

Ben, you're a jerk.

2006-02-27T23:03:00.000-05:00

I like you very much but you're such a difficult friend to have. I suppose you proved flaky from the beginning, but it was easier then because we saw each other every day.

And I know you like me back. I guess you don’t consider it a priority to call or email people back in a timely manner. I never know with you, and I don’t know you well enough to trust that you’ll resurface each time you drop off the radar.

Since we stopped working together our correspondence has been troubling. I email you every now and then asking how you are, or invite you to things, and sometimes by chance you respond. Two weeks ago I emailed you twice because I was going to be near your work. I also left an ‘I wonder if I’ll ever see you again’ message. I thought that was really going to be it, I'd never see you again, and then you called a couple days ago, inserted my name into a Hamlet soliloquy, and hung up.

I assumed that since you're older you’d have this friendship thing down pat. Instead, you call me out of the blue when you’re near my house and ask me to meet you in 15 minutes, or you invite yourself over to my house on New Year’s Eve and we listen to the Descendents for a couple hours before you go off to a bar alone. Or you text me from California while driving a golf cart and ask where the hell I’ve been. And I don’t think I’ll ever forget the time you called after you had just had a haircut and asked if you could come over and ‘clean up’ the back of your neck with the razor I use to shave my legs. I said no.

You are such a mystery. Stop suggesting we hang out more if you're just going to disappear for a month. And at least provide an excuse for where you've been rather than acting like it's OK to just waltz in and out of people's lives while I get sad wondering if I did or said something wrong. I guess when it comes down to it you're not a jerk. I’m just tired of chasing you.

Here is some advice from www.arborday.org, the authority on trees.

Today’s question: How long will it take my nut trees to start producing? I am going to plant a forest of oak trees, black walnut trees, and hickory trees. I was just wondering how long it would take before these trees start dropping nuts.

A: Excellent question, Ben. Apparently it will take your nut trees 8-16 years to start growing the appropriate cojones.

I'd like to...

2006-02-26T17:26:00.000-05:00

...try writing an epistolary novel.

My first freelance assignment.

2006-02-26T11:08:00.000-05:00

Here's a bio I wrote of Kyle Eastwood, the jazz bassist and son of Clint. It was sent out with review copies of his latest album, Paris Blue. 6 months later, I'm still pleased with how it turned out.

Kyle Eastwood—Bio

Kyle Eastwood’s first memories of music are of jazz. Jazz was the only music he listened to for the first ten years of his life, thanks to his father Clint’s lifelong appreciation for the genre. The two attended the Monterey Jazz Festival regularly as Kyle was growing up, and there was something magnetic about watching someone play for an audience, even watching Clint play the piano at home, that completely captivated the young Kyle.

But it was only in 1986, two years into a film studies major at USC, that Kyle realized that music, and more precisely jazz, was his true passion. He took off what he thought would only be a year to pursue music, and has not looked back since. Having dabbled on the electric bass as a teenager, he now also plays the upright, acoustic, and double bass. Backed by an extraordinary band of old friends, Kyle has just released his second album, Paris Blue.

Michael Stevens, who Kyle met at USC in 1987, acted as producer for the album, played keyboards, and co-wrote Paris Blue’s songs. The two had worked together on and off throughout the years, playing in various bands, and the album is testament to their sublime chemistry. Three-quarters of Paris Blue was recorded in apartments across Paris, equipment propped up on chairs, microphones unorthodoxly placed. Kyle chuckles as he remembers the various set-ups. This, coupled with the fact that the band comprises Kyle’s longtime collaborators from Paris, Los Angeles, and New York, lends an immediate feeling of intimacy and nostalgia to the record.

Kyle did not have a record label to answer to during the inception and recording of the album, leaving him with the rare luxury of complete creative control. It was while living in London for almost a year that he made the acquaintance of Alan Bates, the man who would connect him to Candid Records, the same label that unleashed Jamie Cullum on the world.

“Big Noise (From Winnetka),” the first track from Paris Blue, sets the tone for the record with an energetic drumbeat and a repeated whistled melody. “Big Noise” invokes a smoky Paris nightclub in the ‘20s, while the second track, “Marrakech,” is immediately contemporary. This juxtaposition of styles displays Kyle’s comfort with classic as well as contemporary jazz, and both feel perfectly at home on the album.

He lives between New York, LA, London, and Paris, and this no doubt influences his playing style. In the seven years between Paris Blue and his first album, From There To Here, Kyle established himself on the Paris jazz scene. He decided to take up residence there after spending a significant amount of time in the City of Light over the years. He was moved by the city. His now 11-year-old daughter began to go to school there, and he settled into a metropolis he sees as extremely open-minded to different kinds of music.

Kyle was continuously working, however, notably composing tracks for films such as “Mystic River” (2003) and “Million Dollar Baby” (2004). He has an innate film sensibility from starring in 1982’s “Honkytonk Man,” and his father went so far as to marry his two loves by directing “Bird,” a biopic of Charlie Parker. Kyle says he enjoys the film work he’s done, and it seems he will continue to lend his musical talent to all sorts of media.

Speaking by phone, he has the breezy unpretentiousness of somebody who loves music, plain and simple. He says he is “not a jazz purist,” that he loves all kinds of music, and that jazz itself was originally an amalgamation of a wide variety of genres. Indeed, jazz’s improvisational spirit encourages the seamless melding of influences, and Paris Blue resonates with swing, groove, and funk undertones. As the album evolves, the sounds become even more eclectic, as “Cosmo” lays down a funk beat, and the remixes of “Big Noise” and “Marrakech” outright inspire dancing. The array of styles on Paris Blue pays tribute to Kyle’s ability to criss-cross genres and still remain true to the spirit of jazz.

He has said, “My roots remain in jazz but I like adding all kinds of different flavors,” and it is these different flavors, informed by Kyle’s experience as an actor, film scorer, musician, and ex-patriate, that build endless layers of emotion into each song. “Marrakech,” inspired by a trip to Morocco, is as personal as “Paris Blue,” a song whose piano intro was both composed and performed by Kyle’s daughter Graylen. The album is collaborative above all things, from Clint’s whistling on “Big Noise” to the inspiration culled from Graylen’s offhand comment about a “Parisian blue.”

This year, Kyle will be playing the closing night of the Monterey Jazz Festival, the same festival where he had the opportunity to meet such greats such as Dizzy Gillespie, Stan Getz, Buddy Rich, Ella Fitzgerald, and Sarah Vaughan as an adoring young fan. Across the ocean, Paris Blue has found its way to the top of the French jazz charts.

As someone who has had myriad opportunities to shine in many different careers, Kyle Eastwood has truly carved his own path as a musician whose playing reflects the richness and diversity of his life experience. Paris Blue is the work of a musician and band who are not only in tune with a broad audience, but who first and foremost love playing music.

Drool.

2006-02-24T13:38:00.000-05:00

and here's my darling:

Issues.

2006-02-21T21:45:00.000-05:00

If people get to know me as well as I know me, they'll see me the way I see me.

That is not a good thing. From far away it looks nice, but close up it's a real mess.

Hee hee.

2006-01-02T17:21:00.000-05:00

I suck at this.

2005-12-25T02:59:00.000-05:00

I'm unhappy with this blog already. I want to start over again.

The title of my limerick.

2005-12-06T23:53:00.000-05:00

A Brief Meditation On The Many-Splendored Culinary Delight Derived From Various Cow and Goat Outputs That Eaten Alone Or With Breadstuffs Taught This Author Bountiful Lessons About Love and Desire

uh huh.

Some limericks about cheese.

2005-12-02T15:35:00.000-05:00

Oh my dear cheese it is true
I can’t go a day without you.
How are you so awesome?
Tastier than a possum
It’s safe to say you’re my boo.

Ladies and Gentlemen if you please
I’d like to go on about cheese.
It’s supple and melty
Sinfully smooth and so felty
Oh how my stomach agrees.

Everyone in his right mind agrees
On the wonders of glorious cheese.
Without it I’m a bitch
With a nasty eye twitch
It’s an addiction I must daily appease.

The perfect cure when I’ve got the blues
Sheer delight is what a thick slice imbues.
Enjoying it hot or cold,
But before it grows mold,
It’s safe to say cheese is my muse.

There once was a cheese from Calcutta
So creamy you’d spread him like buttah.
He tasted divine
All salty and fine
And sent many hearts a-fluttah.

Funny spam.

2005-12-01T17:59:00.000-05:00

I've been getting emails at my Gmail account with tickling subject lines and sender names.

For example,

Symposia E. Spiciest
Refinance D. Wilford
Predominant C. Organdie

with subject lines like "Sexy baby and bad erection?"

But the kicker came earlier this week when I got some spam from Creamy C. Nuts.

Wake up, listen to Journey. Rinse and repeat.

2005-11-22T17:45:00.000-05:00

I meant for that to be a heading about a week or two ago, when I was truly listening to Journey on a daily basis. Those were the days of too much B-side, too much booze, and ambiguous friendships.

Things are probably better now.

I'm going home tomorrow, and it's caused me an incredible amount of stress in the past two days. Sitting at my desk at work, it's like a balloon being inflated and inflated in my chest but never popping. Maybe I should breathe into this paper bag near me. I'm feeling remarkably better than I was a couple hours ago.

I wrote my parents an email about my anxiety. I asked if I'd get to sleep in my own bed. I asked which relatives would be there to greet me. My dad said:

All your concerns and fears are justified. I used to feel the same way when I would fly home to Hong Kong for the holidays. Things changed and I never knew who would be sleeping in my bed! Perhaps a famous musician? Perhaps a distant cousin?

I felt better. I've been spending a lot of time with Alex and Ian. They feel like my brothers. And Maia and Chessa are my sisters. I like my New York family. I'll miss them over the next few days. It seems silly to admit.

And when I go home I'll be exposed to the usual unpredictable ridiculosity. I'll be asked if New York is lonely. I'll be asked if I think dogs have souls. Maybe I'll regurgitate the article I read today about lobsters' capacity to feel pain.

I could've gotten a haircut, or lost some weight, but I didn't. Thankfully my dad said:

You are always so presentable and beautiful. There is no need to worry about how you look to us or to our relatives. Just be yourself and you will have a great time.

I'm lucky to have him as my cheerleader.

The pandas are coming.

2005-11-17T11:46:00.000-05:00

For sasquatch enthusiasts.

2005-11-17T11:39:00.000-05:00

This article made me extremely happy when I discovered it last week on LiveScience:

Gigantic Apes Coexisted with Early Humans, Study Finds
By Bjorn Carey

A gigantic ape standing 10 feet tall and weighing up to 1,200 pounds lived alongside humans for over a million years, according to a new study.

Fortunately for the early humans, the huge primate's diet consisted mainly of bamboo.

Scientists have known about Gigantopithecus blackii since the accidental discovery of some of its teeth on sale in a Hong Kong pharmacy about 80 years ago. While the idea of a giant ape piqued the interest of scientists – and bigfoot hunters – around the world, it was unclear how long ago this beast went extinct.

Now Jack Rink, a geochronologist at McMaster University in Ontario, has used a high-precision absolute-dating method to determine that this ape – the largest primate ever – roamed Southeast Asia for nearly a million years before the species died out 100,000 years ago during the Pleistocene period. By this time, humans had existed for a million years.

"A missing piece of the puzzle has always focused on pin-pointing when Gigantopithecus existed," Rink said. "This is a primate that co-existed with humans at a time when humans were undergoing a major evolutionary change. Guangxhi province in southern China, where some of the Gigantopithecus fossils were found, is the same region where some believe the modern human race originated."

Since the original discovery, scientists have been able to piece together a description of Gigantopithecus using just a handful of teeth and a set of jawbones. It may not be much, but the unusually large size of these teeth indicates they belonged to one big ape.

"The size of these specimens – the crown of the molar, for instance, measures about an inch across – helped us understand the extraordinary size of the primate," Rink said.

What happened?

Humans may have helped destroy the ape.

Further studies of the teeth revealed that the ape was an herbivore, and bamboo was probably its favorite meal. Some scientists believe that an appetite focused on bamboo combined with increasing competition from more nimble humans eventually led to the extinction of Gigantopithecus.

While most scientists agree that Gigantopithecusdied out long ago, some people – Bigfoot, Sasquatch, and Yeti enthusiasts in particular – believe that this ape is the source of tales of giant, hairy beasts roaming the woods. These claims are not considered credible by mainstream scientists. There have been cases in which creatures are first known first by their fossil remains and later found living, such as the coelacanth – a type of fish thought to have died out millions of years ago until it was discovered swimming off the coast of Africa in 1938.

Researchers do not have a full skeleton for Gigantopithecus. But they can fill in the gaps and estimate its size and shape by comparing it to other primates – those that came before it, coexisted with it, and also modern apes. Currently, scientists are debating over how Gigantopithecus got around – was it bipedal or did it use its arms to help it walk, like modern chimpanzees and orangutans? The only way to answer this is to collect more bones.

I was thrown from the horse but I'm more Madonna than Christopher Reeve.

2005-11-16T09:16:00.000-05:00

He broke up with her. What a joyous text message to wake up to. I win!

Things are good now. He's sleeping on my floor.

2005-11-16T09:15:00.000-05:00

Dear S,

It's been over a week since we last spoke and I've been doing some thinking. I want to explain how I interpreted the events leading up to the email I wrote you, and how I have achieved some distance from those emotions and feel a bit more rational about the situation now.

The bottom line is that I felt boxed into a corner. It was very unclear to me if and when you were going to move back in because we had never spoken directly about it. Every now and then I would hear something from Chessa about when you wanted to move back, but the story seemed to keep changing. I had no idea what your current situation was like and whether your stay was time-sensitive. For all I knew you were enjoying living there and your friend had offered for you to live there indefinitely.

At the same time, I could see Chessa getting antsy about how long she was going to stay at 264. She was constantly researching apartments, but without a definite move-in date. I think it was also difficult for her to feel completely settled in 264 when she didn't know if she'd be there for two months or four.

At first I took an extremely passive approach to the situation, and figured that it was really between the two of you. But at a certain point I felt the uncertainty of the situation affecting my day-to-day, and I was really starting to enjoy living with Chessa. This made it harder to be direct with both of you and force an agreed-on move-in/out date because I was enjoying the status quo. So I put off having the conversation. In the meantime, time was going by and I got more and more anxious that I'd come home one day and find out abruptly that you two had come to a decision.

I did not mean to imply in my email that I considered the apartment mine and not ours, but I can see how that could have come across. In retrospect, I think I couched the email in such a way so I would not have to confront you directly about personal issues I had when we were living together. I felt that getting into those personal things would not help anything.

However, by writing you one blunt email, I delivered a complete shock to you that was unfair and that you never could have anticipated. It seems to me that you had minimal problems living with me, and I know you would have addressed anything directly with me if it came up. I know I have written emails to you or spoken with you about things I felt bothered by, but I continued to feel bothered by them. And it was worse when I had these issues in mind and was living with someone who I felt was a better match for me.

I know now that I could have brought up with you the possibility of not living together, but it was virtually impossible to see you at the apartment when you and Chessa weren't smoking. And other times you'd call me the day of and ask if I'd be around, and I'd already have plans. I felt like you expected me to be available whenever you were, and I wasn't. We were just completely out of sync schedule-wise.

I ended up feeling powerless and completely trapped with these emotions, and the only way I felt I could exert some control over the situation was to address all in one go what I'd 'decided.' The delivery could've been different, I agree, but it doesn't change the main message that was so difficult to say: I feel more comfortable living with Chessa. I felt that I had no other choice but to address everything in one burst.

I do want to say that this "conflict" does not really involve Chessa at all. I know she feels somehow responsible, but she is really an auxiliary player, and I don't think she needed to be part of our conversation at Dusk.

As you've said, you were hurt by how I decided to handle things. But now you know how I felt leading up to writing the email. I obviously know I've put you in a very difficult position, but I didn't know quite how difficult it was until you told me last week. I don't know if I can be called inconsiderate when I really did not know the details of your current situation, and did not know what kind of budget limitations you still had in terms of housing.

I want to do as much as you'll allow me in helping you find another place. Please let me know how it's going, and don't forget that you are always welcome to crash at 264.

Schizo day.

2005-11-09T23:43:00.000-05:00

My mom emailed me, "Hugs are what I do best! Especially when my daughter needs one...From this distance I can only say that this guy is an asshole and that he does not know what he is giving up and will be missing." I feel better. And just watched Mean Girls, which was awesome. Not a complete turnaround, but most signs point to clearer skies ahead.

Good night.

Maybe I should seek seasonal employment.

2005-11-09T14:03:00.000-05:00

I just went outside for half an hour and tried to soak up as many rays of sunlight as possible. I’m thirsty for them. I started to cry at work. My dad called when I was sitting by the dog park and I cried some more. Now I’m back at my desk and the little bags under my eyes are really soft to the touch.

I wanted to write some emails, but I knew they’d all come out mopey and no one would know what to say in return. I remember when I lived on 109th Street and I would sit on the patio where I got a little bit of phone reception and just scroll through my address book asking myself whether each person could make me feel better, and wondering what had happened to those who’d dropped off the radar. Things that never bothered me seemed grating; songs took on new meanings.

It’s not just the rejection – it’s a Pandora’s box of insecurities that have sprung forth and tried to overhaul my entire sense of self. (In a matter of hours, no less.) It’s more than feeling like I’ve lost a friend, or that I’m to blame for surrendering to emotion, but more like a veil has lifted to reveal the grim reality of my existence.

Ben wrote me and then never wrote back. Has he forgotten me? The law student probably misses me, but I only miss him when I’m lonely. He hasn’t written me either. Tom must be in Bristol somewhere struggling with his Masters. I wonder if he’s upset with me. I wrote him last week. And D is a complete mystery to me, but seems once again a testament to my ability to alienate people by sending long revealing emails.

All of a sudden all the things I’ve put off seem like failures, and all the things that are stable seem like happy accidents. I wonder what would happen if I went away to a warm locale every winter and worked there. But I’d probably feel my life was even more fractured than it is now.

I had trouble sleeping last night. I lay in the dark for a long time. I even put Radiohead on. It was a chore to walk to the living room and retrieve my lip balm. I thought about sitting on the fire escape. I decided I cannot have a party in two weeks. I resolved to get to work early today, and I did.

Tuesdays are the new Mondays.

2005-11-09T03:02:00.000-05:00

I don’t have a boyfriend. I never had the delusion that I did. I don’t think I even want one. Some days I feel like I love being single. It feels empowering. I have no commitments except to the girl friends I’ve gladly allowed myself to depend on.

But I want company. In some form or another, all the time. When I feel alone it feels like the universe should fold in on itself. I feel like I should hang up my hat and call it a day. I unlearn what I’ve learned about myself and stop trusting my instincts. It’s unfathomable that my view of myself can be justified when the response I’m getting from others seems to speak to the contrary. And I doubt the tug of war will ever really end.

I’ve been rejected before, and my roommate’s right – it always hurts, no matter what form it takes, even if it’s couched in the best possible way. It drums up memories of past rejections. It pushes you to resolve once and for all to never do something again, like get involved with friends. It scolds you for not learning from your past, and it tells you that something must change immediately, like your hair, or your footwear, to lessen the pain.

It amazes me that I had not seen this coming, and that I had been on such a high horse as to think I was the obvious choice. I don’t know how it had never crossed my mind that he was attached to her. And it hurts more thinking that something about me ultimately helped him make up his mind.

She’s not the villain. It was fun to think of her as so, and she may well be an insecure and controlling and needy person (more so than me). But it was his choice, and I could see how much it pained him, and soon it began to pain me. Because ending a brief romance with a friend means closing the door on something that was opened accidentally. In the case of friends, it’s best to never even cross that bridge. It reminds me why I feel so much more comfortable being intimate with strangers than with people I know and trust. It’s a pattern I thought I wanted to break but which seems perversely safe again.

My brother and sister are the only people (I think) who know of the writings contained here. And I suppose it makes me slightly uncomfortable recording these cerebral musings in a place where people I actually know might explore. But I do know that they are probably the people in the world who I love the most, and who I can say with absolute certainty that I would jump in front of a train for, if it would let the world have them longer. They’re coming to see me this weekend, and I want it to be perfect, but I know it won’t be. However, I do need to tell my sister she was right all along.

I can’t quite describe the complete disintegrative experience of the last two Tuesdays. It’s amazing the toll two damaged friendships can take. Everything else seems not as it was, every assertion grows nebulous, and every shred of self-conviction feels shaky at best. I wanted to use my words but I couldn’t. I didn’t figure out what I wanted to say until it was too late.

Selective hearing.

2005-11-02T16:32:00.000-05:00

I meant to write yesterday, I think. Instead I got embroiled in an awful conversation. The thing about friends is that they can never be guaranteed to say the right things at the right times. Sometimes they can make a situation much worse than it has to be.

I’ve been reading the New York Times online right when I get to work. Then I email a few articles to friends. Today I read some old reviews of “When We Were Orphans.” Michiko Kakutani was disappointed by it, but another Times reviewer found it brilliant, which made me happy. I was also excited to read more about John Banville and how upset his Booker win is making everyone. I bet I wouldn’t be able to stomach a chapter of his book, but I like his clever curmudgeon schtick.

And I’m sure Kaz Ishiguro will be up for a Booker again.

In other news, there is a radio station for dogs and cats now. According to the Times,

Those who listen to DogCatRadio will find that there is generally an animal motif to the playlist, like “Hound Dog”: “You ain't nothin' but a hound dogcryin' all the time.”

This Elvis song is a frequent request from listeners (presumably the owners), as are the Baha Men, singing: “Who let the dogs out (woof, woof, woof, woof).”

And Dionne Warwick is also popular, especially her soothing song “That's What Friends Are For”: "Keep smiling, keep shining,/Knowing you can always count on me.”

Since many pets are apparently bilingual, DogCatRadio also has a “Spanish Hour,” 5 p.m. to 6 p.m. Pacific time daily, with Hispanic commentary and music, like Luis Miguel's “No Sé Tú.”

All signs point to the apocalypse.

Therapy.

2005-10-31T22:39:00.000-05:00

I went into therapy today wondering why I go anymore. I’d been thinking to myself all day what a fairly well-adjusted person I’ve become. There are constants in my life that were not present a month or so ago. For one thing, I am gainfully employed, and may I say, rocking out at my new job. For another, I have two female friends who I feel I can show all sides of myself to, and that is something I’m not sure if I’ve ever really had.

I left therapy remembering why I go there in the first place. I thought, “ Jesus she’s right, I need work.” And it wasn’t that Dr. Gelman told me I wasn’t by any means “done,” but she reminded me why our examination of this sudden instinct to quit was important to my understanding of myself. Again, it came down to my impulse to bolt from an uncomfortable situation, a quality in myself that I am still hesitant to acknowledge.

I realized that I not only am not yet fully comfortable with myself, but that I had to find something that was really mine, that hopefully no one could mar. I’m almost done with my two crossword puzzle books, and the fear of running out of Maura Jacobsen collections has made me slow my pace. I want stories instead of squares. And I haven’t read a book in at least a month after Portnoy’s Complaint totally confused my subconscious (long story).

I know I harbor my own stories, not secrets per se, but things I tuck away that I don’t want anyone to know. Not because these things are dark or deviant, but often because they are a source of unadulterated happiness that I do not want anyone to spoil with judgment or even empathy.

And I just read an article about the “bloggerati” in the latest issue of ANIMAL, a mag I picked up for the first time because it was free, and the editors threw a party where there was unlimited free booze. I like free booze. They profiled ten people, one of whom happened to be one of my best friends’ former roommates, a tall dimpled fellow who I met once when I stayed at their apartment. I remember thinking that I might get along with him because he had a Cap’n Jazz poster in his room. We’ve never spoken. It’s amazing how sometimes I go to Boston and it’s like I’ve put on invisible glasses.

But I really did wonder why these people were able to broadcast their daily thoughts to a loyal audience. And I didn’t see why I shouldn’t try as well. I’m just gonna hone all my creative juices (that I don’t expel at work) and all my self-loving thoughts, and all my voyeuristic urges (because shouldn’t you be allowed to creep on other blogs if you have your own?) and try to do this once and for all. Maybe I’ll even learn a thing or two about how to navigate the interweb – like how to post a picture.

I paced around Fairway for a bit pretending I knew how to pick a good onion just by feeling a few thoughtfully. Now I’ve been home for an hour and I’m going to post my first entry. I’m going to erase the measly 4 entries I had before (a false start, ok?) that only got me comments from my siblings and strangers who wanted me to visit their mortgage/software/penis enlargement sites.

It’s Halloween and I saw someone on the subway with a huge real pumpkin on his head. Needless to say, welcome to my blog.